[{"": "0", "document": "I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.\n\nAs the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.\n\nBeaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant\u2019s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.\n\nHis daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.\n\nSeveral months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort\u2019s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.\n\nThere was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my father\u2019s upright mind which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame.\n\nFrom Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother\u2019s tender caresses and my father\u2019s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better\u2014their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.\n\nFor a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion\u2014remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved\u2014for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.\n\nThe peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy\u2014one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.\n\nWhen my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub\u2014a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents\u2019 house\u2014my more than sister\u2014the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures.\n\nEveryone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, \u201cI have a pretty present for my Victor\u2014tomorrow he shall have it.\u201d And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine\u2014mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me\u2014my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.", "summary": "Frankenstein begins his tale, sensibly enough, with his childhood: he is from a wealthy and well-respected Swiss family. His parents met, he tells us, when his father went in search of a dear old friend. This man, named Beaufort, had fallen into poverty and obscurity; when the elder Frankenstein finally found him, he was entirely wretched and very near death. His daughter, Caroline, attended him with almost-religious devotion. Upon Beaufort's death, Caroline turned to Master Frankenstein for comfort, and the pair returned to Geneva together; a few years later, they were married. During the first years of their marriage, the Frankensteins traveled constantly, for the sake of Caroline's fragile health. They divided their time among Germany, Italy, and France; their first child, Victor, was born in Naples, Italy. Victor's parents adored him, and he adored them in turn; his childhood, from the very first, was wholly idyllic. Until he was five, Victor was an only child, and both he and his parents felt the absence of other children strongly. Caroline Frankenstein made a habit of visiting the poor: since she herself had been saved from poverty, she felt it her duty to improve the lot of those who did not share her good fortune. One day, she discovered an angelic girl-child, with fair skin and golden hair, living with a penniless Italian family. As the girl was an orphan, and her adoptive family lacked the means to care for her, the Frankensteins determined to raise the child as their own. The child, whose name was Elizabeth Lavenza, became Victor's sister and his constant companion, as well as the object of his unquestioning worship. For him, she is his most beautiful, most valuable possession."}, {"": "1", "document": "SCENE VII.\n\nThe same. A Lobby in the Castle.\n\n[Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers\nServants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.]\n\nMACBETH.\nIf it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well\nIt were done quickly. If the assassination\nCould trammel up the consequence, and catch,\nWith his surcease, success; that but this blow\nMight be the be-all and the end-all--here,\nBut here, upon this bank and shoal of time,--\nWe'd jump the life to come. But in these cases\nWe still have judgement here; that we but teach\nBloody instructions, which being taught, return\nTo plague the inventor: this even-handed justice\nCommends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice\nTo our own lips. He's here in double trust:\nFirst, as I am his kinsman and his subject,\nStrong both against the deed: then, as his host,\nWho should against his murderer shut the door,\nNot bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan\nHath borne his faculties so meek, hath been\nSo clear in his great office, that his virtues\nWill plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against\nThe deep damnation of his taking-off:\nAnd pity, like a naked new-born babe,\nStriding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd\nUpon the sightless couriers of the air,\nShall blow the horrid deed in every eye,\nThat tears shall drown the wind.--I have no spur\nTo prick the sides of my intent, but only\nVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,\nAnd falls on the other.\n\n[Enter Lady Macbeth.]\n\nHow now! what news?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nHe has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber?\n\nMACBETH.\nHath he ask'd for me?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nKnow you not he has?\n\nMACBETH.\nWe will proceed no further in this business:\nHe hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought\nGolden opinions from all sorts of people,\nWhich would be worn now in their newest gloss,\nNot cast aside so soon.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nWas the hope drunk\nWherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since?\nAnd wakes it now, to look so green and pale\nAt what it did so freely? From this time\nSuch I account thy love. Art thou afeard\nTo be the same in thine own act and valor\nAs thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that\nWhich thou esteem'st the ornament of life,\nAnd live a coward in thine own esteem;\nLetting \"I dare not\" wait upon \"I would,\"\nLike the poor cat i' the adage?\n\nMACBETH.\nPr'ythee, peace!\nI dare do all that may become a man;\nWho dares do more is none.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nWhat beast was't, then,\nThat made you break this enterprise to me?\nWhen you durst do it, then you were a man;\nAnd, to be more than what you were, you would\nBe so much more the man. Nor time nor place\nDid then adhere, and yet you would make both:\nThey have made themselves, and that their fitness now\nDoes unmake you. I have given suck, and know\nHow tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:\nI would, while it was smiling in my face,\nHave pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums\nAnd dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you\nHave done to this.\n\nMACBETH.\nIf we should fail?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nWe fail!\nBut screw your courage to the sticking-place,\nAnd we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,--\nWhereto the rather shall his day's hard journey\nSoundly invite him, his two chamberlains\nWill I with wine and wassail so convince\nThat memory, the warder of the brain,\nShall be a fume, and the receipt of reason\nA limbec only: when in swinish sleep\nTheir drenched natures lie as in a death,\nWhat cannot you and I perform upon\nThe unguarded Duncan? what not put upon\nHis spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt\nOf our great quell?\n\nMACBETH.\nBring forth men-children only;\nFor thy undaunted mettle should compose\nNothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd,\nWhen we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two\nOf his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers,\nThat they have don't?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nWho dares receive it other,\nAs we shall make our griefs and clamor roar\nUpon his death?\n\nMACBETH.\nI am settled, and bend up\nEach corporal agent to this terrible feat.\nAway, and mock the time with fairest show:\nFalse face must hide what the false heart doth know.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Macbeth is confused about his course of action. He wishes that Duncan's murder were an end in itself, tying up all loose ends with the result of sovereignty. Macbeth also wonders whether the crime is worth all of his effort; for a few moments of mortal pleasure, he may be condemned to eternal damnation in Hell. In addition, he tells himself that the crime will be even more ghastly because Macbeth is Duncan's kinsman, subject and host. It is the assumed duty of the host to protect his guests, not kill them. Furthermore, Macbeth says that Duncan's virtuous nature will make his murder seem all the more brutal. Lady Macbeth enters the room and asks Macbeth why he is not dining with Duncan. Macbeth tells his wife that he does not want to proceed with their plans. She furiously asks Macbeth why he is so afraid to be the same in action as he is in desire. In addition, she declares him a sickly coward. She assures her husband that they will not fail in their mission. Lady Macbeth explains that they will poison King Duncan and his servants' wine with sleeping pills and that Macbeth will murder Duncan in his sleep. Finally convinced by his wife, he agrees to carry through with the plans with the semblance of an amicable host"}, {"": "2", "document": "\n\nMr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He\nhad always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his\nwife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was\npaid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following\nmanner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he\nsuddenly addressed her with,\n\n\"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy.\"\n\n\"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,\" said her mother\nresentfully, \"since we are not to visit.\"\n\n\"But you forget, mama,\" said Elizabeth, \"that we shall meet him at the\nassemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.\"\n\n\"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces\nof her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion\nof her.\"\n\n\"No more have I,\" said Mr. Bennet; \"and I am glad to find that you do\nnot depend on her serving you.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain\nherself, began scolding one of her daughters.\n\n\"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little\ncompassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.\"\n\n\"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,\" said her father; \"she times\nthem ill.\"\n\n\"I do not cough for my own amusement,\" replied Kitty fretfully.\n\n\"When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?\"\n\n\"To-morrow fortnight.\"\n\n\"Aye, so it is,\" cried her mother, \"and Mrs. Long does not come back\ntill the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him,\nfor she will not know him herself.\"\n\n\"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce\nMr. Bingley to _her_.\"\n\n\"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him\nmyself; how can you be so teazing?\"\n\n\"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly\nvery little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a\nfortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after\nall, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and therefore, as\nshe will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will\ntake it on myself.\"\n\nThe girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, \"Nonsense,\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?\" cried he. \"Do\nyou consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on\nthem, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,\nMary? for you are a young lady of deep reflection I know, and read great\nbooks, and make extracts.\"\n\nMary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.\n\n\"While Mary is adjusting her ideas,\" he continued, \"let us return to Mr.\nBingley.\"\n\n\"I am sick of Mr. Bingley,\" cried his wife.\n\n\"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so before? If I\nhad known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on\nhim. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we\ncannot escape the acquaintance now.\"\n\nThe astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.\nBennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy\nwas over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the\nwhile.\n\n\"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should\npersuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to\nneglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a\ngood joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said\na word about it till now.\"\n\n\"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you chuse,\" said Mr. Bennet; and,\nas he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.\n\n\"What an excellent father you have, girls,\" said she, when the door was\nshut. \"I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;\nor me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so\npleasant I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance every day; but\nfor your sakes, we would do any thing. Lydia, my love, though you _are_\nthe youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next\nball.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Lydia stoutly, \"I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the\nyoungest, I'm the tallest.\"\n\nThe rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would\nreturn Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to\ndinner.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Bennet is one of the first callers on Mr. Bingley, and he withholds this information merely to vex his wife. Still in the dark about her husbands visit, Mrs. Bennet seems ludicrously desperate to have her husband call on the new neighbor, and her husbands incessant talk about Mr. Bingley seems to rub salt over her wounds. As Mrs. Bennet grows more impatient and irritated with her husband, he casually informs his wife and daughters about his visit. They are all astonished at his promptness, and Mrs. Bennet is full of praise for him. She remarks that he is an \"excellent father.\" Mr. Bennet, disgusted with his wifes outburst, leaves the room to take refuge in his study."}, {"": "3", "document": "\n\nWhen they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as\nmuch as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the\nexamination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her\nbeing in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any\nrevival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.\nBut in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that\ncheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,\nproceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly\ndisposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth\nnoticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an\nattention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's\nshameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a\nkeener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to\nthink that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,\nand a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be\nwith Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her\nspirits, by all that affection could do.\n\nShe could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that\nhis cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear\nthat he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not\nmean to be unhappy about him.\n\nWhile settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the\ndoor bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its\nbeing Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in\nthe evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But\nthis idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently\naffected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the\nroom. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her\nhealth, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.\nShe answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and\nthen getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said\nnot a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an\nagitated manner, and thus began,\n\n\"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be\nrepressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love\nyou.\"\n\nElizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,\ndoubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,\nand the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her,\nimmediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides\nthose of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the\nsubject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of\nits being a degradation--of the family obstacles which judgment had\nalways opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed\ndue to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to\nrecommend his suit.\n\nIn spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to\nthe compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did\nnot vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to\nreceive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost\nall compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to\nanswer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with\nrepresenting to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of\nall his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with\nexpressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of\nhis hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of\na favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his\ncountenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only\nexasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her\ncheeks, and she said,\n\n\"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to\nexpress a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however\nunequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be\nfelt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I\ncannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly\nbestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any\none. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of\nshort duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the\nacknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming\nit after this explanation.\"\n\nMr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed\non her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than\nsurprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of\nhis mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the\nappearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed\nhimself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings\ndreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,\n\n\"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I\nmight, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at\ncivility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.\"\n\n\"I might as well enquire,\" replied she, \"why with so evident a design of\noffending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me\nagainst your will, against your reason, and even against your character?\nWas not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have\nother provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided\nagainst you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been\nfavourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept\nthe man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the\nhappiness of a most beloved sister?\"\n\nAs she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion\nwas short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she\ncontinued.\n\n\"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can\nexcuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,\nyou cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means\nof dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the\nworld for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for\ndisappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest\nkind.\"\n\nShe paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening\nwith an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.\nHe even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.\n\n\"Can you deny that you have done it?\" she repeated.\n\nWith assumed tranquillity he then replied, \"I have no wish of denying\nthat I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your\nsister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been\nkinder than towards myself.\"\n\nElizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,\nbut its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.\n\n\"But it is not merely this affair,\" she continued, \"on which my dislike\nis founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was\ndecided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received\nmany months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to\nsay? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?\nor under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?\"\n\n\"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,\" said Darcy in\na less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.\n\n\"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an\ninterest in him?\"\n\n\"His misfortunes!\" repeated Darcy contemptuously; \"yes, his misfortunes\nhave been great indeed.\"\n\n\"And of your infliction,\" cried Elizabeth with energy. \"You have reduced\nhim to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have\nwithheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for\nhim. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence\nwhich was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and\nyet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and\nridicule.\"\n\n\"And this,\" cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,\n\"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I\nthank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this\ncalculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,\" added he, stopping in his\nwalk, and turning towards her, \"these offences might have been\noverlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the\nscruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These\nbitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy\nconcealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being\nimpelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by\nreflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.\nNor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.\nCould you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?\nTo congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life\nis so decidedly beneath my own?\"\n\nElizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to\nthe utmost to speak with composure when she said,\n\n\"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your\ndeclaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the\nconcern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a\nmore gentleman-like manner.\"\n\nShe saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,\n\n\"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way\nthat would have tempted me to accept it.\"\n\nAgain his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an\nexpression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.\n\n\"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my\nacquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest\nbelief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the\nfeelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of\ndisapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a\ndislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the\nlast man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.\"\n\n\"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your\nfeelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.\nForgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best\nwishes for your health and happiness.\"\n\nAnd with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him\nthe next moment open the front door and quit the house.\n\nThe tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to\nsupport herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an\nhour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was\nincreased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of\nmarriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for\nso many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all\nthe objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her\nsister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case,\nwas almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously\nso strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his\nshameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his\nunpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,\nand the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his\ncruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the\npity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.\n\nShe continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady\nCatherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter\nCharlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "When the Company leaves, Elizabeth begins to reread Janes letters. Suddenly Darcy comes back in. After making perfunctory inquiries about her health, he declares his love for Elizabeth, who is thunderstruck and mute. Darcy speaks a good deal about his pride and makes Jane feel she is socially inferior to him. He acts like his proposal to her is a divine honor, which Elizabeth cannot turn down. Elizabeth, furious over his superior attitude, spares no words in refusing him. She accuses Darcy of separating Jane and Bingley, of treating Wickham horribly, and of acting in an arrogant manner. Darcy accepts these accusations without apology, but it hurts him when she says that his demeanor is not gentlemanly. When Darcy leaves the house, Elizabeth is so flustered great that she breaks into tears."}, {"": "4", "document": "\n\nDuring dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants\nwere withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his\nguest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to\nshine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his\ncomfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen\nbetter. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him\nto more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect\nhe protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a\nperson of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself\nexperienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to\napprove of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of\npreaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,\nand had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of\nquadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many\npeople he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her.\nShe had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she\nmade not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the\nneighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or\ntwo, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to\nmarry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had\nonce paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly\napproved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed\nto suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs.\n\n\"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,\" said Mrs. Bennet, \"and I\ndare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies\nin general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?\"\n\n\"The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane\nfrom Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.\"\n\n\"I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?\"\n\n\"She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very\nextensive property.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, \"then she is better off than\nmany girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?\"\n\n\"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says\nthat in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the\nhandsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks\nthe young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly\nconstitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many\naccomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am\ninformed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still\nresides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends\nto drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.\"\n\n\"Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at\ncourt.\"\n\n\"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;\nand by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived\nthe British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased\nwith the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to\noffer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to\nladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her\ncharming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most\nelevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by\nher.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and\nit is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to\npay.\"\n\n\"You judge very properly,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"and it is happy for you\nthat you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask\nwhether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the\nmoment, or are the result of previous study?\"\n\n\"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I\nsometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant\ncompliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to\ngive them as unstudied an air as possible.\"\n\nMr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd\nas he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,\nmaintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,\nand except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in\nhis pleasure.\n\nBy tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to\ntake his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad\nto invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented,\nand a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced\nit to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging\npardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and\nLydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation\nhe chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and\nbefore he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she\ninterrupted him with,\n\n\"Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard,\nand if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so\nherself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more\nabout it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.\"\n\nLydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.\nCollins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,\n\n\"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books\nof a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes\nme, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to\nthem as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.\"\n\nThen turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at\nbackgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted\nvery wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs.\nBennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's\ninterruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would\nresume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his\nyoung cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any\naffront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared\nfor backgammon.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At dinner Mr. Collins expounds on the virtues of Lady Catherine de Bourgh extensively, as well as her residence, Rosings Park. He also speaks of Miss De Bourgh, Lady Catherine's daughter, and how good he is at flattering both of the women. Mr. Bennet concludes that Mr. Collins is as absurd as he had expected him to be"}, {"": "5", "document": "\nAlice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the\nbank, and of having nothing to do. Once or twice she had peeped into the\nbook her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in\nit, \"and what is the use of a book,\" thought Alice, \"without pictures or\nconversations?\"\n\nSo she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the\nday made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of\nmaking a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and\npicking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran\nclose by her.\n\nThere was nothing so very remarkable in that, nor did Alice think it so\nvery much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, \"Oh dear! Oh\ndear! I shall be too late!\" But when the Rabbit actually took a watch\nout of its waistcoat-pocket and looked at it and then hurried on, Alice\nstarted to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never\nbefore seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take\nout of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after\nit and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole, under\nthe hedge. In another moment, down went Alice after it!\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way and then\ndipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think\nabout stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed\nto be a very deep well.\n\nEither the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had\nplenty of time, as she went down, to look about her. First, she tried to\nmake out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything;\nthen she looked at the sides of the well and noticed that they were\nfilled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and\npictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as\nshe passed. It was labeled \"ORANGE MARMALADE,\" but, to her great\ndisappointment, it was empty; she did not like to drop the jar, so\nmanaged to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.\n\nDown, down, down! Would the fall never come to an end? There was nothing\nelse to do, so Alice soon began talking to herself. \"Dinah'll miss me\nvery much to-night, I should think!\" (Dinah was the cat.) \"I hope\nthey'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah, my dear, I wish\nyou were down here with me!\" Alice felt that she was dozing off, when\nsuddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry\nleaves, and the fall was over.\n\nAlice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up in a moment. She looked up,\nbut it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage and\nthe White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a\nmoment to be lost. Away went Alice like the wind and was just in time to\nhear it say, as it turned a corner, \"Oh, my ears and whiskers, how late\nit's getting!\" She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but\nthe Rabbit was no longer to be seen.\n\nShe found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of\nlamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all 'round the hall, but\nthey were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side\nand up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle,\nwondering how she was ever to get out again.\n\nSuddenly she came upon a little table, all made of solid glass. There\nwas nothing on it but a tiny golden key, and Alice's first idea was that\nthis might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the\nlocks were too large, or the key was too small, but, at any rate, it\nwould not open any of them. However, on the second time 'round, she came\nupon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a\nlittle door about fifteen inches high. She tried the little golden key\nin the lock, and to her great delight, it fitted!\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAlice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not\nmuch larger than a rat-hole; she knelt down and looked along the passage\ninto the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of\nthat dark hall and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and\nthose cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the\ndoorway. \"Oh,\" said Alice, \"how I wish I could shut up like a telescope!\nI think I could, if I only knew how to begin.\"\n\nAlice went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on\nit, or at any rate, a book of rules for shutting people up like\ntelescopes. This time she found a little bottle on it (\"which certainly\nwas not here before,\" said Alice), and tied 'round the neck of the\nbottle was a paper label, with the words \"DRINK ME\" beautifully printed\non it in large letters.\n\n\"No, I'll look first,\" she said, \"and see whether it's marked '_poison_'\nor not,\" for she had never forgotten that, if you drink from a bottle\nmarked \"poison,\" it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or\nlater. However, this bottle was _not_ marked \"poison,\" so Alice ventured\nto taste it, and, finding it very nice (it had a sort of mixed flavor of\ncherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffy and hot buttered\ntoast), she very soon finished it off.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"What a curious feeling!\" said Alice. \"I must be shutting up like a\ntelescope!\"\n\nAnd so it was indeed! She was now only ten inches high, and her face\nbrightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going\nthrough the little door into that lovely garden.\n\nAfter awhile, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going\ninto the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! When she got to the\ndoor, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she\nwent back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach\nit: she could see it quite plainly through the glass and she tried her\nbest to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery,\nand when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing\nsat down and cried.\n\n\"Come, there's no use in crying like that!\" said Alice to herself rather\nsharply. \"I advise you to leave off this minute!\" She generally gave\nherself very good advice (though she very seldom followed it), and\nsometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her\neyes.\n\nSoon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table:\nshe opened it and found in it a very small cake, on which the words \"EAT\nME\" were beautifully marked in currants. \"Well, I'll eat it,\" said\nAlice, \"and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it\nmakes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door: so either way I'll\nget into the garden, and I don't care which happens!\"\n\nShe ate a little bit and said anxiously to herself, \"Which way? Which\nway?\" holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way she was\ngrowing; and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same\nsize. So she set to work and very soon finished off the cake.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In this short, introductory chapter we are introduced to Alice, a young girl, who is sitting on the bank of a river with her older sister. Alice is bored and a bit sleepy, but she is startled awake by a talking White Rabbit who hops by with a pocket watch. Alice follows the rabbit down his rabbit hole, but loses him almost immediately. The hole is quite deep and Alice falls for a relatively long time. During the fall she notices that the hole is lined with cupboards filled with things. She also talks to herself as she falls. Upon reaching the bottom of the rabbit hole Alice catches up with the rabbit just long enough to see him scurry off, complaining about how late he is. Upon turning a corner after the rabbit, Alice finds herself alone in a room of locked doors. On a glass table in the middle of the room she found a very small key which did not fit any of the doors. After some searching she discovers a very small door behind a curtain. She opens that door with the key and sees that the door leads out into a beautiful garden she wishes she could get to. However, the doorway is too small, preventing Alice from passing out into the garden. This problem is resolved when Alice turns back to the table and finds a vial of liquid on it that says \"DRINK ME.\" The potion shrinks Alice to ten inches in height and she heads to the door only to find that it is still locked, and the key remains on the glass table now out of reach. Disappointed, Alice almost cries, but then she scolds herself as an adult might, and in effect, pulls herself together. It is at this point that Alice finds a piece of cake in a box marked \"EAT ME\" on the floor. Concluding that the cake will probably make her grow big, Alice eats the whole thing. The most important thing introduced in this chapter is Alice's fluctuating sense of self. Alice, meant to be a girl of about eleven or so, is on the cusp of adolescence. But what does she want to be? If she shrinks to a child-like size to get through the doorway into what seems to be the garden of childhood, then she is too small to reach the key to open that door. She is trapped in a kind of paradox. Throughout the chapter Alice is \"trying on\" her adult self. She speaks in a learned manner, even when she isn't quite sure what she is speaking about, and she often creates in her own mind an adult personality to check her childish impulses. This split personality of Alice's will become the core problem of the book. Is it more important to enjoy the nonsense of childhood unaware, or should order be imposed on one's life at the expense of some of that joy? Ultimately, in the very opening of the book, Alice is already asking herself: \"Do I want to grow up, or do I want to stay small?\""}, {"": "6", "document": "SCENE VIII.\n\nThe same. Another part of the field.\n\n[Enter Macbeth.]\n\nMACBETH.\nWhy should I play the Roman fool, and die\nOn mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes\nDo better upon them.\n\n[Enter Macduff.]\n\nMACDUFF.\nTurn, hell-hound, turn!\n\nMACBETH.\nOf all men else I have avoided thee:\nBut get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd\nWith blood of thine already.\n\nMACDUFF.\nI have no words,--\nMy voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain\nThan terms can give thee out!\n\n[They fight.]\n\nMACBETH.\nThou losest labour:\nAs easy mayst thou the intrenchant air\nWith thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed:\nLet fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;\nI bear a charmed life, which must not yield\nTo one of woman born.\n\nMACDUFF.\nDespair thy charm;\nAnd let the angel whom thou still hast serv'd\nTell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb\nUntimely ripp'd.\n\nMACBETH.\nAccursed be that tongue that tells me so,\nFor it hath cow'd my better part of man!\nAnd be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,\nThat palter with us in a double sense;\nThat keep the word of promise to our ear,\nAnd break it to our hope!--I'll not fight with thee.\n\nMACDUFF.\nThen yield thee, coward,\nAnd live to be the show and gaze o' the time:\nWe'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,\nPainted upon a pole, and underwrit,\n\"Here may you see the tyrant.\"\n\nMACBETH.\nI will not yield,\nTo kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,\nAnd to be baited with the rabble's curse.\nThough Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,\nAnd thou oppos'd, being of no woman born,\nYet I will try the last. Before my body\nI throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff;\nAnd damn'd be him that first cries, \"Hold, enough!\"\n\n[Exeunt fighting.]\n\n[Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old\nSiward, Ross, Lennox, Angus, Caithness, Menteith, and Soldiers.\n\nMALCOLM.\nI would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd.\n\nSIWARD.\nSome must go off; and yet, by these I see,\nSo great a day as this is cheaply bought.\n\nMALCOLM.\nMacduff is missing, and your noble son.\n\nROSS.\nYour son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:\nHe only liv'd but till he was a man;\nThe which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd\nIn the unshrinking station where he fought,\nBut like a man he died.\n\nSIWARD.\nThen he is dead?\n\nFLEANCE.\nAy, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow\nMust not be measur'd by his worth, for then\nIt hath no end.\n\nSIWARD.\nHad he his hurts before?\n\nROSS.\nAy, on the front.\n\nSIWARD.\nWhy then, God's soldier be he!\nHad I as many sons as I have hairs,\nI would not wish them to a fairer death:\nAnd, so his knell is knoll'd.\n\nMALCOLM.\nHe's worth more sorrow,\nAnd that I'll spend for him.\n\nSIWARD.\nHe's worth no more:\nThey say he parted well, and paid his score:\nAnd so, God be with him!--Here comes newer comfort.\n\n[Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.]\n\nMACDUFF.\nHail, king, for so thou art: behold, where stands\nThe usurper's cursed head: the time is free:\nI see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl\nThat speak my salutation in their minds;\nWhose voices I desire aloud with mine,--\nHail, King of Scotland!\n\nALL.\nHail, King of Scotland!\n\n[Flourish.]\n\nMALCOLM.\nWe shall not spend a large expense of time\nBefore we reckon with your several loves,\nAnd make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen,\nHenceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland\nIn such an honour nam'd. What's more to do,\nWhich would be planted newly with the time,--\nAs calling home our exil'd friends abroad,\nThat fled the snares of watchful tyranny;\nProducing forth the cruel ministers\nOf this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,--\nWho, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands\nTook off her life;--this, and what needful else\nThat calls upon us, by the grace of Grace,\nWe will perform in measure, time, and place:\nSo, thanks to all at once, and to each one,\nWhom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.\n\n[Flourish. Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Macduff emerges and searches the chaos frantically for Macbeth, whom he longs to cut down personally. He dives again into the battle"}, {"": "7", "document": "ACT V. SCENE I.\n\nDunsinane. A Room in the Castle.\n\n[Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.]\n\nDOCTOR.\nI have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no\ntruth in your report. When was it she last walked?\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nSince his majesty went into the field, I have seen her\nrise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her\ncloset, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it,\nafterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this\nwhile in a most fast sleep.\n\nDOCTOR.\nA great perturbation in nature,--to receive at once the\nbenefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching-- In this\nslumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual\nperformances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nThat, sir, which I will not report after her.\n\nDOCTOR.\nYou may to me; and 'tis most meet you should.\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nNeither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my\nspeech. Lo you, here she comes!\n\n[Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.]\n\nThis is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe\nher; stand close.\n\nDOCTOR.\nHow came she by that light?\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nWhy, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her\ncommand.\n\nDOCTOR.\nYou see, her eyes are open.\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nAy, but their sense is shut.\n\nDOCTOR.\nWhat is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nIt is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her\nhands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nYet here's a spot.\n\nDOCTOR.\nHark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to\nsatisfy my remembrance the more strongly.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nOut, damned spot! out, I say!-- One; two; why, then 'tis\ntime to do't ;--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier,\nand afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call\nour power to account?--Yet who would have thought the old man to\nhave had so much blood in him?\n\nDOCTOR.\nDo you mark that?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nThe Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?--What,\nwill these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no\nmore o' that: you mar all with this starting.\n\nDOCTOR.\nGo to, go to; you have known what you should not.\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nShe has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that:\nheaven knows what she has known.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nHere's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes\nof Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!\n\nDOCTOR.\nWhat a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nI would not have such a heart in my bosom for the\ndignity of the whole body.\n\nDOCTOR.\nWell, well, well,--\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nPray God it be, sir.\n\nDOCTOR.\nThis disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those\nwhich have walked in their sleep who have died holily in\ntheir beds.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nWash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so\npale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come\nout on's grave.\n\nDOCTOR.\nEven so?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nTo bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come,\ncome, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to\nbed, to bed.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nDOCTOR.\nWill she go now to bed?\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nDirectly.\n\nDOCTOR.\nFoul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds\nDo breed unnatural troubles: infected minds\nTo their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.\nMore needs she the divine than the physician.--\nGod, God, forgive us all!--Look after her;\nRemove from her the means of all annoyance,\nAnd still keep eyes upon her:--so, good-night:\nMy mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight:\nI think, but dare not speak.\n\nGENTLEWOMAN.\nGood-night, good doctor.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Macbeth's castle, a gentlewoman speaks to a doctor about Lady Macbeth's strange somnambulatory behavior. While the two are talking, they suddenly observe Lady Macbeth sleepwalking. She vigorously rubs her hands, as if trying to wash away a stain of some sort. Lady Macbeth sighs, weeps and mutters about the Thane of Fife and Banquo. The doctor and the gentlewoman are shocked-Lady Macbeth has inadvertently revealed the source of her distress. Again, lady Macbeth sleepwalks and has nightmares because Macbeth has \"murdered sleep"}, {"": "8", "document": "Scene III.\nElsinore. A room in the house of Polonius.\n\nEnter Laertes and Ophelia.\n\n  Laer. My necessaries are embark'd. Farewell.\n    And, sister, as the winds give benefit\n    And convoy is assistant, do not sleep,\n    But let me hear from you.\n  Oph. Do you doubt that?\n  Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,\n    Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;\n    A violet in the youth of primy nature,\n    Forward, not permanent- sweet, not lasting;\n    The perfume and suppliance of a minute;\n    No more.\n  Oph. No more but so?\n  Laer. Think it no more.\n    For nature crescent does not grow alone\n    In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes,\n    The inward service of the mind and soul\n    Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,\n    And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch\n    The virtue of his will; but you must fear,\n    His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own;\n    For he himself is subject to his birth.\n    He may not, as unvalued persons do,\n    Carve for himself, for on his choice depends\n    The safety and health of this whole state,\n    And therefore must his choice be circumscrib'd\n    Unto the voice and yielding of that body\n    Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,\n    It fits your wisdom so far to believe it\n    As he in his particular act and place\n    May give his saying deed; which is no further\n    Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.\n    Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain\n    If with too credent ear you list his songs,\n    Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open\n    To his unmast'red importunity.\n    Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,\n    And keep you in the rear of your affection,\n    Out of the shot and danger of desire.\n    The chariest maid is prodigal enough\n    If she unmask her beauty to the moon.\n    Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes.\n    The canker galls the infants of the spring\n    Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd,\n    And in the morn and liquid dew of youth\n    Contagious blastments are most imminent.\n    Be wary then; best safety lies in fear.\n    Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.\n  Oph. I shall th' effect of this good lesson keep\n    As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,\n    Do not as some ungracious pastors do,\n    Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,\n    Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,\n    Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads\n    And recks not his own rede.\n  Laer. O, fear me not!\n\n                       Enter Polonius.\n\n    I stay too long. But here my father comes.\n    A double blessing is a double grace;\n    Occasion smiles upon a second leave.\n  Pol. Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame!\n    The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,\n    And you are stay'd for. There- my blessing with thee!\n    And these few precepts in thy memory\n    Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,\n    Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.\n    Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar:\n    Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,\n    Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel;\n    But do not dull thy palm with entertainment\n    Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware\n    Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,\n    Bear't that th' opposed may beware of thee.\n    Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;\n    Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.\n    Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,\n    But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;\n    For the apparel oft proclaims the man,\n    And they in France of the best rank and station\n    Are most select and generous, chief in that.\n    Neither a borrower nor a lender be;\n    For loan oft loses both itself and friend,\n    And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.\n    This above all- to thine own self be true,\n    And it must follow, as the night the day,\n    Thou canst not then be false to any man.\n    Farewell. My blessing season this in thee!\n  Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.\n  Pol. The time invites you. Go, your servants tend.\n  Laer. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well\n    What I have said to you.\n  Oph. 'Tis in my memory lock'd,\n    And you yourself shall keep the key of it.\n  Laer. Farewell.                                          Exit.\n  Pol. What is't, Ophelia, he hath said to you?\n  Oph. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.\n  Pol. Marry, well bethought!\n    'Tis told me he hath very oft of late\n    Given private time to you, and you yourself\n    Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.\n    If it be so- as so 'tis put on me,\n    And that in way of caution- I must tell you\n    You do not understand yourself so clearly\n    As it behooves my daughter and your honour.\n    What is between you? Give me up the truth.\n  Oph. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders\n    Of his affection to me.\n  Pol. Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl,\n    Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.\n    Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?\n  Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should think,\n  Pol. Marry, I will teach you! Think yourself a baby\n    That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay,\n    Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly,\n    Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,\n    Running it thus) you'll tender me a fool.\n  Oph. My lord, he hath importun'd me with love\n    In honourable fashion.\n  Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to!\n  Oph. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,\n    With almost all the holy vows of heaven.\n  Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks! I do know,\n    When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul\n    Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter,\n    Giving more light than heat, extinct in both\n    Even in their promise, as it is a-making,\n    You must not take for fire. From this time\n    Be something scanter of your maiden presence.\n    Set your entreatments at a higher rate\n    Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,\n    Believe so much in him, that he is young,\n    And with a larger tether may he walk\n    Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia,\n    Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,\n    Not of that dye which their investments show,\n    But mere implorators of unholy suits,\n    Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,\n    The better to beguile. This is for all:\n    I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth\n    Have you so slander any moment leisure\n    As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.\n    Look to't, I charge you. Come your ways.\n  Oph. I shall obey, my lord.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Laertes says goodbye to his sister Ophelia and warns her not to trust Hamlet. He tells her that Hamlet is fickle and soon his affections will turn from her. She asks him not to tell her to live strictly if he intends to live self-indulgently. He reassures her as their father Polonius enters. Polonius sends his son off on his return to France. Polonius then questions his daughter about the nature of her relationship with Hamlet. Upon learning of his affection for her, Polonius repeats the warning of Laertes. He tells her to have more respect for herself and not to continue the relationship. Polonius further instructs Ophelia to refrain from further contact with the Prince."}, {"": "9", "document": "\n\"Curiouser and curiouser!\" cried Alice (she was so much surprised that\nfor the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English). \"Now I'm\nopening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-by, feet! Oh,\nmy poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings\nfor you now, dears? I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble\nmyself about you.\"\n\nJust at this moment her head struck against the roof of the hall; in\nfact, she was now rather more than nine feet high, and she at once took\nup the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door.\n\nPoor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to\nlook through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more\nhopeless than ever. She sat down and began to cry again.\n\nShe went on shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all\n'round her and reaching half down the hall.\n\nAfter a time, she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance and\nshe hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White\nRabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid-gloves in\none hand and a large fan in the other. He came trotting along in a\ngreat hurry, muttering to himself, \"Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh!\n_won't_ she be savage if I've kept her waiting!\"\n\nWhen the Rabbit came near her, Alice began, in a low, timid voice, \"If\nyou please, sir--\" The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white\nkid-gloves and the fan and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he\ncould go.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAlice took up the fan and gloves and she kept fanning herself all the\ntime she went on talking. \"Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day!\nAnd yesterday things went on just as usual. _Was_ I the same when I got\nup this morning? But if I'm not the same, the next question is, 'Who in\nthe world am I?' Ah, _that's_ the great puzzle!\"\n\nAs she said this, she looked down at her hands and was surprised to see\nthat she had put on one of the Rabbit's little white kid-gloves while\nshe was talking. \"How _can_ I have done that?\" she thought. \"I must be\ngrowing small again.\" She got up and went to the table to measure\nherself by it and found that she was now about two feet high and was\ngoing on shrinking rapidly. She soon found out that the cause of this\nwas the fan she was holding and she dropped it hastily, just in time to\nsave herself from shrinking away altogether.\n\n\"That _was_ a narrow escape!\" said Alice, a good deal frightened at the\nsudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence. \"And\nnow for the garden!\" And she ran with all speed back to the little door;\nbut, alas! the little door was shut again and the little golden key was\nlying on the glass table as before. \"Things are worse than ever,\"\nthought the poor child, \"for I never was so small as this before,\nnever!\"\n\nAs she said these words, her foot slipped, and in another moment,\nsplash! she was up to her chin in salt-water. Her first idea was that\nshe had somehow fallen into the sea. However, she soon made out that she\nwas in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nJust then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way\noff, and she swam nearer to see what it was: she soon made out that it\nwas only a mouse that had slipped in like herself.\n\n\"Would it be of any use, now,\" thought Alice, \"to speak to this mouse?\nEverything is so out-of-the-way down here that I should think very\nlikely it can talk; at any rate, there's no harm in trying.\" So she\nbegan, \"O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired\nof swimming about here, O Mouse!\" The Mouse looked at her rather\ninquisitively and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but\nit said nothing.\n\n\"Perhaps it doesn't understand English,\" thought Alice. \"I dare say it's\na French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.\" So she began\nagain: \"Ou est ma chatte?\" which was the first sentence in her French\nlesson-book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water and seemed to\nquiver all over with fright. \"Oh, I beg your pardon!\" cried Alice\nhastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings. \"I quite\nforgot you didn't like cats.\"\n\n\"Not like cats!\" cried the Mouse in a shrill, passionate voice. \"Would\n_you_ like cats, if you were me?\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps not,\" said Alice in a soothing tone; \"don't be angry\nabout it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah. I think you'd\ntake a fancy to cats, if you could only see her. She is such a dear,\nquiet thing.\" The Mouse was bristling all over and she felt certain it\nmust be really offended. \"We won't talk about her any more, if you'd\nrather not.\"\n\n\"We, indeed!\" cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of its\ntail. \"As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family always _hated_\ncats--nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!\"\n\n[Illustration: Alice at the Mad Tea Party.]\n\n\"I won't indeed!\" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of\nconversation. \"Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs? There is such a nice\nlittle dog near our house, I should like to show you! It kills all the\nrats and--oh, dear!\" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone. \"I'm afraid I've\noffended it again!\" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as\nit could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went.\n\nSo she called softly after it, \"Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we\nwon't talk about cats, or dogs either, if you don't like them!\" When the\nMouse heard this, it turned 'round and swam slowly back to her; its face\nwas quite pale, and it said, in a low, trembling voice, \"Let us get to\nthe shore and then I'll tell you my history and you'll understand why it\nis I hate cats and dogs.\"\n\nIt was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the\nbirds and animals that had fallen into it; there were a Duck and a Dodo,\na Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the\nway and the whole party swam to the shore.\n\n", "summary": "As Alice expected, at the beginning of this chapter the cake indeed does make her grow quite tall. As she is growing to adult proportions Alice begins to worry about her feet, her tiny feet, as though they were children. In this way Alice's manner of speaking becomes more adult and motherly. She decides that, in order to win favor from her now distant and small feat she shall send them Christmas presents. But while this opening paragraph begins as a very adult kind of worry it degenerates into childish hyperbole. \"Oh dear, what nonsense I am talking!\" Alice scolds herself, reasserting her balance between the extremes of childhood and adulthood. Then Alice grows to be too big for the house and, like a child, she cries in frustration. But the adult voice in Alice's head interjects, scolding her for crying when she is such a big girl. Her tears continue to fall, however, and she fills the house with a pool of tears. At this point the White Rabbit reappears and Alice calls out to him for help, but he is too frightened by her size and he scurries away. '\"Who in the world am I?\" Ah, that's the great puzzle,' she says to her self after he is gone. . At this point Alice decides to investigate who she is, and if she is the same person that she thought she was yesterday. First she tries to catalogue all of the things she used to know to see if she still knows them. She goes from multiplication tables, to geography and then to little rhyming lessons, effectively moving backward through her schooling to the earliest things she was taught. In all cases she fails to remember. After this Alice notices that she is shrinking again, and she shrinks back to normal size. Then she shrinks down to a size smaller than she was before, less than ten inches. She finds herself afloat in her own pool of tears and she also finds that she is sharing this pool with a mouse. She asks the mouse how she might get out of the pool. The mouse does not answer. Finally, however, Alice engages the mouse in conversation about cats. The conversation consists primarily of Alice offending the mouse by speaking well of cats . Then Alice tries to engage the mouse on the subject of dogs until she mentions a dog that was a good ratkiller, which enrages the mouse again. Finally, exasperated, the mouse announces that he will tell Alice the story of why he hates both cats and dogs and leads her ashore. Alice and the mouse are followed ashore by a Dodo, a Duck, a Lory and an Eaglet who all fell into the pool while Alice and the mouse were talking. In this chapter Carroll introduces the beginning of his argument for adulthood. The first chapter laid out the books basic question, which was: should Alice choose to remain a disordered child so that she can enjoy the laziness of a garden in summer with no worries and no responsibilities? Or, should she impose order on her life and grow up? Her conversation with the mouse is the first of many conversations she will have in this book. While the conversations will be about many things what is really going on in the conversations is the problems of politeness and civility. This will be the core of Carroll's argument that Alice SHOULD grow up and impose order on her life. If she learns to be civil and polite, for example, then she can successfully ask for help without offending anyone. This is the important first step towards growing up: learning how to be polite and how to communicate."}, {"": "10", "document": "SCENE V.\n\nInverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle.\n\n[Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.]\n\nLADY MACBETH.\n\"They met me in the day of success; and I have\nlearned by the perfectest report they have more in them than\nmortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them\nfurther, they made themselves air, into which they vanished.\nWhiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from\nthe king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title,\nbefore, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the\ncoming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have\nI thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of\ngreatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by\nbeing ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy\nheart, and farewell.\"\n\nGlamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be\nWhat thou art promis'd; yet do I fear thy nature;\nIt is too full o' the milk of human kindness\nTo catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great;\nArt not without ambition; but without\nThe illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,\nThat wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,\nAnd yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis,\nThat which cries, \"Thus thou must do, if thou have it:\nAnd that which rather thou dost fear to do\nThan wishest should be undone.\" Hie thee hither,\nThat I may pour my spirits in thine ear;\nAnd chastise with the valor of my tongue\nAll that impedes thee from the golden round,\nWhich fate and metaphysical aid doth seem\nTo have thee crown'd withal.\n\n[Enter an Attendant.]\n\nWhat is your tidings?\n\nATTENDANT.\nThe king comes here tonight.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nThou'rt mad to say it:\nIs not thy master with him? who, were't so,\nWould have inform'd for preparation.\n\nATTENDANT.\nSo please you, it is true:--our thane is coming:\nOne of my fellows had the speed of him;\nWho, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more\nThan would make up his message.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nGive him tending;\nHe brings great news.\n\n[Exit Attendant.]\n\nThe raven himself is hoarse\nThat croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan\nUnder my battlements. Come, you spirits\nThat tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;\nAnd fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full\nOf direst cruelty! make thick my blood,\nStop up the access and passage to remorse,\nThat no compunctious visitings of nature\nShake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between\nThe effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,\nAnd take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers,\nWherever in your sightless substances\nYou wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,\nAnd pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell\nThat my keen knife see not the wound it makes\nNor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark\nTo cry, \"Hold, hold!\"\n\n[Enter Macbeth.]\n\nGreat Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!\nGreater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!\nThy letters have transported me beyond\nThis ignorant present, and I feel now\nThe future in the instant.\n\nMACBETH.\nMy dearest love,\nDuncan comes here tonight.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nAnd when goes hence?\n\nMACBETH.\nTo-morrow,--as he purposes.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nO, never\nShall sun that morrow see!\nYour face, my thane, is as a book where men\nMay read strange matters:--to beguile the time,\nLook like the time; bear welcome in your eye,\nYour hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,\nBut be the serpent under't. He that's coming\nMust be provided for: and you shall put\nThis night's great business into my despatch;\nWhich shall to all our nights and days to come\nGive solely sovereign sway and masterdom.\n\nMACBETH.\nWe will speak further.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nOnly look up clear;\nTo alter favor ever is to fear:\nLeave all the rest to me.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Lady Macbeth reads aloud Macbeth's letter that details his encounter with the weird sisters. Full of determination and love for her husband, she resolves to convince Macbeth to carry through with the planned murders. She says that Macbeth is too kind and gentle to commit such an act, whereas she is more morally courageous and daring. Lady Macbeth is interrupted by a messenger who tells her that Macbeth and King Duncan will be arriving at Inverness, their castle, in a few moments. Momentarily aghast, Lady Macbeth realizes that this is her chance to kill Duncan. She prays for confidence and unwavering resolve so that she can carry through with her evil intentions. When Macbeth enters, she orders him to appear to be hospitable, servile and kind to the king, as she does not want anyone to suspect them of their plans. She tells Macbeth to put his mind to rest, as she will orchestrate the whole murder"}, {"": "11", "document": "ACT I. SCENE I.\n\nRome. A street.\n\n[Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a Throng of Citizens.]\n\nFLAVIUS.\nHence! home, you idle creatures, get you home!\nIs this a holiday? What! know you not,\nBeing mechanical, you ought not walk\nUpon a laboring day without the sign\nOf your profession?--Speak, what trade art thou?\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nWhy, sir, a carpenter.\n\nMARULLUS.\nWhere is thy leather apron and thy rule?\nWhat dost thou with thy best apparel on?--\nYou, sir; what trade are you?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN.\nTruly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you\nwould say, a cobbler.\n\nMARULLUS.\nBut what trade art thou? Answer me directly.\n\nSECOND CITIZEN.\nA trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe\nconscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.\n\nMARULLUS.\nWhat trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN.\nNay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet,\nif you be out, sir, I can mend you.\n\nMARULLUS.\nWhat mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow!\n\nSECOND CITIZEN.\nWhy, sir, cobble you.\n\nFLAVIUS.\nThou art a cobbler, art thou?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN.\nTruly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with\nno tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl.\nI am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in\ngreat danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon\nneat's-leather have gone upon my handiwork.\n\nFLAVIUS.\nBut wherefore art not in thy shop today?\nWhy dost thou lead these men about the streets?\n\nSECOND CITIZEN.\nTruly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself into more\nwork. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to\nrejoice in his triumph.\n\nMARULLUS.\nWherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?\nWhat tributaries follow him to Rome,\nTo grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?\nYou blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!\nO you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,\nKnew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft\nHave you climb'd up to walls and battlements,\nTo towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,\nYour infants in your arms, and there have sat\nThe livelong day with patient expectation\nTo see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.\nAnd when you saw his chariot but appear,\nHave you not made an universal shout\nThat Tiber trembled underneath her banks\nTo hear the replication of your sounds\nMade in her concave shores?\nAnd do you now put on your best attire?\nAnd do you now cull out a holiday?\nAnd do you now strew flowers in his way\nThat comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?\nBe gone!\nRun to your houses, fall upon your knees,\nPray to the gods to intermit the plague\nThat needs must light on this ingratitude.\n\nFLAVIUS.\nGo, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,\nAssemble all the poor men of your sort,\nDraw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears\nInto the channel, till the lowest stream\nDo kiss the most exalted shores of all.\n\n[Exeunt CITIZENS.]\n\nSee whether their basest metal be not moved;\nThey vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.\nGo you down that way towards the Capitol;\nThis way will I. Disrobe the images,\nIf you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.\n\nMARULLUS.\nMay we do so?\nYou know it is the feast of Lupercal.\n\nFLAVIUS.\nIt is no matter; let no images\nBe hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about\nAnd drive away the vulgar from the streets;\nSo do you too, where you perceive them thick.\nThese growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing\nWill make him fly an ordinary pitch,\nWho else would soar above the view of men,\nAnd keep us all in servile fearfulness.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The play opens on a crowded and noisy street in Rome as Julius Caesar returns from battle, where he stomped Pompey's sons into the ground. FYI: Pompey is a guy who used to rule Rome with Caesar . After disagreeing with Caesar about how Rome should be run, Pompey was defeated in battle and assassinated. Just to be sure that Pompey's family and supporters couldn't come after him, Caesar chased Pompey's sons to Spain and defeated them in battle, too. Boo-yah. Murellus and Flavius, Roman tribunes who are friends of Brutus and Cassius, come upon a group of common people running about the street in their Sunday best when they should be working. The pair asks about the commoners' professions and what they're up to and finds out that they're on the way to celebrate and honor Julius Caesar. Murellus and Flavius point out that rather than celebrate this victory, the people should get on their knees and pray against whatever evil will come to them because of their ingratitude. Pompey was once their leader, after all, and they all used to gather outside to watch his chariot go by. And now that Caesar has defeated Pompey's sons, it's like they've totally forgotten that. Before parting ways, Murellus and Flavius disperse the crowd and remove the party favors the people have left around Caesar's statue. They hope this will slow Caesar's row a little bit as he prepares to overthrow the republic and make himself king. If they can keep him from getting too full of himself, perhaps they can prevent him from becoming a tyrant."}, {"": "12", "document": "There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the\nMarch Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it; a Dormouse was sitting\nbetween them, fast asleep.\n\nThe table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at\none corner of it. \"No room! No room!\" they cried out when they saw Alice\ncoming. \"There's _plenty_ of room!\" said Alice indignantly, and she sat\ndown in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.\n\nThe Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this, but all he said\nwas \"Why is a raven like a writing-desk?\"\n\n\"I'm glad they've begun asking riddles--I believe I can guess that,\" she\nadded aloud.\n\n\"Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?\" said the\nMarch Hare.\n\n\"Exactly so,\" said Alice.\n\n\"Then you should say what you mean,\" the March Hare went on.\n\n\"I do,\" Alice hastily replied; \"at least--at least I mean what I\nsay--that's the same thing, you know.\"\n\n\"You might just as well say,\" added the Dormouse, which seemed to be\ntalking in its sleep, \"that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing\nas 'I sleep when I breathe!'\"\n\n\"It _is_ the same thing with you,\" said the Hatter, and he poured a\nlittle hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently\nand said, without opening its eyes, \"Of course, of course; just what I\nwas going to remark myself.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Have you guessed the riddle yet?\" the Hatter said, turning to Alice\nagain.\n\n\"No, I give it up,\" Alice replied. \"What's the answer?\"\n\n\"I haven't the slightest idea,\" said the Hatter.\n\n\"Nor I,\" said the March Hare.\n\nAlice gave a weary sigh. \"I think you might do something better with the\ntime,\" she said, \"than wasting it in asking riddles that have no\nanswers.\"\n\n\"Take some more tea,\" the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.\n\n\"I've had nothing yet,\" Alice replied in an offended tone, \"so I can't\ntake more.\"\n\n\"You mean you can't take _less_,\" said the Hatter; \"it's very easy to\ntake _more_ than nothing.\"\n\nAt this, Alice got up and walked off. The Dormouse fell asleep instantly\nand neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she\nlooked back once or twice; the last time she saw them, they were\ntrying to put the Dormouse into the tea-pot.\n\n[Illustration: The Trial of the Knave of Hearts.]\n\n\"At any rate, I'll never go _there_ again!\" said Alice, as she picked\nher way through the wood. \"It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in\nall my life!\" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees\nhad a door leading right into it. \"That's very curious!\" she thought. \"I\nthink I may as well go in at once.\" And in she went.\n\nOnce more she found herself in the long hall and close to the little\nglass table. Taking the little golden key, she unlocked the door that\nled into the garden. Then she set to work nibbling at the mushroom (she\nhad kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high;\nthen she walked down the little passage; and _then_--she found herself\nat last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the\ncool fountains.\n\n\n", "summary": "Alice approaches a tea party which consists of a Mad Hatter, a March Hare and a sleeping Doormouse. The whole party is rude to her, but she chooses to join them anyway and begins to engage them in conversation. The conversation, in someway, concerns riddles with no answers, but in general consists of a series of wordplays about points of logic. The heart of the matter is that the group is living in a nonsense world and at the end of the chapter, Alice has the good sense to get up and leave. This chapter is basically an endcap to the lunacy of the preceding books. She is at a mad tea-party with mad animals and a mad hatter where time has stopped and riddles have no answer. The whole thing is a sort of sum up of the craziness of Alice's previous interactions, where meaning has degenerated to a final point of meaninglessness. So Alice leaves, having learned a bit on her journey about being an adult and growing up. She goes through a doorway placed conveniently in a tree and finds herself back in the small hallway with the glass table that she had started out in. Alice has come full circle. Now it will be a question of whether or not Alice can apply what she has learned. Can she be polite? And does she know when being polite ceases to be of any point? That is, will she be able to figure out at what point she should stop being polite and act to prevent things from getting out of hand? Can she both tolerate adulthood, and live up to the responsibility of being grown up? She makes a good first step. She finds the key on the table and, using good sense and her magic mushroom, she shrinks down to an appropriate size to open the door and enter the garden. She has, at least, learned enough to get what she has wanted all along. Now, does she deserve it?"}, {"": "13", "document": "Scene IV.\nElsinore. The platform before the Castle.\n\nEnter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.\n\n  Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.\n  Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.\n  Ham. What hour now?\n  Hor. I think it lacks of twelve.\n  Mar. No, it is struck.\n  Hor. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season\n    Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.\n                   A flourish of trumpets, and two pieces go off.\n    What does this mean, my lord?\n  Ham. The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,\n    Keeps wassail, and the swagg'ring upspring reels,\n    And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,\n    The kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out\n    The triumph of his pledge.\n  Hor. Is it a custom?\n  Ham. Ay, marry, is't;\n    But to my mind, though I am native here\n    And to the manner born, it is a custom\n    More honour'd in the breach than the observance.\n    This heavy-headed revel east and west\n    Makes us traduc'd and tax'd of other nations;\n    They clip us drunkards and with swinish phrase\n    Soil our addition; and indeed it takes\n    From our achievements, though perform'd at height,\n    The pith and marrow of our attribute.\n    So oft it chances in particular men\n    That, for some vicious mole of nature in them,\n    As in their birth,- wherein they are not guilty,\n    Since nature cannot choose his origin,-\n    By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,\n    Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,\n    Or by some habit that too much o'erleavens\n    The form of plausive manners, that these men\n    Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,\n    Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,\n    Their virtues else- be they as pure as grace,\n    As infinite as man may undergo-\n    Shall in the general censure take corruption\n    From that particular fault. The dram of e'il\n    Doth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.\n\n                         Enter Ghost.\n\n  Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!\n  Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!\n    Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,\n    Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,\n    Be thy intents wicked or charitable,\n    Thou com'st in such a questionable shape\n    That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet,\n    King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me?\n    Let me not burst in ignorance, but tell\n    Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,\n    Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre\n    Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,\n    Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws\n    To cast thee up again. What may this mean\n    That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel,\n    Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon,\n    Making night hideous, and we fools of nature\n    So horridly to shake our disposition\n    With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?\n    Say, why is this? wherefore? What should we do?\n                                           Ghost beckons Hamlet.\n  Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,\n    As if it some impartment did desire\n    To you alone.\n  Mar. Look with what courteous action\n    It waves you to a more removed ground.\n    But do not go with it!\n  Hor. No, by no means!\n  Ham. It will not speak. Then will I follow it.\n  Hor. Do not, my lord!\n  Ham. Why, what should be the fear?\n    I do not set my life at a pin's fee;\n    And for my soul, what can it do to that,\n    Being a thing immortal as itself?\n    It waves me forth again. I'll follow it.\n  Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,\n    Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff\n    That beetles o'er his base into the sea,\n    And there assume some other, horrible form\n    Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason\n    And draw you into madness? Think of it.\n    The very place puts toys of desperation,\n    Without more motive, into every brain\n    That looks so many fadoms to the sea\n    And hears it roar beneath.\n  Ham. It waves me still.\n    Go on. I'll follow thee.\n  Mar. You shall not go, my lord.\n  Ham. Hold off your hands!\n  Hor. Be rul'd. You shall not go.\n  Ham. My fate cries out\n    And makes each petty artire in this body\n    As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.\n                                                [Ghost beckons.]\n\n    Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen.\n    By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!-\n    I say, away!- Go on. I'll follow thee.\n                                        Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.\n  Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination.\n  Mar. Let's follow. 'Tis not fit thus to obey him.\n  Hor. Have after. To what issue will this come?\n  Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.\n  Hor. Heaven will direct it.\n  Mar. Nay, let's follow him.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Hamlet joins Horatio and Marcellus for the watch while Claudius drinks the night away inside. The ghost appears and beckons Hamlet to follow. The other men try to convince the Prince not to go after the apparition for fear that it will lead him into danger. Hamlet will not listen and departs with the ghost. Horatio and Marcellus decide that they must follow."}, {"": "14", "document": "\n\nAt five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half past six\nElizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries which then\npoured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the\nmuch superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very\nfavourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing\nthis, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how\nshocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked\nbeing ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their\nindifference towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored\nElizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.\n\nTheir brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could\nregard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his\nattentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling\nherself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the\nothers. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was\nengrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.\nHurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to\neat, drink, and play at cards, who when he found her prefer a plain dish\nto a ragout, had nothing to say to her.\n\nWhen dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley\nbegan abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were\npronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;\nshe had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst\nthought the same, and added,\n\n\"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent\nwalker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really\nlooked almost wild.\"\n\n\"She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very\nnonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the\ncountry, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!\"\n\n\"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep\nin mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to\nhide it, not doing its office.\"\n\n\"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,\" said Bingley; \"but this was\nall lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably\nwell, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat\nquite escaped my notice.\"\n\n\"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley; \"and I am\ninclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such\nan exhibition.\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,\nabove her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by\nit? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence,\na most country town indifference to decorum.\"\n\n\"It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,\" said\nBingley.\n\n\"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,\" observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper,\n\"that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine\neyes.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" he replied; \"they were brightened by the exercise.\"--A\nshort pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.\n\n\"I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet\ngirl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such\na father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no\nchance of it.\"\n\n\"I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in\nMeryton.\"\n\n\"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.\"\n\n\"That is capital,\" added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.\n\n\"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,\" cried Bingley, \"it\nwould not make them one jot less agreeable.\"\n\n\"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any\nconsideration in the world,\" replied Darcy.\n\nTo this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their\nhearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of\ntheir dear friend's vulgar relations.\n\nWith a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on\nleaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.\nShe was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till\nlate in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and\nwhen it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go\ndown stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole\nparty at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting\nthem to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the\nexcuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay\nbelow with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.\n\n\"Do you prefer reading to cards?\" said he; \"that is rather singular.\"\n\n\"Miss Eliza Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, \"despises cards. She is a great\nreader and has no pleasure in anything else.\"\n\n\"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,\" cried Elizabeth; \"I am\n_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.\"\n\n\"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,\" said Bingley; \"and\nI hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.\"\n\nElizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table\nwhere a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her\nothers; all that his library afforded.\n\n\"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own\ncredit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more\nthan I ever look into.\"\n\nElizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those\nin the room.\n\n\"I am astonished,\" said Miss Bingley, \"that my father should have left\nso small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at\nPemberley, Mr. Darcy!\"\n\n\"It ought to be good,\" he replied, \"it has been the work of many\ngenerations.\"\n\n\"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying\nbooks.\"\n\n\"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as\nthese.\"\n\n\"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of\nthat noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be\nhalf as delightful as Pemberley.\"\n\n\"I wish it may.\"\n\n\"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that\nneighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a\nfiner county in England than Derbyshire.\"\n\n\"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.\"\n\n\"I am talking of possibilities, Charles.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get\nPemberley by purchase than by imitation.\"\n\nElizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little\nattention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near\nthe card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest\nsister, to observe the game.\n\n\"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?\" said Miss Bingley; \"will\nshe be as tall as I am?\"\n\n\"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or\nrather taller.\"\n\n\"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me\nso much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely\naccomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is\nexquisite.\"\n\n\"It is amazing to me,\" said Bingley, \"how young ladies can have patience\nto be so very accomplished, as they all are.\"\n\n\"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net\npurses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I\nnever heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being\ninformed that she was very accomplished.\"\n\n\"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,\" said Darcy, \"has\ntoo much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no\notherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very\nfar from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I\ncannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my\nacquaintance, that are really accomplished.\"\n\n\"Nor I, I am sure,\" said Miss Bingley.\n\n\"Then,\" observed Elizabeth, \"you must comprehend a great deal in your\nidea of an accomplished woman.\"\n\n\"Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" cried his faithful assistant, \"no one can be really\nesteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met\nwith. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,\ndancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all\nthis, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of\nwalking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word\nwill be but half deserved.\"\n\n\"All this she must possess,\" added Darcy, \"and to all this she must yet\nadd something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by\nextensive reading.\"\n\n\"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.\nI rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.\"\n\n\"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all\nthis?\"\n\n\"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and\napplication, and elegance, as you describe, united.\"\n\nMrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her\nimplied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who\nanswered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with\nbitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all\nconversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the\nroom.\n\n\"Eliza Bennet,\" said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, \"is\none of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other\nsex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it\nsucceeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,\n\"there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend\nto employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is\ndespicable.\"\n\nMiss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to\ncontinue the subject.\n\nElizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and\nthat she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for\nimmediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could\nbe of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most\neminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so\nunwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled\nthat Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet\nwere not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters\ndeclared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,\nhowever, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to\nhis feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every\npossible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Bingley sisters abuse Elizabeth when she is not around for what they see as pride and a lack of manners. They feel sorry for Jane because of her family and its lack of connections to make her a good match. Later in the evening at a card game between the Hursts, the Bingleys and Darcy, details about Darcy's estate, Pemberley, and of his sister are given"}, {"": "15", "document": "\nIt was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again and looking\nanxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; Alice heard it\nmuttering to itself, \"The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh, my dear paws! Oh, my\nfur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are\nferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them, I wonder?\" Alice guessed in a\nmoment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid-gloves\nand she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were\nnowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in\nthe pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door,\nhad vanished completely.\n\nVery soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, and called to her, in an angry tone,\n\"Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this moment and\nfetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!\"\n\n\"He took me for his housemaid!\" said Alice, as she ran off. \"How\nsurprised he'll be when he finds out who I am!\" As she said this, she\ncame upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass\nplate with the name \"W. RABBIT\" engraved upon it. She went in without\nknocking and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the\nreal Mary Ann and be turned out of the house before she had found the\nfan and gloves.\n\nBy this time, Alice had found her way into a tidy little room with a\ntable in the window, and on it a fan and two or three pairs of tiny\nwhite kid-gloves; she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves and was\njust going to leave the room, when her eyes fell upon a little bottle\nthat stood near the looking-glass. She uncorked it and put it to her\nlips, saying to herself, \"I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for,\nreally, I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!\"\n\nBefore she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing\nagainst the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being\nbroken. She hastily put down the bottle, remarking, \"That's quite\nenough--I hope I sha'n't grow any more.\"\n\nAlas! It was too late to wish that! She went on growing and growing and\nvery soon she had to kneel down on the floor. Still she went on growing,\nand, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window and one foot\nup the chimney, and said to herself, \"Now I can do no more, whatever\nhappens. What _will_ become of me?\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nLuckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect\nand she grew no larger. After a few minutes she heard a voice outside\nand stopped to listen.\n\n\"Mary Ann! Mary Ann!\" said the voice. \"Fetch me my gloves this moment!\"\nThen came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was\nthe Rabbit coming to look for her and she trembled till she shook the\nhouse, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large\nas the Rabbit and had no reason to be afraid of it.\n\nPresently the Rabbit came up to the door and tried to open it; but as\nthe door opened inwards and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it,\nthat attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself, \"Then I'll\ngo 'round and get in at the window.\"\n\n\"_That_ you won't!\" thought Alice; and after waiting till she fancied\nshe heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her\nhand and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything,\nbut she heard a little shriek and a fall and a crash of broken glass,\nfrom which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a\ncucumber-frame or something of that sort.\n\nNext came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--\"Pat! Pat! Where are you?\" And\nthen a voice she had never heard before, \"Sure then, I'm here! Digging\nfor apples, yer honor!\"\n\n\"Here! Come and help me out of this! Now tell me, Pat, what's that in\nthe window?\"\n\n\"Sure, it's an arm, yer honor!\"\n\n\"Well, it's got no business there, at any rate; go and take it away!\"\n\nThere was a long silence after this and Alice could only hear whispers\nnow and then, and at last she spread out her hand again and made another\nsnatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks and more\nsounds of broken glass. \"I wonder what they'll do next!\" thought Alice.\n\"As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could_!\"\n\nShe waited for some time without hearing anything more. At last came a\nrumbling of little cart-wheels and the sound of a good many voices all\ntalking together. She made out the words: \"Where's the other ladder?\nBill's got the other--Bill! Here, Bill! Will the roof bear?--Who's to go\ndown the chimney?--Nay, _I_ sha'n't! _You_ do it! Here, Bill! The master\nsays you've got to go down the chimney!\"\n\nAlice drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could and waited till\nshe heard a little animal scratching and scrambling about in the chimney\nclose above her; then she gave one sharp kick and waited to see what\nwould happen next.\n\nThe first thing she heard was a general chorus of \"There goes Bill!\"\nthen the Rabbit's voice alone--\"Catch him, you by the hedge!\" Then\nsilence and then another confusion of voices--\"Hold up his head--Brandy\nnow--Don't choke him--What happened to you?\"\n\nLast came a little feeble, squeaking voice, \"Well, I hardly know--No\nmore, thank ye. I'm better now--all I know is, something comes at me\nlike a Jack-in-the-box and up I goes like a sky-rocket!\"\n\nAfter a minute or two of silence, they began moving about again, and\nAlice heard the Rabbit say, \"A barrowful will do, to begin with.\"\n\n\"A barrowful of _what_?\" thought Alice. But she had not long to doubt,\nfor the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the\nwindow and some of them hit her in the face. Alice noticed, with some\nsurprise, that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they\nlay on the floor and a bright idea came into her head. \"If I eat one of\nthese cakes,\" she thought, \"it's sure to make _some_ change in my size.\"\n\nSo she swallowed one of the cakes and was delighted to find that she\nbegan shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through\nthe door, she ran out of the house and found quite a crowd of little\nanimals and birds waiting outside. They all made a rush at Alice the\nmoment she appeared, but she ran off as hard as she could and soon found\nherself safe in a thick wood.\n\n[Illustration: \"The Duchess tucked her arm affectionately into\nAlice's.\"]\n\n\"The first thing I've got to do,\" said Alice to herself, as she\nwandered about in the wood, \"is to grow to my right size again; and the\nsecond thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I suppose I\nought to eat or drink something or other, but the great question is\n'What?'\"\n\nAlice looked all around her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but\nshe could not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat or\ndrink under the circumstances. There was a large mushroom growing near\nher, about the same height as herself. She stretched herself up on\ntiptoe and peeped over the edge and her eyes immediately met those of a\nlarge blue caterpillar, that was sitting on the top, with its arms\nfolded, quietly smoking a long hookah and taking not the smallest notice\nof her or of anything else.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "This chapter opens with Alice again running into the White Rabbit. The Rabbit is running back toward Alice because he has lost his Gloves and Fan Alice doesn't have them though, so she can't help him. But then the Rabbit mistakes Alice for his maid and commands her back to his cottage for the items in question. Still operating as a child, Alice immediately responds to the authority in his voice and runs back to the cottage to get the Gloves and the Fan. In the cottage Alice doesn't find the items in question, but instead she finds another bottle of liquid, which, though it has no label directing her to do so, she drinks. And she grows. And she gets herself stuck in the cottage because she is too big. And there, in the cottage, her too personalities have a bit of an argument until the Rabbit shows up calling out for his maid, Mary Ann. The Rabbit tries to get in, but Alice fills the house so completely that the doors are jammed. Then the Rabbit is terrified by her giant arm and calls to his Gardener, Pat, for assistance. Then they summon more help with ladders. Then there is an argument about who should climb to the roof and go down the chimney and it is decided that Bill should do it . Alice hears scrambling in the chimney, decides that that is Bill and she kicks him out . Once Bill is ejected, the Rabbit calls out that house must be burned to the ground. Alice finally speaks up, threatening to sic Dinah on the lot of them. There is silence at that point. The group finally decided to throw in a barrowful of pebbles through a window. The pebbles hit Alice in the face. But then the pebbles turned into cakes, and Alice ate a few, and she shrank. Normal sized, Alice exits the cottage and is chased by the assembled animals. Luckily she is able to make her escape into a dense wood. While in the wood Alice comes upon a puppy that is very large, much larger than she. Or perhaps Alice is too small again. She can't decide. She tries to avoid the puppy for fear of being trampled, but she is sad that she can't play with the puppy. Again she decides to grow up so that she can enjoy these things she is coming upon. At this point she looks around for things to eat or drink, but instead she comes upon a caterpillar on a mushroom smoking a hookah. Little can be said about this chapter symbolically. The story returns to some standard themes about adults and children Also, the puppy in the end further illustrates how Alice can't enjoy her childhood completely when she is a child because the need to grow up is too great. It seems that big or small, Alice is out of place: a good metaphor for Adolescence where no one seems happy with the size they are or the way things are going."}, {"": "16", "document": "\n\nMr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had\nbeen but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of\nhis life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and\nmiserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he\nhad merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful\nacquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had\ngiven him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good\ndeal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in\nretirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected\nprosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de\nBourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he\nfelt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,\nmingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a\nclergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of\npride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.\n\nHaving now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to\nmarry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had\na wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found\nthem as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.\nThis was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's\nestate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and\nsuitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own\npart.\n\nHis plan did not vary on seeing them.--Miss Bennet's lovely face\nconfirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what\nwas due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled\nchoice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter\nof an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a\nconversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally\nto the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at\nLongbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general\nencouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.--\"As to\nher _younger_ daughters she could not take upon her to say--she could\nnot positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her\n_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her\nto hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.\"\n\nMr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon\ndone--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally\nnext to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.\n\nMrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have\ntwo daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of\nthe day before, was now high in her good graces.\n\nLydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister\nexcept Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,\nat the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,\nand have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed\nhim after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with\none of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.\nBennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such\ndoings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been\nalways sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told\nElizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the\nhouse, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,\nwas most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their\nwalk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker\nthan a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and\ngo.\n\nIn pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his\ncousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of\nthe younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes\nwere immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers,\nand nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin\nin a shop window, could recal them.\n\nBut the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom\nthey had never seen before, of most gentleman-like appearance, walking\nwith an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very\nMr. Denny, concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire,\nand he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air,\nall wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if\npossible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of\nwanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained\nthe pavement when the two gentlemen turning back had reached the same\nspot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to\nintroduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day\nbefore from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in\ntheir corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted\nonly regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was\ngreatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine\ncountenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction\nwas followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a\nreadiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the\nwhole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,\nwhen the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were\nseen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group,\nthe two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual\ncivilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the\nprincipal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on\npurpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and\nwas beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they\nwere suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth\nhappening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other,\nwas all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,\none looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments,\ntouched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return.\nWhat could be the meaning of it?--It was impossible to imagine; it was\nimpossible not to long to know.\n\nIn another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what\npassed, took leave and rode on with his friend.\n\nMr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of\nMr. Philips's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's\npressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs.\nPhilips' throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the\ninvitation.\n\nMrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces, and the two eldest, from\ntheir recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly\nexpressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own\ncarriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if\nshe had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the street, who had\ntold her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield\nbecause the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed\ntowards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with\nher very best politeness, which he returned with as much more,\napologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with\nher, which he could not help flattering himself however might be\njustified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to\nher notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good\nbreeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to\nby exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she\ncould only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had\nbrought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's\ncommission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour,\nshe said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham\nappeared Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation,\nbut unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the\nofficers, who in comparison with the stranger, were become \"stupid,\ndisagreeable fellows.\" Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the\nnext day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.\nWickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn\nwould come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips\nprotested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery\ntickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such\ndelights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.\nCollins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured\nwith unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.\n\nAs they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass\nbetween the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or\nboth, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such\nbehaviour than her sister.\n\nMr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.\nPhilips's manners and politeness. He protested that except Lady\nCatherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for\nshe had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even\npointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although\nutterly unknown to her before. Something he supposed might be attributed\nto his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much\nattention in the whole course of his life.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Collins has decided to ask Jane to marry him, but when he tells Mrs. Bennet of his desire, she tells him that she expects Jane to be soon engaged to another , and Collins soon changes to Elizabeth. Lydia, Kitty, Jane, Elizabeth and Collins walk to Meryton and come across Mr. Denny, an officer acquainted with Lydia. With him is a stranger, whom they soon learn is Mr. Wickham, recently come to town to accept a commission in the corps of Mr. Denny. While the group is talking in the street, Bingley and Darcy soon come upon them. Elizabeth notices the effect of their meeting upon Darcy and Wickham, as both change color. The sisters and Mr. Collins soon move on to Mrs. Philips' house, where they are invited to dinner the next day, and as some of the officers are invited, Mrs. Philips will invite Mr. Wickham as well"}, {"": "17", "document": "Scene III.\nA room in the Castle.\n\nEnter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.\n\n  King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us\n    To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;\n    I your commission will forthwith dispatch,\n    And he to England shall along with you.\n    The terms of our estate may not endure\n    Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow\n    Out of his lunacies.\n  Guil. We will ourselves provide.\n    Most holy and religious fear it is\n    To keep those many many bodies safe\n    That live and feed upon your Majesty.\n  Ros. The single and peculiar life is bound\n    With all the strength and armour of the mind\n    To keep itself from noyance; but much more\n    That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests\n    The lives of many. The cesse of majesty\n    Dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw\n    What's near it with it. It is a massy wheel,\n    Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount,\n    To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things\n    Are mortis'd and adjoin'd; which when it falls,\n    Each small annexment, petty consequence,\n    Attends the boist'rous ruin. Never alone\n    Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.\n  King. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;\n    For we will fetters put upon this fear,\n    Which now goes too free-footed.\n  Both. We will haste us.\n                                               Exeunt Gentlemen.\n\n                   Enter Polonius.\n\n  Pol. My lord, he's going to his mother's closet.\n    Behind the arras I'll convey myself\n    To hear the process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home;\n    And, as you said, and wisely was it said,\n    'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother,\n    Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear\n    The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege.\n    I'll call upon you ere you go to bed\n    And tell you what I know.\n  King. Thanks, dear my lord.\n                                                Exit [Polonius].\n    O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;\n    It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,\n    A brother's murther! Pray can I not,\n    Though inclination be as sharp as will.\n    My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,\n    And, like a man to double business bound,\n    I stand in pause where I shall first begin,\n    And both neglect. What if this cursed hand\n    Were thicker than itself with brother's blood,\n    Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens\n    To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy\n    But to confront the visage of offence?\n    And what's in prayer but this twofold force,\n    To be forestalled ere we come to fall,\n    Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up;\n    My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer\n    Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murther'?\n    That cannot be; since I am still possess'd\n    Of those effects for which I did the murther-\n    My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.\n    May one be pardon'd and retain th' offence?\n    In the corrupted currents of this world\n    Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice,\n    And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself\n    Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above.\n    There is no shuffling; there the action lies\n    In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd,\n    Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,\n    To give in evidence. What then? What rests?\n    Try what repentance can. What can it not?\n    Yet what can it when one cannot repent?\n    O wretched state! O bosom black as death!\n    O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,\n    Art more engag'd! Help, angels! Make assay.\n    Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel,\n    Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!\n    All may be well.                                  He kneels.\n\n                         Enter Hamlet.\n\n  Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;\n    And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven,\n    And so am I reveng'd. That would be scann'd.\n    A villain kills my father; and for that,\n    I, his sole son, do this same villain send\n    To heaven.\n    Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge!\n    He took my father grossly, full of bread,\n    With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;\n    And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven?\n    But in our circumstance and course of thought,\n    'Tis heavy with him; and am I then reveng'd,\n    To take him in the purging of his soul,\n    When he is fit and seasoned for his passage?\n    No.\n    Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent.\n    When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage;\n    Or in th' incestuous pleasure of his bed;\n    At gaming, swearing, or about some act\n    That has no relish of salvation in't-\n    Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,\n    And that his soul may be as damn'd and black\n    As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays.\n    This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.              Exit.\n  King. [rises] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.\n    Words without thoughts never to heaven go.             Exit.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Polonius arrives in Gertrude's bedroom and hides behind a tapestry. Polonius tells Gertrude to be completely forthright with her son. Hamlet arrives and Gertrude scolds her son for offending his father, meaning Claudius. Hamlet responds by saying that she has badly offended his father, meaning King Hamlet. Hamlet bullies Gertrude and she fears for her life, and Polonius makes a reaction from behind the tapestry. Hamlet draws his sword and thrusts it through the wall-hanging killing Polonius. Hamlet lifts the tapestry expecting to see Claudius, but there is Polonius instead. Hamlet turns on Gertrude saying that his father was God-like, full of courage and that Claudius is like an infection in King Hamlet's ear. He accuses his mother of gross sexual wantonness. Gertrude begs him to leave. Just then, Hamlet sees the ghost of his father, but Gertrude sees nothing and thinks that her son is hallucinating. Hamlet says he is not mad, and he begs her to confess her guilt to him, and to heaven. At least she should stop sleeping with Claudius and prevent him from 'paddling in your neck with his damned fingers'. He asks his mother whether she knows that he is to be sent to England with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern who he mistrusts. He suspects that Claudius means him harm. She confesses that she is aware of the exile and then Hamlet exits, pulling Polonius' body behind him."}, {"": "18", "document": "\n\nElizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the\nmorning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the\nenquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,\nand some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his\nsisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a\nnote sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her\nown judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and\nits contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her\ntwo youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.\n\nHad she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been\nvery miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was\nnot alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her\nrestoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She\nwould not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried\nhome; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think\nit at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss\nBingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all\nattended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes\nthat Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.\n\n\"Indeed I have, Sir,\" was her answer. \"She is a great deal too ill to be\nmoved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass\na little longer on your kindness.\"\n\n\"Removed!\" cried Bingley. \"It must not be thought of. My sister, I am\nsure, will not hear of her removal.\"\n\n\"You may depend upon it, Madam,\" said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,\n\"that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she\nremains with us.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.\n\n\"I am sure,\" she added, \"if it was not for such good friends I do not\nknow what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a\nvast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is\nalways the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest\ntemper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to\n_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect\nover that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is\nequal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I\nhope, though you have but a short lease.\"\n\n\"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,\" replied he; \"and therefore if I\nshould resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five\nminutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,\" said Elizabeth.\n\n\"You begin to comprehend me, do you?\" cried he, turning towards her.\n\n\"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly.\"\n\n\"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen\nthrough I am afraid is pitiful.\"\n\n\"That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep,\nintricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.\"\n\n\"Lizzy,\" cried her mother, \"remember where you are, and do not run on in\nthe wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.\"\n\n\"I did not know before,\" continued Bingley immediately, \"that you were a\nstudier of character. It must be an amusing study.\"\n\n\"Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at\nleast that advantage.\"\n\n\"The country,\" said Darcy, \"can in general supply but few subjects for\nsuch a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined\nand unvarying society.\"\n\n\"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be\nobserved in them for ever.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a\ncountry neighbourhood. \"I assure you there is quite as much of _that_\ngoing on in the country as in town.\"\n\nEvery body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,\nturned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete\nvictory over him, continued her triumph.\n\n\"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for\nmy part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal\npleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?\"\n\n\"When I am in the country,\" he replied, \"I never wish to leave it; and\nwhen I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their\nadvantages, and I can be equally happy in either.\"\n\n\"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that\ngentleman,\" looking at Darcy, \"seemed to think the country was nothing\nat all.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,\" said Elizabeth, blushing for her\nmother. \"You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not\nsuch a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which\nyou must acknowledge to be true.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with\nmany people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few\nneighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families.\"\n\nNothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his\ncountenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards\nMr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of\nsaying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if\nCharlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.\n\n\"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir\nWilliam is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so\ngenteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every\nbody.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy\nthemselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the\nmatter.\"\n\n\"Did Charlotte dine with you?\"\n\n\"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For\nmy part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own\nwork; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to\njudge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I\nassure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think\nCharlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend.\"\n\n\"She seems a very pleasant young woman,\" said Bingley.\n\n\"Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself\nhas often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast\nof my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body\nbetter looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own\npartiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my\nbrother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my\nsister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away.\nBut however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he\nwrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.\"\n\n\"And so ended his affection,\" said Elizabeth impatiently. \"There has\nbeen many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first\ndiscovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!\"\n\n\"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,\" said Darcy.\n\n\"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is\nstrong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I\nam convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.\"\n\nDarcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth\ntremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to\nspeak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.\nBennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to\nJane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was\nunaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be\ncivil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part\nindeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and\nsoon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of\nher daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to\neach other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the\nyoungest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming\ninto the country to give a ball at Netherfield.\n\nLydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion\nand good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose\naffection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high\nanimal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the\nattentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own\neasy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very\nequal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and\nabruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most\nshameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this\nsudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear.\n\n\"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when\nyour sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of\nthe ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill.\"\n\nLydia declared herself satisfied. \"Oh! yes--it would be much better to\nwait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter\nwould be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,\" she\nadded, \"I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel\nForster it will be quite a shame if he does not.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned\ninstantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the\nremarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,\ncould not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of\nall Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mrs. Bingley and her two youngest daughters come to Netherfield to visit Jane. Although she is now much better, it is decided that she should not be moved yet. Lydia reminds Bingley that he said he would have a ball, and he agrees to have one when Jane is well. Mrs. Bennet and the others discuss town vs. country living, and Mrs. Bennet is made fun of later by the Bingley sisters. Darcy, though, cannot be made to join in making fun of Elizabeth"}, {"": "19", "document": "Scene IV.\nNear Elsinore.\n\nEnter Fortinbras with his Army over the stage.\n\n  For. Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king.\n    Tell him that by his license Fortinbras\n    Craves the conveyance of a promis'd march\n    Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous.\n    If that his Majesty would aught with us,\n    We shall express our duty in his eye;\n    And let him know so.\n  Capt. I will do't, my lord.\n  For. Go softly on.\n                                   Exeunt [all but the Captain].\n\n       Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, [Guildenstern,] and others.\n\n  Ham. Good sir, whose powers are these?\n  Capt. They are of Norway, sir.\n  Ham. How purpos'd, sir, I pray you?\n  Capt. Against some part of Poland.\n  Ham. Who commands them, sir?\n  Capt. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.\n  Ham. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,\n    Or for some frontier?\n  Capt. Truly to speak, and with no addition,\n    We go to gain a little patch of ground\n    That hath in it no profit but the name.\n    To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it;\n    Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole\n    A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.\n  Ham. Why, then the Polack never will defend it.\n  Capt. Yes, it is already garrison'd.\n  Ham. Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats\n    Will not debate the question of this straw.\n    This is th' imposthume of much wealth and peace,\n    That inward breaks, and shows no cause without\n    Why the man dies.- I humbly thank you, sir.\n  Capt. God b' wi' you, sir.                             [Exit.]\n  Ros. Will't please you go, my lord?\n  Ham. I'll be with you straight. Go a little before.\n                                        [Exeunt all but Hamlet.]\n    How all occasions do inform against me\n    And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,\n    If his chief good and market of his time\n    Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.\n    Sure he that made us with such large discourse,\n    Looking before and after, gave us not\n    That capability and godlike reason\n    To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be\n    Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple\n    Of thinking too precisely on th' event,-\n    A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom\n    And ever three parts coward,- I do not know\n    Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do,'\n    Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means\n    To do't. Examples gross as earth exhort me.\n    Witness this army of such mass and charge,\n    Led by a delicate and tender prince,\n    Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,\n    Makes mouths at the invisible event,\n    Exposing what is mortal and unsure\n    To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,\n    Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great\n    Is not to stir without great argument,\n    But greatly to find quarrel in a straw\n    When honour's at the stake. How stand I then,\n    That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,\n    Excitements of my reason and my blood,\n    And let all sleep, while to my shame I see\n    The imminent death of twenty thousand men\n    That for a fantasy and trick of fame\n    Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot\n    Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,\n    Which is not tomb enough and continent\n    To hide the slain? O, from this time forth,\n    My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!            Exit.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Fortinbras and his army arrive for their promised march across the kingdom. Fortinbras sends his captain to obtain an escort from Claudius. Hamlet encounters the captain and is shamed by the vigorous activity of the army. He resolves to take action himself."}, {"": "20", "document": "\n\n1801.--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary\nneighbour that I shall be troubled with.  This is certainly a beautiful\ncountry!  In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a\nsituation so completely removed from the stir of society.  A perfect\nmisanthropist's heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair\nto divide the desolation between us.  A capital fellow!  He little\nimagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes\nwithdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his\nfingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in\nhis waistcoat, as I announced my name.\n\n'Mr. Heathcliff?' I said.\n\nA nod was the answer.\n\n'Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir.  I do myself the honour of calling\nas soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not\ninconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of\nThrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts--'\n\n'Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,' he interrupted, wincing.  'I should\nnot allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it--walk in!'\n\nThe 'walk in' was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment,\n'Go to the Deuce:' even the gate over which he leant manifested no\nsympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance\ndetermined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who\nseemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.\n\nWhen he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out\nhis hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway,\ncalling, as we entered the court,--'Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse;\nand bring up some wine.'\n\n'Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,' was the\nreflection suggested by this compound order.  'No wonder the grass grows\nup between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.'\n\nJoseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale\nand sinewy.  'The Lord help us!' he soliloquised in an undertone of\npeevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime,\nin my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of\ndivine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no\nreference to my unexpected advent.\n\nWuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling.  'Wuthering'\nbeing a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric\ntumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather.  Pure, bracing\nventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess\nthe power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant\nof a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt\nthorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.\nHappily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow\nwindows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large\njutting stones.\n\nBefore passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque\ncarving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door;\nabove which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless\nlittle boys, I detected the date '1500,' and the name 'Hareton Earnshaw.'\nI would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the\nplace from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to\ndemand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to\naggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.\n\nOne stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any\nintroductory lobby or passage: they call it here 'the house'\npre-eminently.  It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe\nat Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into\nanother quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a\nclatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of\nroasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter\nof copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls.  One end, indeed,\nreflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter\ndishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after\nrow, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof.  The latter had never been\nunder-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except\nwhere a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef,\nmutton, and ham, concealed it.  Above the chimney were sundry villainous\nold guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three\ngaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge.  The floor was of\nsmooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures,\npainted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade.  In an\narch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer,\nsurrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other\nrecesses.\n\nThe apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as\nbelonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and\nstalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters.  Such\nan individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on the\nround table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles\namong these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner.  But Mr.\nHeathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living.  He\nis a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that\nis, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly,\nperhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an\nerect and handsome figure; and rather morose.  Possibly, some people\nmight suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic\nchord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by\ninstinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of\nfeeling--to manifestations of mutual kindliness.  He'll love and hate\nequally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved\nor hated again.  No, I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes\nover-liberally on him.  Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar\nreasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be\nacquaintance, to those which actuate me.  Let me hope my constitution is\nalmost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a\ncomfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy\nof one.\n\nWhile enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown\ninto the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my\neyes, as long as she took no notice of me.  I 'never told my love'\nvocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have\nguessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a\nreturn--the sweetest of all imaginable looks.  And what did I do?  I\nconfess it with shame--shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every\nglance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led\nto doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed\nmistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp.  By this curious turn of\ndisposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how\nundeserved, I alone can appreciate.\n\nI took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which\nmy landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting\nto caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking\nwolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth\nwatering for a snatch.  My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.\n\n'You'd better let the dog alone,' growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison,\nchecking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot.  'She's not\naccustomed to be spoiled--not kept for a pet.'  Then, striding to a side\ndoor, he shouted again, 'Joseph!'\n\nJoseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no\nintimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me\n_vis-a-vis_ the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs,\nwho shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not\nanxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining\nthey would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged\nin winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy\nso irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my\nknees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us.\nThis proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends,\nof various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre.\nI felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying\noff the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I\nwas constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household\nin re-establishing peace.\n\nMr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious\nphlegm: I don't think they moved one second faster than usual, though\nthe hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an\ninhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty dame, with\ntucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the\nmidst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her\ntongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only\nremained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered\non the scene.\n\n'What the devil is the matter?' he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I\ncould ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment.\n\n'What the devil, indeed!' I muttered.  'The herd of possessed swine could\nhave had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir.  You\nmight as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!'\n\n'They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing,' he remarked, putting\nthe bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table.  'The dogs do\nright to be vigilant.  Take a glass of wine?'\n\n'No, thank you.'\n\n'Not bitten, are you?'\n\n'If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.'  Heathcliff's\ncountenance relaxed into a grin.\n\n'Come, come,' he said, 'you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood.  Here, take a\nlittle wine.  Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my\ndogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them.  Your health,\nsir?'\n\nI bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be\nfoolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I\nfelt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his\nhumour took that turn.  He--probably swayed by prudential consideration\nof the folly of offending a good tenant--relaxed a little in the laconic\nstyle of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced\nwhat he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,--a discourse on\nthe advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement.  I\nfound him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went\nhome, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow.  He\nevidently wished no repetition of my intrusion.  I shall go,\nnotwithstanding.  It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared\nwith him.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "While at the Heights, Lockwood pets a dog, but she snarls at him and Heathcliff warns him about touching her. When Heathcliff is out of the room, Lockwood makes a face at the dog, and she jumps at him, along with six or so other dogs that seem to come out of nowhere. No one seems to heed his cries, but then a woman finally does come out of the kitchen to fight the dogs off, and Heathcliff returns. He gives Lockwood some wine; they talk of Thrushcross Grange, and when Lockwood leaves, he feels that Heathcliff does not want him to repeat the visit, but he has decided to anyway"}, {"": "21", "document": "SCENE IV.\n\nThe same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared.\n\n[Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and\nAttendants.]\n\nMACBETH.\nYou know your own degrees: sit down. At first\nAnd last the hearty welcome.\n\nLORDS.\nThanks to your majesty.\n\nMACBETH.\nOurself will mingle with society,\nAnd play the humble host.\nOur hostess keeps her state; but, in best time,\nWe will require her welcome.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nPronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends;\nFor my heart speaks they are welcome.\n\nMACBETH.\nSee, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.--\nBoth sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst:\n\n[Enter first Murderer to the door.]\n\nBe large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure\nThe table round.--There's blood upon thy face.\n\nMURDERER.\n'Tis Banquo's then.\n\nMACBETH.\n'Tis better thee without than he within.\nIs he despatch'd?\n\nMURDERER.\nMy lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.\n\nMACBETH.\nThou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good\nThat did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it,\nThou art the nonpareil.\n\nMURDERER.\nMost royal sir,\nFleance is 'scap'd.\n\nMACBETH.\nThen comes my fit again: I had else been perfect;\nWhole as the marble, founded as the rock;\nAs broad and general as the casing air:\nBut now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in\nTo saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe?\n\nMURDERER.\nAy, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides,\nWith twenty trenched gashes on his head;\nThe least a death to nature.\n\nMACBETH.\nThanks for that:\nThere the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled\nHath nature that in time will venom breed,\nNo teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow\nWe'll hear, ourselves, again.\n\n[Exit Murderer.]\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nMy royal lord,\nYou do not give the cheer: the feast is sold\nThat is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making,\n'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home;\nFrom thence the sauce to meat is ceremony;\nMeeting were bare without it.\n\nMACBETH.\nSweet remembrancer!--\nNow, good digestion wait on appetite,\nAnd health on both!\n\nLENNOX.\nMay't please your highness sit.\n\n[The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.]\n\nMACBETH.\nHere had we now our country's honor roof'd,\nWere the grac'd person of our Banquo present;\nWho may I rather challenge for unkindness\nThan pity for mischance!\n\nROSS.\nHis absence, sir,\nLays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness\nTo grace us with your royal company?\n\nMACBETH.\nThe table's full.\n\nLENNOX.\nHere is a place reserv'd, sir.\n\nMACBETH.\nWhere?\n\nLENNOX.\nHere, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness?\n\nMACBETH.\nWhich of you have done this?\n\nLORDS.\nWhat, my good lord?\n\nMACBETH.\nThou canst not say I did it: never shake\nThy gory locks at me.\n\nROSS.\nGentlemen, rise; his highness is not well.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nSit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus,\nAnd hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat;\nThe fit is momentary; upon a thought\nHe will again be well: if much you note him,\nYou shall offend him, and extend his passion:\nFeed, and regard him not.--Are you a man?\n\nMACBETH.\nAy, and a bold one, that dare look on that\nWhich might appal the devil.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nO proper stuff!\nThis is the very painting of your fear:\nThis is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,\nLed you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,--\nImpostors to true fear,--would well become\nA woman's story at a winter's fire,\nAuthoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself!\nWhy do you make such faces? When all's done,\nYou look but on a stool.\n\nMACBETH.\nPr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?--\nWhy, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.--\nIf charnel houses and our graves must send\nThose that we bury back, our monuments\nShall be the maws of kites.\n\n[Ghost disappears.]\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nWhat, quite unmann'd in folly?\n\nMACBETH.\nIf I stand here, I saw him.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nFie, for shame!\n\nMACBETH.\nBlood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,\nEre humane statute purg'd the gentle weal;\nAy, and since too, murders have been perform'd\nToo terrible for the ear: the time has been,\nThat, when the brains were out, the man would die,\nAnd there an end; but now they rise again,\nWith twenty mortal murders on their crowns,\nAnd push us from our stools: this is more strange\nThan such a murder is.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nMy worthy lord,\nYour noble friends do lack you.\n\nMACBETH.\nI do forget:--\nDo not muse at me, my most worthy friends;\nI have a strange infirmity, which is nothing\nTo those that know me. Come, love and health to all;\nThen I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.--\nI drink to the general joy o' the whole table,\nAnd to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss:\nWould he were here! to all, and him, we thirst,\nAnd all to all.\n\nLORDS.\nOur duties, and the pledge.\n\n[Ghost rises again.]\n\nMACBETH.\nAvaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!\nThy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;\nThou hast no speculation in those eyes\nWhich thou dost glare with!\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nThink of this, good peers,\nBut as a thing of custom: 'tis no other,\nOnly it spoils the pleasure of the time.\n\nMACBETH.\nWhat man dare, I dare:\nApproach thou like the rugged Russian bear,\nThe arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;\nTake any shape but that, and my firm nerves\nShall never tremble: or be alive again,\nAnd dare me to the desert with thy sword;\nIf trembling I inhabit then, protest me\nThe baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!\nUnreal mockery, hence!\n\n[Ghost disappears.]\n\nWhy, so;--being gone,\nI am a man again.--Pray you, sit still.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nYou have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,\nWith most admir'd disorder.\n\nMACBETH.\nCan such things be,\nAnd overcome us like a summer's cloud,\nWithout our special wonder? You make me strange\nEven to the disposition that I owe,\nWhen now I think you can behold such sights,\nAnd keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,\nWhen mine are blanch'd with fear.\n\nROSS.\nWhat sights, my lord?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nI pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse;\nQuestion enrages him: at once, good-night:--\nStand not upon the order of your going,\nBut go at once.\n\nLENNOX.\nGood-night; and better health\nAttend his majesty!\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nA kind good-night to all!\n\n[Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.]\n\nMACBETH.\nIt will have blood; they say, blood will have blood:\nStones have been known to move, and trees to speak;\nAugurs, and understood relations, have\nBy magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth\nThe secret'st man of blood.--What is the night?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nAlmost at odds with morning, which is which.\n\nMACBETH.\nHow say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person\nAt our great bidding?\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nDid you send to him, sir?\n\nMACBETH.\nI hear it by the way; but I will send:\nThere's not a one of them but in his house\nI keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow,\n(And betimes I will) to the weird sisters:\nMore shall they speak; for now I am bent to know,\nBy the worst means, the worst. For mine own good,\nAll causes shall give way: I am in blood\nStep't in so far that, should I wade no more,\nReturning were as tedious as go o'er:\nStrange things I have in head, that will to hand;\nWhich must be acted ere they may be scann'd.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nYou lack the season of all natures, sleep.\n\nMACBETH.\nCome, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse\nIs the initiate fear that wants hard use:--\nWe are yet but young in deed.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "This scene opens the next morning outside Macbeths's castle with Ross and an old man conversing about the tragedy that occurred in the last scene. The old man states that in his seventy years he has never known such dreadful times. Ross agrees and adds that heaven is showing its displeasure with mankind, for even though it is morning, \"darkness does the face of earth entomb, when living light should kiss it.\" The old man agrees that the darkness is unnatural, just like the murder. He then adds that many other strange signs have been happening. Just last Tuesday a proud falcon  was killed by a weaker mousing owl . Ross adds that also Duncan's tame, royal horses \"turned wild in nature...as they would make war with mankind\" . As this conversation goes on, Macduff enters and says that, like the weather, he is in a dark and dismal mood . When asked if anything else is known about the murder, Macduff says it is believed that the servants who killed the king were hired to do so, and Malcolm and Donaldbain are suspected since they have fled the country. Ross comments that for a son to kill his father is the most unnatural event. Then Macduff reveals that Macbeth has been chosen king and is already at Scone for his coronation, and Duncan's body has been taken to Colmekill, \"the sacred storehouse of this predecessors\" to be buried. Macduff is going home to Fife, but Ross plans to go to Scone for the coronation. Macduff departs saying \"our old robes sit easier than our new!\" He is obviously wary about Macbeth's being king. The old man closes the scene with a blessing, \"God's benison go with you, and with those that would make good of bad and friends of foes!\""}, {"": "22", "document": "\n\nThey were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the\nbirds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close\nto them, and all dripping wet, cross and uncomfortable.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe first question, of course, was how to get dry again. They had a\nconsultation about this and after a few minutes, it seemed quite natural\nto Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had\nknown them all her life.\n\nAt last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of some authority among\nthem, called out, \"Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon\nmake you dry enough!\" They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with\nthe Mouse in the middle.\n\n\"Ahem!\" said the Mouse with an important air. \"Are you all ready? This\nis the driest thing I know. Silence all 'round, if you please! 'William\nthe Conqueror, whose cause was favored by the pope, was soon submitted\nto by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much\naccustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the Earls of\nMercia and Northumbria'--\"\n\n\"Ugh!\" said the Lory, with a shiver.\n\n\"--'And even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it\nadvisable'--\"\n\n\"Found _what_?\" said the Duck.\n\n\"Found _it_,\" the Mouse replied rather crossly; \"of course, you know\nwhat 'it' means.\"\n\n\"I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing,\" said the\nDuck; \"it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the\narchbishop find?\"\n\nThe Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, \"'--found\nit advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the\ncrown.'--How are you getting on now, my dear?\" it continued, turning to\nAlice as it spoke.\n\n\"As wet as ever,\" said Alice in a melancholy tone; \"it doesn't seem to\ndry me at all.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, \"I move that\nthe meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic\nremedies--\"\n\n\"Speak English!\" said the Eaglet. \"I don't know the meaning of half\nthose long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!\"\n\n\"What I was going to say,\" said the Dodo in an offended tone, \"is that\nthe best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.\"\n\n\"What _is_ a Caucus-race?\" said Alice.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Why,\" said the Dodo, \"the best way to explain it is to do it.\" First it\nmarked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, and then all the party\nwere placed along the course, here and there. There was no \"One, two,\nthree and away!\" but they began running when they liked and left off\nwhen they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over.\nHowever, when they had been running half an hour or so and were quite\ndry again, the Dodo suddenly called out, \"The race is over!\" and they\nall crowded 'round it, panting and asking, \"But who has won?\"\n\nThis question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought.\nAt last it said, \"_Everybody_ has won, and _all_ must have prizes.\"\n\n\"But who is to give the prizes?\" quite a chorus of voices asked.\n\n\"Why, _she_, of course,\" said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one\nfinger; and the whole party at once crowded 'round her, calling out, in\na confused way, \"Prizes! Prizes!\"\n\nAlice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand into her\npocket and pulled out a box of comfits (luckily the salt-water had not\ngot into it) and handed them 'round as prizes. There was exactly one\na-piece, all 'round.\n\nThe next thing was to eat the comfits; this caused some noise and\nconfusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste\ntheirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back.\nHowever, it was over at last and they sat down again in a ring and\nbegged the Mouse to tell them something more.\n\n\"You promised to tell me your history, you know,\" said Alice, \"and why\nit is you hate--C and D,\" she added in a whisper, half afraid that it\nwould be offended again.\n\n\"Mine is a long and a sad tale!\" said the Mouse, turning to Alice and\nsighing.\n\n\"It _is_ a long tail, certainly,\" said Alice, looking down with wonder\nat the Mouse's tail, \"but why do you call it sad?\" And she kept on\npuzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the\ntale was something like this:--\n\n    \"Fury said to\n      a mouse, That\n         he met in the\n            house, 'Let\n              us both go\n                to law: _I_\n                 will prosecute\n               _you_.--\n                 Come, I'll\n              take no denial:\n             We\n           must have\n        the trial;\n     For really\n    this morning\n    I've\n    nothing\n    to do.'\n    Said the\n     mouse to\n      the cur,\n       'Such a\n        trial, dear\n           sir, With\n               no jury\n                or judge,\n                   would\n                  be wasting\n                our\n             breath.'\n         'I'll be\n        judge,\n       I'll be\n      jury,'\n     said\n    cunning\n    old\n     Fury;\n      'I'll\n       try\n        the\n         whole\n          cause,\n          and\n         condemn\n       you to\n    death.'\"\n\n\"You are not attending!\" said the Mouse to Alice, severely. \"What are\nyou thinking of?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said Alice very humbly, \"you had got to the fifth\nbend, I think?\"\n\n\"You insult me by talking such nonsense!\" said the Mouse, getting up and\nwalking away.\n\n\"Please come back and finish your story!\" Alice called after it. And the\nothers all joined in chorus, \"Yes, please do!\" But the Mouse only shook\nits head impatiently and walked a little quicker.\n\n\"I wish I had Dinah, our cat, here!\" said Alice. This caused a\nremarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at\nonce, and a Canary called out in a trembling voice, to its children,\n\"Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!\" On various\npretexts they all moved off and Alice was soon left alone.\n\n\"I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah! Nobody seems to like her down here and\nI'm sure she's the best cat in the world!\" Poor Alice began to cry\nagain, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while,\nhowever, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance\nand she looked up eagerly.\n\n\n", "summary": "Alice and the assembly of birds and the mouse are all wet upon the shore. A good deal of confusion erupts over how they should get dry. Finally the Mouse decides the best way to make everyone dry is to tell a very dry story . This ironic play on words, however, does little to dry anyone so a new plan is devised by the Dodo to hold what he calls a Caucus Race, where there is little or no course and everyone can start whenever they want. The whole group participates and they run and run and run until they are dry, at which point the Dodo declares the race over and everyone a winner. Then he demands that Alice award the prizes. She finds a box of snacks in her pocket and hands one piece out to each winner, though she has no prize left for herself. The Dodo asks her if she has anything else, and she produces a thimble. In a brief but solemn ceremony the birds bestow her thimble back upon her as a prize. Now that they are dry, the Mouse tells his tale, which Alice imagines is shaped like a tail. Essentially, the tale is a short poem printed on the page in the shape of a mouse tail. Once the tale is told, Alice and the Mouse have a short fight over how the tale should have worked out. Then, once the fight has ended badly, Alice wishes aloud for Dinah to be there. All of the birds then politely ask Alice who Dinah is and, again, Alice goes on about how good Dinah is at catching and killing mice and birds. Offended and frightened, the party of animals politely excuse themselves and Alice is alone again. Yet again, Carroll is making a case for adulthood. In the first half of the story there is this Caucus Race, essentially a game with no rules. What Alice recognizes and what Carroll hopes the reader sees is that without rules, no amount of play is really fun. It may get you dry and it may make you tired, but in the end it probably isn't much fun. Games are competitions and competitions require rules and discipline. Without the discipline of adulthood, life will start to become rather pointless, filled with empty ceremonies and meaningless accomplishments. The second half of the chapter is in many ways a reiteration of the previous chapter. Alice perhaps recognizes that games need rules so that they make sense, but she hasn't yet learned that rules are needed for all occasions. Conversation, to be meaningful, needs rules just as a game needs rules. And in order to successfully hold a conversation a person needs boundaries. Alice has not learned that talking about her cat Dinah to Birds and Mice who are potential meals of Dinah is Out Of Bounds. In short the first half of this chapter is used to prove that Rules Are Necessary. The second half of this chapter drives home the point that If Rules Are Necessary, then it is important, vital perhaps, To Learn The Rules And Follow Them."}, {"": "23", "document": "\"Here!\" cried Alice. She jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over\nthe jury-box, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd\nbelow.\n\n\"Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!\" she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay.\n\n\"The trial cannot proceed,\" said the King, \"until all the jurymen are\nback in their proper places--_all_,\" he repeated with great emphasis,\nlooking hard at Alice.\n\n\"What do you know about this business?\" the King said to Alice.\n\n\"Nothing whatever,\" said Alice.\n\nThe King then read from his book: \"Rule forty-two. _All persons more\nthan a mile high to leave the court_.\"\n\n\"_I'm_ not a mile high,\" said Alice.\n\n\"Nearly two miles high,\" said the Queen.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Well, I sha'n't go, at any rate,\" said Alice.\n\nThe King turned pale and shut his note-book hastily. \"Consider your\nverdict,\" he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.\n\n\"There's more evidence to come yet, please Your Majesty,\" said the White\nRabbit, jumping up in a great hurry. \"This paper has just been picked\nup. It seems to be a letter written by the prisoner to--to somebody.\" He\nunfolded the paper as he spoke and added, \"It isn't a letter, after all;\nit's a set of verses.\"\n\n\"Please, Your Majesty,\" said the Knave, \"I didn't write it and they\ncan't prove that I did; there's no name signed at the end.\"\n\n\"You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your\nname like an honest man,\" said the King. There was a general clapping of\nhands at this.\n\n\"Read them,\" he added, turning to the White Rabbit.\n\nThere was dead silence in the court whilst the White Rabbit read out the\nverses.\n\n\"That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet,\" said the\nKing.\n\n\"_I_ don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it,\" ventured Alice.\n\n\"If there's no meaning in it,\" said the King, \"that saves a world of\ntrouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. Let the jury consider\ntheir verdict.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" said the Queen. \"Sentence first--verdict afterwards.\"\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" said Alice loudly. \"The idea of having the\nsentence first!\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue!\" said the Queen, turning purple.\n\n\"I won't!\" said Alice.\n\n\"Off with her head!\" the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody\nmoved.\n\n\"Who cares for _you_?\" said Alice (she had grown to her full size by\nthis time). \"You're nothing but a pack of cards!\"\n\nAt this, the whole pack rose up in the air and came flying down upon\nher; she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and\ntried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her\nhead in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead\nleaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.\n\n\"Wake up, Alice dear!\" said her sister. \"Why, what a long sleep you've\nhad!\"\n\n\"Oh, I've had such a curious dream!\" said Alice. And she told her\nsister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange adventures\nof hers that you have just been reading about. Alice got up and ran off,\nthinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had\nbeen.\n\n", "summary": "In this chapter the Turtle describes a kind of line dance which is acted out between many assorted sea creatures each paired with a lobster for a partner. However, the principle part of this chapter is actually devoted to the Song sung during the quadrille. After singing the song of the Lobster-Quadrille, the Mock Turtle and the Gryphon speak with Alice. Finally the conversation comes around to Alice and she tells them her journeys up to that point. The story is stopped when Alice gets to the part about her misremembering \"Old Father William.\" The Turtle asks her to try and repeat something else so he can see if everything is coming out wrong. They ask her to repeat a rhyme called \"'Tis the voice of the sluggard.\" It all comes out wrong, so the Mock Turtle demands that it be explained. But Alice has no clue what it all means when it comes out so strangely. So, Alice finally stops her reciting and asks the Turtle to sing her a song, which he does. He sings \"Turtle Soup.\" The chapter is finally cut short, part way through the Turtle's song, by an announcement. In the distance someone calls out \"The trial is beginning!\" Even without the Mock Turtle crying all of the time this would still be a very sad chapter. Basically this chapter is concerned with what has been lost. It's about the past, and about memory. The Mock Turtle seems to be equating his student days, his childhood, with the time when he was a Real Turtle. Now, as an adult, he doesn't feel as though he is alive or real anymore. The chapter ends with that very gruesome song about Turtle Soup. It is very strange because up to this point the great taboo of Wonderland for Alice is the discussion of eating animals because all of the animals don't want to face their own mortality. Now, however, it seems that the Mock Turtle feels an overpowering sense of nostalgia for his childhood and therefore is a bit obsessed with death as his only alternative. It seems to him that nothing makes much sense anymore, now that he is out of school. The fact that Alice can't seem to even remember her school lessons properly makes matters more pointed for the Turtle, making him feel even more alone perhaps."}, {"": "24", "document": "Scene II.\nCapulet's orchard.\n\nEnter Juliet alone.\n\n\n  Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,\n    Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner\n    As Phaeton would whip you to the West\n    And bring in cloudy night immediately.\n    Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,\n    That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo\n    Leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen.\n    Lovers can see to do their amorous rites\n    By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,\n    It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,\n    Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,\n    And learn me how to lose a winning match,\n    Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.\n    Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,\n    With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold,\n    Think true love acted simple modesty.\n    Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;\n    For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night\n    Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.\n    Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night;\n    Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,\n    Take him and cut him out in little stars,\n    And he will make the face of heaven so fine\n    That all the world will be in love with night\n    And pay no worship to the garish sun.\n    O, I have bought the mansion of a love,\n    But not possess'd it; and though I am sold,\n    Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day\n    As is the night before some festival\n    To an impatient child that hath new robes\n    And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,\n\n                Enter Nurse, with cords.\n\n    And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks\n    But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.\n    Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords\n    That Romeo bid thee fetch?\n\n  Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords.\n                                             [Throws them down.]\n\n  Jul. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands\n\n  Nurse. Ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!\n    We are undone, lady, we are undone!\n    Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!\n\n  Jul. Can heaven be so envious?\n\n  Nurse. Romeo can,\n    Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo!\n    Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!\n\n  Jul. What devil art thou that dost torment me thus?\n    This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell.\n    Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but 'I,'\n    And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more\n    Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.\n    I am not I, if there be such an 'I';\n    Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I.'\n    If be be slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no.'\n    Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.\n\n  Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\n    (God save the mark!) here on his manly breast.\n    A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;\n    Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,\n    All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.\n\n  Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once!\n    To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty!\n    Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here,\n    And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!\n\n  Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!\n    O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman\n    That ever I should live to see thee dead!\n\n  Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary?\n    Is Romeo slaught'red, and is Tybalt dead?\n    My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord?\n    Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!\n    For who is living, if those two are gone?\n\n  Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;\n    Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished.\n\n  Jul. O God! Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood?\n\n  Nurse. It did, it did! alas the day, it did!\n\n  Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face!\n    Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?\n    Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!\n    Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!\n    Despised substance of divinest show!\n    Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st-\n    A damned saint, an honourable villain!\n    O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell\n    When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend\n    In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?\n    Was ever book containing such vile matter\n    So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell\n    In such a gorgeous palace!\n\n  Nurse. There's no trust,\n    No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd,\n    All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.\n    Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua vitae.\n    These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.\n    Shame come to Romeo!\n\n  Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue\n    For such a wish! He was not born to shame.\n    Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;\n    For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd\n    Sole monarch of the universal earth.\n    O, what a beast was I to chide at him!\n\n  Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?\n\n  Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?\n    Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name\n    When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?\n    But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?\n    That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband.\n    Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring!\n    Your tributary drops belong to woe,\n    Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.\n    My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;\n    And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband.\n    All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?\n    Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,\n    That murd'red me. I would forget it fain;\n    But O, it presses to my memory\n    Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds!\n    'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo- banished.'\n    That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,'\n    Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death\n    Was woe enough, if it had ended there;\n    Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship\n    And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,\n    Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,'\n    Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,\n    Which modern lamentation might have mov'd?\n    But with a rearward following Tybalt's death,\n    'Romeo is banished'- to speak that word\n    Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,\n    All slain, all dead. 'Romeo is banished'-\n    There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\n    In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.\n    Where is my father and my mother, nurse?\n\n  Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse.\n    Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.\n\n  Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent,\n    When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.\n    Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd,\n    Both you and I, for Romeo is exil'd.\n    He made you for a highway to my bed;\n    But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.\n    Come, cords; come, nurse. I'll to my wedding bed;\n    And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!\n\n  Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I'll find Romeo\n    To comfort you. I wot well where he is.\n    Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.\n    I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell.\n\n  Jul. O, find him! give this ring to my true knight\n    And bid him come to take his last farewell.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Juliet, who hasn't heard about the whole murder/ revenge killing thing, is watching the clock for nightfall, when Romeo is supposed to sneak into her room. When the Nurse enters, Juliet realizes right away that something has gone wrong. First, Juliet thinks Romeo has been killed. Nope: her husband has just murdered her cousin. Juliet's first reaction is to curse Romeo, and the Nurse joins in--but you know that isn't going to go over well, and it doesn't. Juliet turns on the Nurse and tells her she can't criticize her husband. If he hadn't killed Tybalt, then Tybalt would have killed Romeo. Forced to choose between the cousin she has loved all her life and her new husband, she chooses Romeo. Teenagers, right? Just as she's decided to forgive Romeo, she remembers that he's been banished and starts flipping out. Juliet is wailing about the fact that she'll die a virgin when the Nurse tells her Romeo isn't gone yet. He's hiding out at Friar Laurence's. The Nurse promises to find him so he and Juliet can have their night of passion before he has to hit the road."}, {"": "25", "document": "ACT 1. SCENE I.\n\nVenice. A street\n\n[Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO]\n\nANTONIO.\nIn sooth, I know not why I am so sad;\nIt wearies me; you say it wearies you;\nBut how I caught it, found it, or came by it,\nWhat stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,\nI am to learn;\nAnd such a want-wit sadness makes of me\nThat I have much ado to know myself.\n\nSALARINO.\nYour mind is tossing on the ocean;\nThere where your argosies, with portly sail--\nLike signiors and rich burghers on the flood,\nOr as it were the pageants of the sea--\nDo overpeer the petty traffickers,\nThat curtsy to them, do them reverence,\nAs they fly by them with their woven wings.\n\nSALANIO.\nBelieve me, sir, had I such venture forth,\nThe better part of my affections would\nBe with my hopes abroad. I should be still\nPlucking the grass to know where sits the wind,\nPeering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;\nAnd every object that might make me fear\nMisfortune to my ventures, out of doubt\nWould make me sad.\n\nSALARINO.\nMy wind, cooling my broth\nWould blow me to an ague, when I thought\nWhat harm a wind too great might do at sea.\nI should not see the sandy hour-glass run\nBut I should think of shallows and of flats,\nAnd see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,\nVailing her high top lower than her ribs\nTo kiss her burial. Should I go to church\nAnd see the holy edifice of stone,\nAnd not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,\nWhich, touching but my gentle vessel's side,\nWould scatter all her spices on the stream,\nEnrobe the roaring waters with my silks,\nAnd, in a word, but even now worth this,\nAnd now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought\nTo think on this, and shall I lack the thought\nThat such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad?\nBut tell not me; I know Antonio\nIs sad to think upon his merchandise.\n\nANTONIO.\nBelieve me, no; I thank my fortune for it,\nMy ventures are not in one bottom trusted,\nNor to one place; nor is my whole estate\nUpon the fortune of this present year;\nTherefore my merchandise makes me not sad.\n\nSALARINO.\nWhy, then you are in love.\n\nANTONIO.\nFie, fie!\n\nSALARINO.\nNot in love neither? Then let us say you are sad\nBecause you are not merry; and 'twere as easy\nFor you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,\nBecause you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,\nNature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:\nSome that will evermore peep through their eyes,\nAnd laugh like parrots at a bag-piper;\nAnd other of such vinegar aspect\nThat they'll not show their teeth in way of smile\nThough Nestor swear the jest be laughable.\n\n[Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.]\n\nSALANIO.\nHere comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,\nGratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well;\nWe leave you now with better company.\n\nSALARINO.\nI would have stay'd till I had made you merry,\nIf worthier friends had not prevented me.\n\nANTONIO.\nYour worth is very dear in my regard.\nI take it your own business calls on you,\nAnd you embrace th' occasion to depart.\n\nSALARINO.\nGood morrow, my good lords.\n\nBASSANIO.\nGood signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when.\nYou grow exceeding strange; must it be so?\n\nSALARINO.\nWe'll make our leisures to attend on yours.\n\n[Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.]\n\nLORENZO.\nMy Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,\nWe two will leave you; but at dinner-time,\nI pray you, have in mind where we must meet.\n\nBASSANIO.\nI will not fail you.\n\nGRATIANO.\nYou look not well, Signior Antonio;\nYou have too much respect upon the world;\nThey lose it that do buy it with much care.\nBelieve me, you are marvellously chang'd.\n\nANTONIO.\nI hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;\nA stage, where every man must play a part,\nAnd mine a sad one.\n\nGRATIANO.\nLet me play the fool;\nWith mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;\nAnd let my liver rather heat with wine\nThan my heart cool with mortifying groans.\nWhy should a man whose blood is warm within\nSit like his grandsire cut in alabaster,\nSleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice\nBy being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio--\nI love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks--\nThere are a sort of men whose visages\nDo cream and mantle like a standing pond,\nAnd do a wilful stillness entertain,\nWith purpose to be dress'd in an opinion\nOf wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;\nAs who should say 'I am Sir Oracle,\nAnd when I ope my lips let no dog bark.'\nO my Antonio, I do know of these\nThat therefore only are reputed wise\nFor saying nothing; when, I am very sure,\nIf they should speak, would almost damn those ears\nWhich, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.\nI'll tell thee more of this another time.\nBut fish not with this melancholy bait,\nFor this fool gudgeon, this opinion.\nCome, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile;\nI'll end my exhortation after dinner.\n\nLORENZO.\nWell, we will leave you then till dinner-time.\nI must be one of these same dumb wise men,\nFor Gratiano never lets me speak.\n\nGRATIANO.\nWell, keep me company but two years moe,\nThou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.\n\nANTONIO.\nFare you well; I'll grow a talker for this gear.\n\nGRATIANO.\nThanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable\nIn a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.\n\n[Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO.]\n\nANTONIO.\nIs that anything now?\n\nBASSANIO.\nGratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than\nany man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid\nin, two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find\nthem, and when you have them they are not worth the search.\n\nANTONIO.\nWell; tell me now what lady is the same\nTo whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,\nThat you to-day promis'd to tell me of?\n\nBASSANIO.\n'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,\nHow much I have disabled mine estate\nBy something showing a more swelling port\nThan my faint means would grant continuance;\nNor do I now make moan to be abridg'd\nFrom such a noble rate; but my chief care\nIs to come fairly off from the great debts\nWherein my time, something too prodigal,\nHath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio,\nI owe the most, in money and in love;\nAnd from your love I have a warranty\nTo unburden all my plots and purposes\nHow to get clear of all the debts I owe.\n\nANTONIO.\nI pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;\nAnd if it stand, as you yourself still do,\nWithin the eye of honour, be assur'd\nMy purse, my person, my extremest means,\nLie all unlock'd to your occasions.\n\nBASSANIO.\nIn my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,\nI shot his fellow of the self-same flight\nThe self-same way, with more advised watch,\nTo find the other forth; and by adventuring both\nI oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,\nBecause what follows is pure innocence.\nI owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,\nThat which I owe is lost; but if you please\nTo shoot another arrow that self way\nWhich you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,\nAs I will watch the aim, or to find both,\nOr bring your latter hazard back again\nAnd thankfully rest debtor for the first.\n\nANTONIO.\nYou know me well, and herein spend but time\nTo wind about my love with circumstance;\nAnd out of doubt you do me now more wrong\nIn making question of my uttermost\nThan if you had made waste of all I have.\nThen do but say to me what I should do\nThat in your knowledge may by me be done,\nAnd I am prest unto it; therefore, speak.\n\nBASSANIO.\nIn Belmont is a lady richly left,\nAnd she is fair and, fairer than that word,\nOf wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes\nI did receive fair speechless messages:\nHer name is Portia--nothing undervalu'd\nTo Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:\nNor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,\nFor the four winds blow in from every coast\nRenowned suitors, and her sunny locks\nHang on her temples like a golden fleece;\nWhich makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond,\nAnd many Jasons come in quest of her.\nO my Antonio! had I but the means\nTo hold a rival place with one of them,\nI have a mind presages me such thrift\nThat I should questionless be fortunate.\n\nANTONIO.\nThou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;\nNeither have I money nor commodity\nTo raise a present sum; therefore go forth,\nTry what my credit can in Venice do;\nThat shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,\nTo furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia.\nGo presently inquire, and so will I,\nWhere money is; and I no question make\nTo have it of my trust or for my sake.\n\n[Exeunt]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Antonio is hanging out with his friends Salerio and Solanio on a street in Venice. Antonio is a sad bunny, though he claims he doesn't know why. Instead of trying to cheer him up, his friends Solanio and Salerio volunteer reasons why he might be depressed. They suggest that maybe he's worried about all the big ventures he's financed at sea. His ships are out there with goods; if they make it back safely, he'll be rich--but if they don't, he'll be in trouble. Antonio insists that his merchandise at sea is not the cause of his sadness. He's diversified his assets, so no single venture can make or break his fortunes. Even if some ships fail, others are bound to make it. So he's covered--or so he thinks. Solanio isn't satisfied and suggests that Antonio might be in love. This sounds exciting, and of course we'd like to hear more, but Solanio's gossipy gab is cut off by the entrance of yet more friends: Lorenzo, Graziano, and Bassanio, the latter of whom we learn is Antonio's BFF. Salerio and Solanio hastily take their leave, probably because they know Graziano is going to wax on for longer than they care to stick around. Yup: here comes the waxing. Graziano has noticed that Antonio looks sad. . Like the others, he elects not to cheer his friend. Instead, Graziano notes that he'll always be merry, no matter the circumstances. He adds that some men who are quiet and sad-looking seem thoughtful, but they're likely to be as foolish as anyone else; they're just hiding it well. After making this long-winded point about short-winded people, Graziano exits with Lorenzo, leaving Bassanio and Antonio to talk. Antonio asks about Bassanio's \"secret pilgrimage\" to see a lady. Bassanio fills us in: he's been living well above his means for a while now, and it's finally come back to bite him in the butt. He explains to Antonio that it's to him that he owes the most love and money; therefore, he is obligated to reveal a scheme he's concocted to get himself out of debt. He waxes on about how sometimes you have to risk more to gain more. Finally Antonio cuts him off and says he doesn't need to justify himself: Bassanio should know that Antonio will do anything for him. They're bros. You're probably wondering what Bassanio's story has to do with the lady. Wonder no more. Bassanio has discovered a woman named Portia who has come into a big inheritance in Belmont. She's good-looking, but more importantly, she's rich. Lots of men have been trying win her hand, and Bassanio is certain if he could only appear to be as rich or worthy as these other men, he could convince her to marry him. This would solve his debt problems nicely. Antonio supports this scheme, but unfortunately all of his money is tied up in his sea ventures. Still, he tells Bassanio to try his hand at raising some money around Venice on credit, using his good name. Antonio adds that he, too, will work on raising some cash. Basically, even if it means stretching his credit to the limit, he's willing to do whatever he can to get Bassanio all set up to woo Portia in Belmont."}, {"": "26", "document": "\nThe Treaty-Making Power of the Executive\n\nFor the Independent Journal. Wednesday, March 26, 1788\n\nHAMILTON\n\nTo the People of the State of New York:\n\nTHE President is to have power, \"by and with the advice and consent\nof the Senate, to make treaties, provided two thirds of the senators\npresent concur.\" Though this provision has been assailed, on different\ngrounds, with no small degree of vehemence, I scruple not to declare\nmy firm persuasion, that it is one of the best digested and most\nunexceptionable parts of the plan. One ground of objection is the trite\ntopic of the intermixture of powers; some contending that the President\nought alone to possess the power of making treaties; others, that it\nought to have been exclusively deposited in the Senate. Another source\nof objection is derived from the small number of persons by whom a\ntreaty may be made. Of those who espouse this objection, a part are of\nopinion that the House of Representatives ought to have been associated\nin the business, while another part seem to think that nothing more was\nnecessary than to have substituted two thirds of all the members of the\nSenate, to two thirds of the members present. As I flatter myself the\nobservations made in a preceding number upon this part of the plan must\nhave sufficed to place it, to a discerning eye, in a very favorable\nlight, I shall here content myself with offering only some supplementary\nremarks, principally with a view to the objections which have been just\nstated.\n\nWith regard to the intermixture of powers, I shall rely upon the\nexplanations already given in other places, of the true sense of\nthe rule upon which that objection is founded; and shall take it for\ngranted, as an inference from them, that the union of the Executive with\nthe Senate, in the article of treaties, is no infringement of that rule.\nI venture to add, that the particular nature of the power of making\ntreaties indicates a peculiar propriety in that union. Though several\nwriters on the subject of government place that power in the class of\nexecutive authorities, yet this is evidently an arbitrary disposition;\nfor if we attend carefully to its operation, it will be found to partake\nmore of the legislative than of the executive character, though it does\nnot seem strictly to fall within the definition of either of them. The\nessence of the legislative authority is to enact laws, or, in other\nwords, to prescribe rules for the regulation of the society; while the\nexecution of the laws, and the employment of the common strength, either\nfor this purpose or for the common defense, seem to comprise all the\nfunctions of the executive magistrate. The power of making treaties\nis, plainly, neither the one nor the other. It relates neither to the\nexecution of the subsisting laws, nor to the enaction of new ones;\nand still less to an exertion of the common strength. Its objects are\nCONTRACTS with foreign nations, which have the force of law, but derive\nit from the obligations of good faith. They are not rules prescribed\nby the sovereign to the subject, but agreements between sovereign and\nsovereign. The power in question seems therefore to form a distinct\ndepartment, and to belong, properly, neither to the legislative nor to\nthe executive. The qualities elsewhere detailed as indispensable in the\nmanagement of foreign negotiations, point out the Executive as the most\nfit agent in those transactions; while the vast importance of the\ntrust, and the operation of treaties as laws, plead strongly for the\nparticipation of the whole or a portion of the legislative body in the\noffice of making them.\n\nHowever proper or safe it may be in governments where the executive\nmagistrate is an hereditary monarch, to commit to him the entire power\nof making treaties, it would be utterly unsafe and improper to intrust\nthat power to an elective magistrate of four years' duration. It has\nbeen remarked, upon another occasion, and the remark is unquestionably\njust, that an hereditary monarch, though often the oppressor of his\npeople, has personally too much stake in the government to be in any\nmaterial danger of being corrupted by foreign powers. But a man raised\nfrom the station of a private citizen to the rank of chief magistrate,\npossessed of a moderate or slender fortune, and looking forward to a\nperiod not very remote when he may probably be obliged to return to the\nstation from which he was taken, might sometimes be under temptations to\nsacrifice his duty to his interest, which it would require superlative\nvirtue to withstand. An avaricious man might be tempted to betray the\ninterests of the state to the acquisition of wealth. An ambitious man\nmight make his own aggrandizement, by the aid of a foreign power, the\nprice of his treachery to his constituents. The history of human conduct\ndoes not warrant that exalted opinion of human virtue which would make\nit wise in a nation to commit interests of so delicate and momentous a\nkind, as those which concern its intercourse with the rest of the world,\nto the sole disposal of a magistrate created and circumstanced as would\nbe a President of the United States.\n\nTo have intrusted the power of making treaties to the Senate alone,\nwould have been to relinquish the benefits of the constitutional agency\nof the President in the conduct of foreign negotiations. It is true that\nthe Senate would, in that case, have the option of employing him in this\ncapacity, but they would also have the option of letting it alone, and\npique or cabal might induce the latter rather than the former. Besides\nthis, the ministerial servant of the Senate could not be expected to\nenjoy the confidence and respect of foreign powers in the same degree\nwith the constitutional representatives of the nation, and, of course,\nwould not be able to act with an equal degree of weight or efficacy.\nWhile the Union would, from this cause, lose a considerable advantage\nin the management of its external concerns, the people would lose the\nadditional security which would result from the co-operation of the\nExecutive. Though it would be imprudent to confide in him solely so\nimportant a trust, yet it cannot be doubted that his participation would\nmaterially add to the safety of the society. It must indeed be clear to\na demonstration that the joint possession of the power in question, by\nthe President and Senate, would afford a greater prospect of security,\nthan the separate possession of it by either of them. And whoever has\nmaturely weighed the circumstances which must concur in the appointment\nof a President, will be satisfied that the office will always bid fair\nto be filled by men of such characters as to render their concurrence in\nthe formation of treaties peculiarly desirable, as well on the score of\nwisdom, as on that of integrity.\n\nThe remarks made in a former number, which have been alluded to in\nanother part of this paper, will apply with conclusive force against the\nadmission of the House of Representatives to a share in the formation\nof treaties. The fluctuating and, taking its future increase into the\naccount, the multitudinous composition of that body, forbid us to expect\nin it those qualities which are essential to the proper execution of\nsuch a trust. Accurate and comprehensive knowledge of foreign politics;\na steady and systematic adherence to the same views; a nice and uniform\nsensibility to national character; decision, secrecy, and despatch, are\nincompatible with the genius of a body so variable and so numerous. The\nvery complication of the business, by introducing a necessity of the\nconcurrence of so many different bodies, would of itself afford a\nsolid objection. The greater frequency of the calls upon the House of\nRepresentatives, and the greater length of time which it would often be\nnecessary to keep them together when convened, to obtain their sanction\nin the progressive stages of a treaty, would be a source of so great\ninconvenience and expense as alone ought to condemn the project.\n\nThe only objection which remains to be canvassed, is that which would\nsubstitute the proportion of two thirds of all the members composing the\nsenatorial body, to that of two thirds of the members present. It has\nbeen shown, under the second head of our inquiries, that all provisions\nwhich require more than the majority of any body to its resolutions,\nhave a direct tendency to embarrass the operations of the government,\nand an indirect one to subject the sense of the majority to that of the\nminority. This consideration seems sufficient to determine our opinion,\nthat the convention have gone as far in the endeavor to secure the\nadvantage of numbers in the formation of treaties as could have been\nreconciled either with the activity of the public councils or with a\nreasonable regard to the major sense of the community. If two thirds of\nthe whole number of members had been required, it would, in many cases,\nfrom the non-attendance of a part, amount in practice to a necessity\nof unanimity. And the history of every political establishment in which\nthis principle has prevailed, is a history of impotence, perplexity, and\ndisorder. Proofs of this position might be adduced from the examples of\nthe Roman Tribuneship, the Polish Diet, and the States-General of\nthe Netherlands, did not an example at home render foreign precedents\nunnecessary.\n\nTo require a fixed proportion of the whole body would not, in all\nprobability, contribute to the advantages of a numerous agency, better\nthen merely to require a proportion of the attending members. The\nformer, by making a determinate number at all times requisite to a\nresolution, diminishes the motives to punctual attendance. The latter,\nby making the capacity of the body to depend on a proportion which\nmay be varied by the absence or presence of a single member, has the\ncontrary effect. And as, by promoting punctuality, it tends to keep\nthe body complete, there is great likelihood that its resolutions would\ngenerally be dictated by as great a number in this case as in the other;\nwhile there would be much fewer occasions of delay. It ought not to be\nforgotten that, under the existing Confederation, two members may, and\nusually do, represent a State; whence it happens that Congress, who now\nare solely invested with all the powers of the Union, rarely consist of\na greater number of persons than would compose the intended Senate. If\nwe add to this, that as the members vote by States, and that where there\nis only a single member present from a State, his vote is lost, it will\njustify a supposition that the active voices in the Senate, where the\nmembers are to vote individually, would rarely fall short in number of\nthe active voices in the existing Congress. When, in addition to these\nconsiderations, we take into view the co-operation of the President,\nwe shall not hesitate to infer that the people of America would\nhave greater security against an improper use of the power of making\ntreaties, under the new Constitution, than they now enjoy under the\nConfederation. And when we proceed still one step further, and look\nforward to the probable augmentation of the Senate, by the erection of\nnew States, we shall not only perceive ample ground of confidence in the\nsufficiency of the members to whose agency that power will be intrusted,\nbut we shall probably be led to conclude that a body more numerous than\nthe Senate would be likely to become, would be very little fit for the\nproper discharge of the trust.\n\nPUBLIUS\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Hamilton defends the treaty-making procedures outlined in the Constitution. He responds to the criticism that the Constitution wrongly mixes the legislative and executive branches of government by affording both a role in making and approving treaties. Hamilton argues that act of treaty-making does not fit neatly into the typical purview of either the executive or legislative branch. Therefore, affording a role to both is appropriate. Other critics claimed that the power to make treaties should be limited to the president. Hamilton responds that, unlike European monarchs, the president is only in office for a limited period of time. He may therefore be tempted to sign a treaty detrimental to the nation but beneficial to his private interests since he will eventually return to being a private citizen . It is therefore necessary that his power be held in check by the legislature. Others asserted that the Congress should have even greater authority over treaty making. However, Hamilton responds that this would introduce unnecessary delays and inefficiencies to the process and weaken the American negotiating position."}, {"": "27", "document": "The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they\narrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little\nbirds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was\nstanding before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard\nhim; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand\nand a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court\nwas a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it. \"I wish they'd get the\ntrial done,\" Alice thought, \"and hand 'round the refreshments!\"\n\nThe judge, by the way, was the King and he wore his crown over his great\nwig. \"That's the jury-box,\" thought Alice; \"and those twelve creatures\n(some were animals and some were birds) I suppose they are the jurors.\"\n\nJust then the White Rabbit cried out \"Silence in the court!\"\n\n\"Herald, read the accusation!\" said the King.\n\nOn this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, then\nunrolled the parchment-scroll and read as follows:\n\n    \"The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,\n      All on a summer day;\n    The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts\n      And took them quite away!\"\n\n\"Call the first witness,\" said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three\nblasts on the trumpet and called out, \"First witness!\"\n\nThe first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand\nand a piece of bread and butter in the other.\n\n\"You ought to have finished,\" said the King. \"When did you begin?\"\n\nThe Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the\ncourt, arm in arm with the Dormouse. \"Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it\nwas,\" he said.\n\n\"Give your evidence,\" said the King, \"and don't be nervous, or I'll have\nyou executed on the spot.\"\n\nThis did not seem to encourage the witness at all; he kept shifting from\none foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and, in his\nconfusion, he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread\nand butter.\n\nJust at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation--she was\nbeginning to grow larger again.\n\nThe miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread and butter and went\ndown on one knee. \"I'm a poor man, Your Majesty,\" he began.\n\n\"You're a _very_ poor _speaker_,\" said the King.\n\n\"You may go,\" said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court.\n\n\"Call the next witness!\" said the King.\n\nThe next witness was the Duchess's cook. She carried the pepper-box in\nher hand and the people near the door began sneezing all at once.\n\n\"Give your evidence,\" said the King.\n\n\"Sha'n't,\" said the cook.\n\nThe King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said, in a low voice,\n\"Your Majesty must cross-examine _this_ witness.\"\n\n\"Well, if I must, I must,\" the King said. \"What are tarts made of?\"\n\n\"Pepper, mostly,\" said the cook.\n\nFor some minutes the whole court was in confusion and by the time they\nhad settled down again, the cook had disappeared.\n\n\"Never mind!\" said the King, \"call the next witness.\"\n\nAlice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list. Imagine her\nsurprise when he read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the\nname \"Alice!\"\n", "summary": "Alice finds herself in the beginning of this chapter in the annoying company of the Duchess. They conversed, sort of, about the goings on of the day, but mostly Alice thought to herself and the Duchess tried to find simplistic morals in everything. The conversation, on the whole, ended up being about how boring politeness can be at times, and how too much politeness can threaten the mind. The conversation is ended, however, by the Queen, who brings Alice back into the game. The game moves forward, interestingly, out of a fear of the Queen rather than out of any fun the game might have produced. Once all of the other players have been sentenced to death and the only people not in the custody of the soldiers are Alice and the King and the Queen, then the Queen tells Alice she must hear the Mock Turtle's history. . The Queen has a Gryphon take Alice to the Mock Turtle. The Mock Turtle was crying when they approached him. Slowly he tells them about his schooling, which was in the sea. Mostly, the story sets up the next chapter, where Mock Turtle is to tell Alice about the games they played. This chapter is a bit of a transition from the Croquet game to the Mock Turtle's Story and it is hard to say what else is in it. There is a good deal of wordplay between Alice and the Duchess at the beginning, but other than that it only prepares the reader for the next chapter."}, {"": "28", "document": "\n\nMiss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first\nsentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for\nthe winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had\ntime to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left\nthe country.\n\nHope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of\nthe letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the\nwriter, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied\nthe chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline\nboasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict\nthe accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former\nletter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an\ninmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures, some plans of\nthe latter with regard to new furniture.\n\nElizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,\nheard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern\nfor her sister, and resentment against all the others. To Caroline's\nassertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no\ncredit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she\nhad ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she\ncould not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness\nof temper, that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave\nof his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to\nthe caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been\nthe only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in what\never manner he thought best; but her sister's was involved in it, as she\nthought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on\nwhich reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She\ncould think of nothing else, and yet whether Bingley's regard had really\ndied away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he\nhad been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his\nobservation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of him must be\nmaterially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained\nthe same, her peace equally wounded.\n\nA day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to\nElizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a\nlonger irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could\nnot help saying,\n\n\"Oh! that my dear mother had more command over herself; she can have no\nidea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I\nwill not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall\nall be as we were before.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said\nnothing.\n\n\"You doubt me,\" cried Jane, slightly colouring; \"indeed you have no\nreason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my\nacquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,\nand nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A\nlittle time therefore.--I shall certainly try to get the better.\"\n\nWith a stronger voice she soon added, \"I have this comfort immediately,\nthat it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it\nhas done no harm to any one but myself.\"\n\n\"My dear Jane!\" exclaimed Elizabeth, \"you are too good. Your sweetness\nand disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to\nyou. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you\ndeserve.\"\n\nMiss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back\nthe praise on her sister's warm affection.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Elizabeth, \"this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the\nworld respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any body. _I_ only\nwant to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be\nafraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your\nprivilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people\nwhom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see\nof the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms\nmy belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the\nlittle dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit\nor sense. I have met with two instances lately; one I will not mention;\nthe other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it\nis unaccountable!\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will\nruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of\nsituation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and\nCharlotte's prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a\nlarge family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be\nready to believe, for every body's sake, that she may feel something\nlike regard and esteem for our cousin.\"\n\n\"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, but no one else\ncould be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that\nCharlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her\nunderstanding, than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is\na conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well\nas I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries\nhim, cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her,\nthough it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one\nindividual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor\nendeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and\ninsensibility of danger, security for happiness.\"\n\n\"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,\" replied\nJane, \"and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy\ntogether. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You\nmentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I intreat\nyou, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and\nsaying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy\nourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man\nto be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but\nour own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than\nit does.\"\n\n\"And men take care that they should.\"\n\n\"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea\nof there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.\"\n\n\"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,\"\nsaid Elizabeth; \"but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others\nunhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,\nwant of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,\nwill do the business.\"\n\n\"And do you impute it to either of those?\"\n\n\"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what\nI think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.\"\n\n\"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him.\"\n\n\"Yes, in conjunction with his friend.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can\nonly wish his happiness, and if he is attached to me, no other woman can\nsecure it.\"\n\n\"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his\nhappiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they\nmay wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great\nconnections, and pride.\"\n\n\"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to chuse Miss Darcy,\" replied Jane;\n\"but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have\nknown her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love\nher better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely\nthey should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think\nherself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very\nobjectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try\nto part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an\naffection, you make every body acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most\nunhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been\nmistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of\nwhat I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it\nin the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.\"\n\nElizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's\nname was scarcely ever mentioned between them.\n\nMrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no\nmore, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account\nfor it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it\nwith less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what\nshe did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely\nthe effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw\nher no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at\nthe time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best\ncomfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.\n\nMr. Bennet treated the matter differently. \"So, Lizzy,\" said he one day,\n\"your sister is crossed in love I find. I congratulate her. Next to\nbeing married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.\nIt is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among\nher companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be\nlong outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at\nMeryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham\nbe _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not\nall expect Jane's good fortune.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Mr. Bennet, \"but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of\nthat kind may befal you, you have an affectionate mother who will always\nmake the most of it.\"\n\nMr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom,\nwhich the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn\nfamily. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now\nadded that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already\nheard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,\nwas now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and every body was\npleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they\nhad known any thing of the matter.\n\nMiss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any\nextenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of\nHertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for\nallowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else\nMr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jane receives another letter from Miss Bingley, stating that they will indeed stay in London all winter. Mrs. Bennet continues to speak of Bingley, and Jane confides to Elizabeth how much pain it brings her. Elizabeth continues to speak against the marriage of Charlotte and Collins to Jane, and continues to insist that it must be the influence of Bingley's sisters and Darcy that keeps Bingley away from Jane. The Bennet family has many meetings with Wickham, and the story of Darcy's abuse of him is now publicly known"}, {"": "29", "document": "SCENE III.\nAnother room in the castle.\n\nEnter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia, and Attendants.\n\n  LODOVICO. I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further.\n  OTHELLO. O, pardon me; 'twill do me good to walk.\n  LODOVICO. Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship.\n  DESDEMONA. Your honor is most welcome.\n  OTHELLO.                               Will you walk, sir?\n    O--Desdemona--\n  DESDEMONA. My lord?\n  OTHELLO. Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned\n    forthwith. Dismiss your attendant there; look it be done.\n  DESDEMONA. I will, my lord.\n                            Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and\nAttendants.\n  EMILIA. How goes it now? He looks gentler than he did.\n  DESDEMONA. He says he will return incontinent.\n    He hath commanded me to go to bed,\n    And bade me to dismiss you.\n  EMILIA.                       Dismiss me?\n  DESDEMONA. It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia,\n    Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu.\n    We must not now displease him.\n  EMILIA. I would you had never seen him!\n  DESDEMONA. So would not I. My love doth so approve him,\n    That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns--\n    Prithee, unpin me--have grace and favor in them.\n  EMILIA. I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.\n  DESDEMONA. All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!\n    If I do die before thee, prithee shroud me\n    In one of those same sheets.\n  EMILIA.                        Come, come, you talk.\n  DESDEMONA. My mother had a maid call'd Barbary;\n    She was in love, and he she loved proved mad\n    And did forsake her. She had a song of \"willow\";\n    An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,\n    And she died singing it. That song tonight\n    Will not go from my mind; I have much to do\n    But to go hang my head all at one side\n    And sing it like poor Barbary. Prithee, dispatch.\n  EMILIA. Shall I go fetch your nightgown?\n  DESDEMONA.                               No, unpin me here.\n    This Lodovico is a proper man.\n  EMILIA. A very handsome man.\n  DESDEMONA. He speaks well.\n  EMILIA. I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to\n    Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.\n  DESDEMONA. [Sings.]\n\n        \"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,\n          Sing all a green willow;\n        Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,\n          Sing willow, willow, willow.\n        The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans,\n          Sing willow, willow, willow;\n        Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones--\"\n\n    Lay by these--\n\n    [Sings.]   \"Sing willow, willow, willow--\"\n\n    Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon--\n    [Sings.]   \"Sing all a green willow must be my garland.\n               Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve--\"\n\n    Nay, that's not next. Hark, who is't that knocks?\n  EMILIA. It's the wind.\n  DESDEMONA. [Sings.]\n\n        \"I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?\n          Sing willow, willow, willow.\n        If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men--\"\n\n    So get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch;\n    Doth that bode weeping?\n  EMILIA.                   'Tis neither here nor there.\n  DESDEMONA. I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men!\n    Dost thou in conscience think--tell me, Emilia--\n    That there be women do abuse their husbands\n    In such gross kind?\n  EMILIA.               There be some such, no question.\n  DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?\n  EMILIA. Why, would not you?\n  DESDEMONA.                  No, by this heavenly light!\n  EMILIA. Nor I neither by this heavenly light; I might do't as\nwell\n    i' the dark.\n  DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?\n  EMILIA. The world's a huge thing; it is a great price\n    For a small vice.\n  DESDEMONA.          In troth, I think thou wouldst not.\n  EMILIA. In troth, I think I should, and undo't when I had done.\n    Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring, nor for\n    measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor\nany\n    petty exhibition; but, for the whole world--why, who would\nnot\n    make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should\n    venture purgatory for't.\n  DESDEMONA. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong\n    For the whole world.\n  EMILIA. Why, the wrong is but a wrong i' the world; and having\nthe\n    world for your labor, 'tis a wrong in your own world, and you\n    might quickly make it right.\n  DESDEMONA. I do not think there is any such woman.\n  EMILIA. Yes, a dozen, and as many to the vantage as would store\nthe\n      world they played for.\n    But I do think it is their husbands' faults\n    If wives do fall; say that they slack their duties\n    And pour our treasures into foreign laps,\n    Or else break out in peevish jealousies,\n    Throwing restraint upon us, or say they strike us,\n    Or scant our former having in despite,\n    Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,\n    Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know\n    Their wives have sense like them; they see and smell\n    And have their palates both for sweet and sour,\n    As husbands have. What is it that they do\n    When they change us for others? Is it sport?\n    I think it is. And doth affection breed it?\n    I think it doth. Is't frailty that thus errs?\n    It is so too. And have not we affections,\n    Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?\n    Then let them use us well; else let them know,\n    The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.\n  DESDEMONA. Good night, good night. Heaven me such uses send,\n    Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!\nExeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "After dinner, Othello suggests a walk with Lodovico and orders Desdemona to get ready for bed. He promises to meet her there soon, and demands that she send Emilia away. The men exit, leaving the women to chat and get ready for bed. Emilia notes that Othello looked to be in better spirits, but she's shocked that he told Desdemona to get rid of her. Desdemona just shrugs it off--she can't risk upsetting Othello now. Emilia says she wishes Desdemona had never seen the man. But Desdemona responds that she loves Othello, so much that she would rather be with him, even when he's being totally strange, than live without him. Desdemona is in a strange mood that foreshadows her coming death. When Emilia says, \"Hey, I put those sheets on the bed for you,\" Desdemona replies with, \"If I die before you do, will you wrap my dead body in them?\" Emilia's a little creeped out by the death talk, but Desdemona's got a one track mind tonight. She follows that comment up with a story of her mom's maid, Barbary. Apparently Barbary fell in love with a man who left her, and was fond of singing a song that reminded her of her sorrow. She died singing it. Desdemona abruptly changes the subject to Lodovico and what a nice guy he is. He did defend her against Othello, so perhaps she's thinking about what it would be like to have a husband who didn't seem to hate her. This line of thought is short lived, though, as Desdemona launches into the song her mom's maid died singing. The song is about a willow, which is bad news, as willows are symbolic of disappointed love. Desdemona stops singing when she thinks she hears a knock at the door, but Emilia tells her it's just the wind. She finishes singing the song, and then says her eyes itch. She asks Emilia if that means she's going to cry soon, but Emilia says it doesn't mean anything. She and Emilia then converse about whether women are ever as awful to their men as men are to their women. Emilia is certain this is the case, especially when it comes to cheating. Desdemona asks whether Emilia would ever cheat on Iago, and Emilia, much older and more cynical, tells her that plenty of women cheat. She says you could justify cheating in lots of different ways. Desdemona declares again that she can't believe there's a single woman in the world who would cheat on her husband. This leads Emilia into a bit of a rant. Emilia says there are plenty of women who cheat and argues that when women do cheat, it's their husbands's fault. They've either shirked their duties or spent too much time lavishing attention on others. Or maybe they've been hitting their wives. Women are full of grace, but they can be pushed too far. And besides, women have the same sexual needs as men. Since men change their women sportingly, women should have the same option. Desdemona's only response is to say she hopes she can use others' bad behavior as a guide of what not to do, instead of an excuse to behave badly."}, {"": "30", "document": "CHAPTER XIII. OF THE NATURALL CONDITION OF MANKIND, AS CONCERNING THEIR FELICITY, AND MISERY\n\n\n\n\nNature hath made men so equall, in the faculties of body, and mind; as\nthat though there bee found one man sometimes manifestly stronger\nin body, or of quicker mind then another; yet when all is reckoned\ntogether, the difference between man, and man, is not so considerable,\nas that one man can thereupon claim to himselfe any benefit, to which\nanother may not pretend, as well as he. For as to the strength of body,\nthe weakest has strength enough to kill the strongest, either by secret\nmachination, or by confederacy with others, that are in the same danger\nwith himselfe.\n\nAnd as to the faculties of the mind, (setting aside the arts grounded\nupon words, and especially that skill of proceeding upon generall, and\ninfallible rules, called Science; which very few have, and but in few\nthings; as being not a native faculty, born with us; nor attained,\n(as Prudence,) while we look after somewhat els,) I find yet a greater\nequality amongst men, than that of strength. For Prudence, is but\nExperience; which equall time, equally bestowes on all men, in those\nthings they equally apply themselves unto. That which may perhaps make\nsuch equality incredible, is but a vain conceipt of ones owne wisdome,\nwhich almost all men think they have in a greater degree, than the\nVulgar; that is, than all men but themselves, and a few others, whom by\nFame, or for concurring with themselves, they approve. For such is the\nnature of men, that howsoever they may acknowledge many others to be\nmore witty, or more eloquent, or more learned; Yet they will hardly\nbelieve there be many so wise as themselves: For they see their own wit\nat hand, and other mens at a distance. But this proveth rather that men\nare in that point equall, than unequall. For there is not ordinarily a\ngreater signe of the equall distribution of any thing, than that every\nman is contented with his share.\n\n\n\n\nFrom Equality Proceeds Diffidence\n\nFrom this equality of ability, ariseth equality of hope in the attaining\nof our Ends. And therefore if any two men desire the same thing, which\nneverthelesse they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies; and in the\nway to their End, (which is principally their owne conservation, and\nsometimes their delectation only,) endeavour to destroy, or subdue one\nan other. And from hence it comes to passe, that where an Invader hath\nno more to feare, than an other mans single power; if one plant, sow,\nbuild, or possesse a convenient Seat, others may probably be expected to\ncome prepared with forces united, to dispossesse, and deprive him, not\nonly of the fruit of his labour, but also of his life, or liberty. And\nthe Invader again is in the like danger of another.\n\n\n\n\nFrom Diffidence Warre\n\nAnd from this diffidence of one another, there is no way for any man to\nsecure himselfe, so reasonable, as Anticipation; that is, by force, or\nwiles, to master the persons of all men he can, so long, till he see no\nother power great enough to endanger him: And this is no more than his\nown conservation requireth, and is generally allowed. Also because there\nbe some, that taking pleasure in contemplating their own power in\nthe acts of conquest, which they pursue farther than their security\nrequires; if others, that otherwise would be glad to be at ease within\nmodest bounds, should not by invasion increase their power, they would\nnot be able, long time, by standing only on their defence, to subsist.\nAnd by consequence, such augmentation of dominion over men, being\nnecessary to a mans conservation, it ought to be allowed him.\n\nAgaine, men have no pleasure, (but on the contrary a great deale of\ngriefe) in keeping company, where there is no power able to over-awe\nthem all. For every man looketh that his companion should value him, at\nthe same rate he sets upon himselfe: And upon all signes of contempt,\nor undervaluing, naturally endeavours, as far as he dares (which amongst\nthem that have no common power, to keep them in quiet, is far enough\nto make them destroy each other,) to extort a greater value from his\ncontemners, by dommage; and from others, by the example.\n\nSo that in the nature of man, we find three principall causes of\nquarrel. First, Competition; Secondly, Diffidence; Thirdly, Glory.\n\nThe first, maketh men invade for Gain; the second, for Safety; and\nthe third, for Reputation. The first use Violence, to make themselves\nMasters of other mens persons, wives, children, and cattell; the second,\nto defend them; the third, for trifles, as a word, a smile, a different\nopinion, and any other signe of undervalue, either direct in their\nPersons, or by reflexion in their Kindred, their Friends, their Nation,\ntheir Profession, or their Name.\n\n\n\n\nOut Of Civil States,\n\nThere Is Alwayes Warre Of Every One Against Every One Hereby it is\nmanifest, that during the time men live without a common Power to keep\nthem all in awe, they are in that condition which is called Warre;\nand such a warre, as is of every man, against every man. For WARRE,\nconsisteth not in Battell onely, or the act of fighting; but in a tract\nof time, wherein the Will to contend by Battell is sufficiently known:\nand therefore the notion of Time, is to be considered in the nature of\nWarre; as it is in the nature of Weather. For as the nature of Foule\nweather, lyeth not in a showre or two of rain; but in an inclination\nthereto of many dayes together: So the nature of War, consisteth not in\nactuall fighting; but in the known disposition thereto, during all the\ntime there is no assurance to the contrary. All other time is PEACE.\n\n\n\n\nThe Incommodites Of Such A War\n\nWhatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of Warre, where every man\nis Enemy to every man; the same is consequent to the time, wherein men\nlive without other security, than what their own strength, and their\nown invention shall furnish them withall. In such condition, there is\nno place for Industry; because the fruit thereof is uncertain; and\nconsequently no Culture of the Earth; no Navigation, nor use of the\ncommodities that may be imported by Sea; no commodious Building; no\nInstruments of moving, and removing such things as require much force;\nno Knowledge of the face of the Earth; no account of Time; no Arts; no\nLetters; no Society; and which is worst of all, continuall feare, and\ndanger of violent death; And the life of man, solitary, poore, nasty,\nbrutish, and short.\n\nIt may seem strange to some man, that has not well weighed these things;\nthat Nature should thus dissociate, and render men apt to invade,\nand destroy one another: and he may therefore, not trusting to this\nInference, made from the Passions, desire perhaps to have the same\nconfirmed by Experience. Let him therefore consider with himselfe, when\ntaking a journey, he armes himselfe, and seeks to go well accompanied;\nwhen going to sleep, he locks his dores; when even in his house he\nlocks his chests; and this when he knows there bee Lawes, and publike\nOfficers, armed, to revenge all injuries shall bee done him; what\nopinion he has of his fellow subjects, when he rides armed; of his\nfellow Citizens, when he locks his dores; and of his children, and\nservants, when he locks his chests. Does he not there as much accuse\nmankind by his actions, as I do by my words? But neither of us accuse\nmans nature in it. The Desires, and other Passions of man, are in\nthemselves no Sin. No more are the Actions, that proceed from those\nPassions, till they know a Law that forbids them; which till Lawes be\nmade they cannot know: nor can any Law be made, till they have agreed\nupon the Person that shall make it.\n\nIt may peradventure be thought, there was never such a time, nor\ncondition of warre as this; and I believe it was never generally so,\nover all the world: but there are many places, where they live so now.\nFor the savage people in many places of America, except the government\nof small Families, the concord whereof dependeth on naturall lust, have\nno government at all; and live at this day in that brutish manner, as\nI said before. Howsoever, it may be perceived what manner of life there\nwould be, where there were no common Power to feare; by the manner of\nlife, which men that have formerly lived under a peacefull government,\nuse to degenerate into, in a civill Warre.\n\nBut though there had never been any time, wherein particular men were in\na condition of warre one against another; yet in all times, Kings, and\npersons of Soveraigne authority, because of their Independency, are\nin continuall jealousies, and in the state and posture of Gladiators;\nhaving their weapons pointing, and their eyes fixed on one another;\nthat is, their Forts, Garrisons, and Guns upon the Frontiers of their\nKingdomes; and continuall Spyes upon their neighbours; which is a\nposture of War. But because they uphold thereby, the Industry of their\nSubjects; there does not follow from it, that misery, which accompanies\nthe Liberty of particular men.\n\n\n\n\nIn Such A Warre, Nothing Is Unjust\n\nTo this warre of every man against every man, this also is consequent;\nthat nothing can be Unjust. The notions of Right and Wrong, Justice and\nInjustice have there no place. Where there is no common Power, there is\nno Law: where no Law, no Injustice. Force, and Fraud, are in warre the\ntwo Cardinall vertues. Justice, and Injustice are none of the Faculties\nneither of the Body, nor Mind. If they were, they might be in a man that\nwere alone in the world, as well as his Senses, and Passions. They\nare Qualities, that relate to men in Society, not in Solitude. It is\nconsequent also to the same condition, that there be no Propriety, no\nDominion, no Mine and Thine distinct; but onely that to be every mans\nthat he can get; and for so long, as he can keep it. And thus much\nfor the ill condition, which man by meer Nature is actually placed in;\nthough with a possibility to come out of it, consisting partly in the\nPassions, partly in his Reason.\n\n\n\n\nThe Passions That Incline Men To Peace\n\nThe Passions that encline men to Peace, are Feare of Death; Desire of\nsuch things as are necessary to commodious living; and a Hope by their\nIndustry to obtain them. And Reason suggesteth convenient Articles of\nPeace, upon which men may be drawn to agreement. These Articles, are\nthey, which otherwise are called the Lawes of Nature: whereof I shall\nspeak more particularly, in the two following Chapters.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Alek is walking through Lienz with Klopp and Volger, thinking about how gross common people are and how he wishes he were in his nice carriage. Again with the first-world problems. He also thinks it's kind of weird that no one's worried about the war, until Volger tells him that they probably can't read newspapers. Klopp leads them to a mechanik's shop, where they attempt to buy some supplies. The shopkeeper offers Alek a toy walker, which Alek, in a bit of a temper tantrum, thinks he's too old for. Alek makes the mistake of opening his mouth, and his posh accent gives away his farmer's disguise. Volger buys the shopkeeper's silence, while Klopp drags Alek outside. As they head out of town, the men surmise that the Guild of Mechaniks has been told to be on the watch for them. While Volger and Klopp search for another place to buy fuel, Alek tries to buy a paper to find out what's going on in the outside world. As he does, he realizes he has no idea how to handle money and can barely speak the everyday dialect of his subjects. Humbled much, Alek?"}, {"": "31", "document": "\n\nIn consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the\nnext morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for\nthem in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on\nher daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which\nwould exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive\nthem with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at\nleast not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.\nBennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage\nbefore Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley\nand his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very\nwell.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively\nresolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the\ncontrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,\nshe urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at\nlength it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield\nthat morning should be mentioned, and the request made.\n\nThe communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was\nsaid of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on\nJane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was\nthen sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike\nof one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.\n\nThe master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so\nsoon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be\nsafe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where\nshe felt herself to be right.\n\nTo Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at\nNetherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss\nBingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teazing than usual to himself.\nHe wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration\nshould _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of\ninfluencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been\nsuggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight\nin confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke\nten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at\none time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most\nconscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.\n\nOn Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost\nall, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last\nvery rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,\nafter assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to\nsee her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most\ntenderly, she even shook hands with the former.--Elizabeth took leave of\nthe whole party in the liveliest spirits.\n\nThey were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet\nwondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much\ntrouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again.--But their\nfather, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really\nglad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The\nevening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its\nanimation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and\nElizabeth.\n\nThey found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human\nnature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations\nof thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had\ninformation for them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much\nhad been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of\nthe officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been\nflogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going\nto be married.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Elizabeth and Jane decide to return home, but when they send a note home asking for the carriage, their mother creates reasons why they cannot have it yet. Elizabeth talks Jane into borrowing Bingley's carriage, but it is decided that they will not leave Netherfield until the next day. Darcy realizes that he has paid too much attention to Elizabeth and tries not to speak to her too much. When Elizabeth and Jane arrive home, their mother is not welcoming to them, as she wanted Jane to stay longer in Bingley's company. Kitty and Lydia fill the sisters in on all of the happenings with the regiment in Meryton"}, {"": "32", "document": "ACT V. Scene I.\nMantua. A street.\n\nEnter Romeo.\n\n\n  Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep\n    My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\n    My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne,\n    And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit\n    Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\n    I dreamt my lady came and found me dead\n    (Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!)\n    And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips\n    That I reviv'd and was an emperor.\n    Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,\n    When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!\n\n                Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar, booted.\n\n    News from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\n    Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?\n    How doth my lady? Is my father well?\n    How fares my Juliet? That I ask again,\n    For nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\n  Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.\n    Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,\n    And her immortal part with angels lives.\n    I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault\n    And presently took post to tell it you.\n    O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,\n    Since you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\n  Rom. Is it e'en so? Then I defy you, stars!\n    Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and paper\n    And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night.\n\n  Man. I do beseech you, sir, have patience.\n    Your looks are pale and wild and do import\n    Some misadventure.\n\n  Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd.\n    Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do.\n    Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?\n\n  Man. No, my good lord.\n\n  Rom. No matter. Get thee gone\n    And hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight.\n                                               Exit [Balthasar].\n    Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.\n    Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift\n    To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!\n    I do remember an apothecary,\n    And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted\n    In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows,\n    Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks,\n    Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;\n    And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\n    An alligator stuff'd, and other skins\n    Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\n    A beggarly account of empty boxes,\n    Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\n    Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\n    Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.\n    Noting this penury, to myself I said,\n    'An if a man did need a poison now\n    Whose sale is present death in Mantua,\n    Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.'\n    O, this same thought did but forerun my need,\n    And this same needy man must sell it me.\n    As I remember, this should be the house.\n    Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary!\n\n                        Enter Apothecary.\n\n\n  Apoth. Who calls so loud?\n\n  Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\n    Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\n    A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\n    As will disperse itself through all the veins\n    That the life-weary taker mall fall dead,\n    And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath\n    As violently as hasty powder fir'd\n    Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.\n\n  Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law\n    Is death to any he that utters them.\n\n  Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness\n    And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\n    Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\n    Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back:\n    The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law;\n    The world affords no law to make thee rich;\n    Then be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\n  Apoth. My poverty but not my will consents.\n\n  Rom. I pay thy poverty and not thy will.\n\n  Apoth. Put this in any liquid thing you will\n    And drink it off, and if you had the strength\n    Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.\n\n  Rom. There is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls,\n    Doing more murther in this loathsome world,\n    Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\n    I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.\n    Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh.\n    Come, cordial and not poison, go with me\n    To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In exile in Mantua, Romeo wakes up feeling good. He has just had a dream in which Juliet found him dead, but then kissed him back to life. That sound you just heard was the anvil of foreshadowing. Romeo's servant Balthasar arrives with the news from Verona. There's no good way to say this: Juliet's dead. Um, is there any message from Friar Laurence? Nope. Romeo immediately decides that the only thing he can do is go to Juliet's grave and commit suicide there. He knows a poor apothecary who sells illegal drugs, including poisons. He goes to said \"poor apothecary,\" whose sunken cheeks and hollow looking eyes suggest that he is starving to death, and Romeo convinces him to sell him a dram of poison , since, you know, the guy is starving and really needs the money. Then Romeo heads for Verona."}, {"": "33", "document": "Scene III.\nCapulet's house.\n\nEnter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse.\n\n\n  Wife. Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\n  Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old,\n    I bade her come. What, lamb! what ladybird!\n    God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n                         Enter Juliet.\n\n\n  Jul. How now? Who calls?\n\n  Nurse. Your mother.\n\n  Jul. Madam, I am here.\n    What is your will?\n\n  Wife. This is the matter- Nurse, give leave awhile,\n    We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again;\n    I have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel.\n    Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age.\n\n  Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\n  Wife. She's not fourteen.\n\n  Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth-\n    And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four-\n    She is not fourteen. How long is it now\n    To Lammastide?\n\n  Wife. A fortnight and odd days.\n\n  Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year,\n    Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\n    Susan and she (God rest all Christian souls!)\n    Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\n    She was too good for me. But, as I said,\n    On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\n    That shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n    'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\n    And she was wean'd (I never shall forget it),\n    Of all the days of the year, upon that day;\n    For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\n    Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall.\n    My lord and you were then at Mantua.\n    Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said,\n    When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\n    Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\n    To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug!\n    Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no need, I trow,\n    To bid me trudge.\n    And since that time it is eleven years,\n    For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood,\n    She could have run and waddled all about;\n    For even the day before, she broke her brow;\n    And then my husband (God be with his soul!\n    'A was a merry man) took up the child.\n    'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face?\n    Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\n    Wilt thou not, Jule?' and, by my holidam,\n    The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay.'\n    To see now how a jest shall come about!\n    I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas,\n    I never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he,\n    And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.'\n\n  Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\n  Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh\n    To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay.'\n    And yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow\n    A bump as big as a young cock'rel's stone;\n    A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly.\n    'Yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face?\n    Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\n    Wilt thou not, Jule?' It stinted, and said 'Ay.'\n\n  Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.\n\n  Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!\n    Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd.\n    An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\n  Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme\n    I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\n    How stands your disposition to be married?\n\n  Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of.\n\n  Nurse. An honour? Were not I thine only nurse,\n    I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.\n\n  Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you,\n    Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,\n    Are made already mothers. By my count,\n    I was your mother much upon these years\n    That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief:\n    The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\n  Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man\n    As all the world- why he's a man of wax.\n\n  Wife. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.\n\n  Nurse. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower.\n\n  Wife. What say you? Can you love the gentleman?\n    This night you shall behold him at our feast.\n    Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face,\n    And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;\n    Examine every married lineament,\n    And see how one another lends content;\n    And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies\n    Find written in the margent of his eyes,\n    This precious book of love, this unbound lover,\n    To beautify him only lacks a cover.\n    The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride\n    For fair without the fair within to hide.\n    That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,\n    That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;\n    So shall you share all that he doth possess,\n    By having him making yourself no less.\n\n  Nurse. No less? Nay, bigger! Women grow by men\n\n  Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?\n\n  Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move;\n    But no more deep will I endart mine eye\n    Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.\n\n                        Enter Servingman.\n\n\n  Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd,\n    my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and\n    everything in extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you\n    follow straight.\n\n  Wife. We follow thee.                       Exit [Servingman].\n    Juliet, the County stays.\n\n  Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At the Capulet house, Juliet's mother, Lady Capulet, comes in to tell her daughter about Paris's proposal. But Juliet's nurse first delivers a long, semi-bawdy speech about Juliet's infancy and toddler years. Her rambling, tangent of a speech reveals the following information: the Nurse had a baby named Susan who was about Juliet's age but, sadly, she died. The Nurse is not only Juliet's nanny but she also her wet-nurse. When it was time to \"wean\" Juliet, the Nurse put \"wormwood\" on her breast. Also, Juliet once fell down and cut her forehead when she was little, which the Nurse's late husband thought was hilarious--so hilarious that he turned the accident into a dirty joke about how Juliet would eventually grow up and then fall down and have sex with a guy. This is ... a lot of information. Lady Capulet eventually cuts her off and tells her to \"hold her peace.\" Lady Capulet unloads the news that Paris has been sniffing around for Juliet's hand in marriage. Eyeroll. Just check Paris out at the party that night, Lady Capulet says. He'll be the oh-so-dreamy guy all the other girls are swooning over. Speaking of, Peter, the servant, enters to announce that guests are beginning to arrive for the big bash."}, {"": "34", "document": "\n\nNo one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have\nsupposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character\nof her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were\nall equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being\nneglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name\nwas Richard--and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable\nindependence besides two good livings--and he was not in the least\naddicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful\nplain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a\ngood constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and\ninstead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might\nexpect, she still lived on--lived to have six children more--to see them\ngrowing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family\nof ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are\nheads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had\nlittle other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and\nCatherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin\nawkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong\nfeatures--so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism\nseemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred\ncricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of\ninfancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a\nrose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered\nflowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief--at least\nso it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she was\nforbidden to take. Such were her propensities--her abilities were quite\nas extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything\nbefore she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often\ninattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in\nteaching her only to repeat the \"Beggar's Petition\"; and after all, her\nnext sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine\nwas always stupid--by no means; she learnt the fable of \"The Hare and\nMany Friends\" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her\nto learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was\nvery fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight\nyears old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and Mrs.\nMorland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in\nspite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which\ndismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life.\nHer taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could obtain\nthe outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any other odd\npiece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses\nand trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing\nand accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her\nproficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in\nboth whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!--for\nwith all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither\na bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever\nquarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions\nof tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and\ncleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the\ngreen slope at the back of the house.\n\nSuch was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending;\nshe began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved,\nher features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more\nanimation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to\nan inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had\nnow the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother remark\non her personal improvement. \"Catherine grows quite a good-looking\ngirl--she is almost pretty today,\" were words which caught her ears now\nand then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an\nacquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the\nfirst fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever\nreceive.\n\nMrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children\neverything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in\nlying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were\ninevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful\nthat Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should\nprefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about\nthe country at the age of fourteen, to books--or at least books of\ninformation--for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be\ngained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she\nhad never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen\nshe was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines\nmust read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so\nserviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.\n\nFrom Pope, she learnt to censure those who\n\n   \"bear about the mockery of woe.\"\n\n\nFrom Gray, that\n\n   \"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,\n   \"And waste its fragrance on the desert air.\"\n\n\nFrom Thompson, that--\n\n   \"It is a delightful task\n   \"To teach the young idea how to shoot.\"\n\n\nAnd from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information--amongst\nthe rest, that--\n\n   \"Trifles light as air,\n   \"Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,\n   \"As proofs of Holy Writ.\"\n\n\nThat\n\n   \"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,\n   \"In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great\n   \"As when a giant dies.\"\n\n\nAnd that a young woman in love always looks--\n\n   \"like Patience on a monument\n   \"Smiling at Grief.\"\n\n\nSo far her improvement was sufficient--and in many other points she came\non exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought\nherself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing\na whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own\ncomposition, she could listen to other people's performance with very\nlittle fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil--she had no\nnotion of drawing--not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's\nprofile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell\nmiserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know\nher own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the\nage of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could call\nforth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and\nwithout having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate\nand very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange things may be\ngenerally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was\nnot one lord in the neighbourhood; no--not even a baronet. There was not\none family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy\naccidentally found at their door--not one young man whose origin\nwas unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no\nchildren.\n\nBut when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty\nsurrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen\nto throw a hero in her way.\n\nMr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the\nvillage in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath\nfor the benefit of a gouty constitution--and his lady, a good-humoured\nwoman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will\nnot befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,\ninvited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,\nand Catherine all happiness.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Catherine Morland is born, which is good since she is the star of this book. The narrator introduces us to her family. Dad's a clergyman and Mom takes care of Catherine and her nine siblings. The narrator helpfully informs us that Catherine is a pretty bad heroine: no suffering or tragedies or anything like that. Catherine is awkward and tomboyish and generally unremarkable as a kid. Then Catherine hits her teen years and gets better looking. Good for her. She also becomes interested in fashion, boys, and reading popular Gothic fiction instead of \"boring\" educational junk - which is like saying she got obsessed with Twilight and thought the classics like, well, Jane Austen, were really lame. Catherine finds school pretty dull and can't really boast of a talent like drawing or music. Sadly, Catherine lives in a small community and has yet to meet any handsome young men. Her improving looks are going to waste. But her neighbors, the Allens, don't have any children and decide to invite Catherine, now seventeen, to visit Bath with them. Catherine is super-excited. Fun fact: Bath is famous for its hot springs and was a popular spa town/fashionable tourist destination in early nineteenth century Britain."}, {"": "35", "document": "\n\nElizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane,\nwhile Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,\nwhen she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a\nvisitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be\nLady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her\nhalf-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,\nwhen the door opened, and to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr.\nDarcy only, entered the room.\n\nHe seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his\nintrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to\nbe within.\n\nThey then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were made,\nseemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely\nnecessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence\nrecollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling\ncurious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty\ndeparture, she observed,\n\n\"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!\nIt must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you\nall after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day\nbefore. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London.\"\n\n\"Perfectly so--I thank you.\"\n\nShe found that she was to receive no other answer--and, after a short\npause, added,\n\n\"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever\nreturning to Netherfield again?\"\n\n\"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend\nvery little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is\nat a time of life when friends and engagements are continually\nincreasing.\"\n\n\"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the\nneighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we\nmight possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr. Bingley did\nnot take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as\nfor his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same\nprinciple.\"\n\n\"I should not be surprised,\" said Darcy, \"if he were to give it up, as\nsoon as any eligible purchase offers.\"\n\nElizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his\nfriend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the\ntrouble of finding a subject to him.\n\nHe took the hint, and soon began with, \"This seems a very comfortable\nhouse. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.\nCollins first came to Hunsford.\"\n\n\"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her\nkindness on a more grateful object.\"\n\n\"Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of\nthe very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made\nhim happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though\nI am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest\nthing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a\nprudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.\"\n\n\"It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a\ndistance of her own family and friends.\"\n\n\"An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.\"\n\n\"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's\njourney. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance.\"\n\n\"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_\nof the match,\" cried Elizabeth. \"I should never have said Mrs. Collins\nwas settled _near_ her family.\"\n\n\"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Any thing beyond\nthe very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.\"\n\nAs he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she\nunderstood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and\nNetherfield, and she blushed as she answered,\n\n\"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her\nfamily. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many\nvarying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expence of\ntravelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the\ncase _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not\nsuch a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my\nfriend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_\nthe present distance.\"\n\nMr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, \"_You_ cannot\nhave a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have\nbeen always at Longbourn.\"\n\nElizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of\nfeeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and,\nglancing over it, said, in a colder voice,\n\n\"Are you pleased with Kent?\"\n\nA short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side\ncalm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte\nand her sister, just returned from their walk. The tete-a-tete surprised\nthem. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding\non Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying\nmuch to any body, went away.\n\n\"What can be the meaning of this!\" said Charlotte, as soon as he was\ngone. \"My dear Eliza he must be in love with you, or he would never have\ncalled on us in this familiar way.\"\n\nBut when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,\neven to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various\nconjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from\nthe difficulty of finding any thing to do, which was the more probable\nfrom the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there\nwas Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be\nalways within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the\npleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the\ntwo cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither\nalmost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes\nseparately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their\naunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he\nhad pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended\nhim still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in\nbeing with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her\nformer favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw\nthere was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,\nshe believed he might have the best informed mind.\n\nBut why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult\nto understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there\nten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it\nseemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to\npropriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really\nanimated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel\nFitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was\ngenerally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told\nher; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of\nlove, and the object of that love, her friend Eliza, she sat herself\nseriously to work to find it out.--She watched him whenever they were at\nRosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He\ncertainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that\nlook was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often\ndoubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it\nseemed nothing but absence of mind.\n\nShe had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his\nbeing partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.\nCollins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of\nraising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her\nopinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would\nvanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.\n\nIn her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying\nColonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the pleasantest man; he\ncertainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,\nto counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage\nin the church, and his cousin could have none at all.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Since the rest of the party has gone out, the next morning Elizabeth sits alone, writing a letter to Jane. Darcy suddenly walks in. Both of them are at loss for words, but Elizabeth finally asks about the abrupt departure of the Bingleys from Netherfield. Darcy does not say much, but he tells her that Bingley may dispose of Netherfield. Their conversation is interrupted by the entry of Charlotte and her sister. After Darcy departs, Charlotte tells Elizabeth of her notion that Darcy is in love with her. Elizabeth laughs at the suggestion. Darcy and Fitzwilliam begin to often come to the parsonage. Although Darcy usually says little, Charlotte notices that he often looks at Elizabeth."}, {"": "36", "document": "Scene II.\nA Street.\n\nEnter Capulet, County Paris, and [Servant] -the Clown.\n\n\n  Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I,\n    In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,\n    For men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\n  Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both,\n    And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long.\n    But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\n  Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before:\n    My child is yet a stranger in the world,\n    She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\n    Let two more summers wither in their pride\n    Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\n  Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made.\n\n  Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made.\n    The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she;\n    She is the hopeful lady of my earth.\n    But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart;\n    My will to her consent is but a part.\n    An she agree, within her scope of choice\n    Lies my consent and fair according voice.\n    This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,\n    Whereto I have invited many a guest,\n    Such as I love; and you among the store,\n    One more, most welcome, makes my number more.\n    At my poor house look to behold this night\n    Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light.\n    Such comfort as do lusty young men feel\n    When well apparell'd April on the heel\n    Of limping Winter treads, even such delight\n    Among fresh female buds shall you this night\n    Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\n    And like her most whose merit most shall be;\n    Which, on more view of many, mine, being one,\n    May stand in number, though in reck'ning none.\n    Come, go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper] Go,\n    sirrah, trudge about\n    Through fair Verona; find those persons out\n    Whose names are written there, and to them say,\n    My house and welcome on their pleasure stay-\n                                     Exeunt [Capulet and Paris].\n\n  Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written\n    that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor\n    with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter\n    with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are\n    here writ, and can never find what names the writing person\n    hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time!\n\n                   Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\n\n  Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning;\n    One pain is lessoned by another's anguish;\n    Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\n    One desperate grief cures with another's languish.\n    Take thou some new infection to thy eye,\n    And the rank poison of the old will die.\n\n  Rom. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\n  Ben. For what, I pray thee?\n\n  Rom. For your broken shin.\n\n  Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\n  Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;\n    Shut up in Prison, kept without my food,\n    Whipp'd and tormented and- God-den, good fellow.\n\n  Serv. God gi' go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\n  Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\n  Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can\n    you read anything you see?\n\n  Rom. Ay, If I know the letters and the language.\n\n  Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you merry!\n\n  Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read.                       He reads.\n\n      'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\n      County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\n      The lady widow of Vitruvio;\n      Signior Placentio and His lovely nieces;\n      Mercutio and his brother Valentine;\n      Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\n      My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\n      Signior Valentio and His cousin Tybalt;\n      Lucio and the lively Helena.'\n\n    [Gives back the paper.] A fair assembly. Whither should they\n    come?\n\n  Serv. Up.\n\n  Rom. Whither?\n\n  Serv. To supper, to our house.\n\n  Rom. Whose house?\n\n  Serv. My master's.\n\n  Rom. Indeed I should have ask'd you that before.\n\n  Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great\n    rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray\n    come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry!               Exit.\n\n  Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet's\n    Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st;\n    With all the admired beauties of Verona.\n    Go thither, and with unattainted eye\n    Compare her face with some that I shall show,\n    And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\n  Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye\n    Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;\n    And these, who, often drown'd, could never die,\n    Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!\n    One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\n    Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\n  Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by,\n    Herself pois'd with herself in either eye;\n    But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd\n    Your lady's love against some other maid\n    That I will show you shining at this feast,\n    And she shall scant show well that now seems best.\n\n  Rom. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,\n    But to rejoice in splendour of my own.              [Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "On another street of Verona, Capulet walks with Paris, a noble kinsman of the Prince. The two discuss Paris's desire to marry Capulet's daughter, Juliet. Capulet is overjoyed, but also states that Juliet--not yet fourteen--is too young to get married. He asks Paris to wait two years. He assures Paris that he favors him as a suitor, and invites Paris to the traditional masquerade feast he is holding that very night so that Paris might begin to woo Juliet and win her heart. Capulet dispatches a servant, Peter, to invite a list of people to the feast. As Capulet and Paris walk away, Peter laments that he cannot read and will therefore have difficulty accomplishing his task. Romeo and Benvolio happen by, still arguing about whether Romeo will be able to forget his love. Peter asks Romeo to read the list to him; Rosaline's name is one of those on the list. Before departing, Peter invites Romeo and Benvolio to the party--assuming, he says, that they are not Montagues. Benvolio tells Romeo that the feast will be the perfect opportunity to compare Rosaline with the other beautiful women of Verona. Romeo agrees to go with him, but only because Rosaline herself will be there."}, {"": "37", "document": "I. THE PRISON-DOOR.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nA throng of bearded men, in sad-colored garments, and gray,\nsteeple-crowned hats, intermixed with women, some wearing hoods and\nothers bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the\ndoor of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron\nspikes.\n\nThe founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and\nhappiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it\namong their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the\nvirgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a\nprison. In accordance with this rule, it may safely be assumed that\nthe forefathers of Boston had built the first prison-house somewhere\nin the vicinity of Cornhill, almost as seasonably as they marked out\nthe first burial-ground, on Isaac Johnson's lot, and round about his\ngrave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated\nsepulchres in the old churchyard of King's Chapel. Certain it is,\nthat, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town,\nthe wooden jail was already marked with weather-stains and other\nindications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its\nbeetle-browed and gloomy front. The rust on the ponderous iron-work of\nits oaken door looked more antique than anything else in the New\nWorld. Like all that pertains to crime, it seemed never to have known\na youthful era. Before this ugly edifice, and between it and the\nwheel-track of the street, was a grass-plot, much overgrown with\nburdock, pigweed, apple-peru, and such unsightly vegetation, which\nevidently found something congenial in the soil that had so early\nborne the black flower of civilized society, a prison. But on one side\nof the portal, and rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild\nrose-bush, covered, in this month of June, with its delicate gems,\nwhich might be imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to\nthe prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he came\nforth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of Nature could pity\nand be kind to him.\n\nThis rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in history;\nbut whether it had merely survived out of the stern old wilderness, so\nlong after the fall of the gigantic pines and oaks that originally\novershadowed it,--or whether, as there is fair authority for\nbelieving, it had sprung up under the footsteps of the sainted Ann\nHutchinson, as she entered the prison-door,--we shall not take upon us\nto determine. Finding it so directly on the threshold of our\nnarrative, which is now about to issue from that inauspicious portal,\nwe could hardly do otherwise than pluck one of its flowers, and\npresent it to the reader. It may serve, let us hope, to symbolize some\nsweet moral blossom, that may be found along the track, or relieve the\ndarkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n                            [Illustration]\n\n\n", "summary": "The Prison Door This first chapter contains little in the way of action, instead setting the scene and introducing the first of many symbols that will come to dominate the story. A crowd of somber, dreary-looking people has gathered outside the door of a prison in seventeenth-century Boston. The building's heavy oak door is studded with iron spikes, and the prison appears to have been constructed to hold dangerous criminals. No matter how optimistic the founders of new colonies may be, the narrator tells us, they invariably provide for a prison and a cemetery almost immediately. This is true of the citizens of Boston, who built their prison some twenty years earlier. The one incongruity in the otherwise drab scene is the rosebush that grows next to the prison door. The narrator suggests that it offers a reminder of Nature's kindness to the condemned; for his tale, he says, it will provide either a \"sweet moral blossom\" or else some relief in the face of unrelenting sorrow and gloom"}, {"": "38", "document": "\n\n\"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was\none which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding\nas it did a number of circumstances each interesting and wonderful to\none so utterly inexperienced as I was.\n\n\"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good\nfamily in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence,\nrespected by his superiors, and beloved by his equals. His son was bred\nin the service of his country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the\nhighest distinction. A few months before my arrival, they had lived in a\nlarge and luxurious city, called Paris, surrounded by friends, and\npossessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or\ntaste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.\n\n\"The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish\nmerchant, and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some reason\nwhich I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government. He was\nseized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from\nConstantinople to join him. He was tried, and condemned to death. The\ninjustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant;\nand it was judged that his religion and wealth, rather than the crime\nalleged against him, had been the cause of his condemnation.\n\n\"Felix had been present at the trial; his horror and indignation were\nuncontrollable, when he heard the decision of the court. He made, at\nthat moment, a solemn vow to deliver him, and then looked around for the\nmeans. After many fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the prison,\nhe found a strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the building,\nwhich lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate Mahometan; who, loaded with\nchains, waited in despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix\nvisited the grate at night, and made known to the prisoner his\nintentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted, endeavoured to\nkindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises of reward and wealth. Felix\nrejected his offers with contempt; yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who\nwas allowed to visit her father, and who, by her gestures, expressed her\nlively gratitude, the youth could not help owning to his own mind, that\nthe captive possessed a treasure which would fully reward his toil and\nhazard.\n\n\"The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made on\nthe heart of Felix, and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in his\ninterests by the promise of her hand in marriage, so soon as he should\nbe conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this\noffer; yet he looked forward to the probability of that event as to the\nconsummation of his happiness.\n\n\"During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for\nthe escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several\nletters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to\nexpress her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old\nman, a servant of her father's, who understood French. She thanked him\nin the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her father;\nand at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.\n\n\"I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during my residence\nin the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters were\noften in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart, I will give them\nto you, they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the\nsun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the\nsubstance of them to you.\n\n\"Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a\nslave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of\nthe father of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and\nenthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom spurned the\nbondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in the\ntenets of her religion, and taught her to aspire to higher powers of\nintellect, and an independence of spirit, forbidden to the female\nfollowers of Mahomet. This lady died; but her lessons were indelibly\nimpressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again\nreturning to Asia, and the being immured within the walls of a haram,\nallowed only to occupy herself with puerile amusements, ill suited to\nthe temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble\nemulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian, and\nremaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in\nsociety, was enchanting to her.\n\n\"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on the night\nprevious to it, he had quitted prison, and before morning was distant\nmany leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of his\nfather, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated his plan to\nthe former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under the\npretence of a journey, and concealed himself, with his daughter, in an\nobscure part of Paris.\n\n\"Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons, and across Mont\nCenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable\nopportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.\n\n\"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his\ndeparture, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she\nshould be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in\nexpectation of that event; and in the mean time he enjoyed the society\nof the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest\naffection. They conversed with one another through the means of an\ninterpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie\nsang to him the divine airs of her native country.\n\n\"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encouraged the hopes\nof the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other\nplans. He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a\nChristian; but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear\nlukewarm; for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer,\nif he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they\ninhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled to\nprolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and secretly\nto take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans were greatly\nfacilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.\n\n\"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their\nvictim, and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot\nof Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown\ninto prison. The news reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of\npleasure. His blind and aged father, and his gentle sister, lay in a\nnoisome dungeon, while he enjoyed the free air, and the society of her\nwhom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with\nthe Turk, that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for\nescape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a\nboarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,\nhe hastened to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the\nlaw, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.\n\n\"He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the\ntrial took place; the result of which deprived them of their fortune,\nand condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country.\n\n\"They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I\ndiscovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom\nhe and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering\nthat his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and impotence, became a\ntraitor to good feeling and honour, and had quitted Italy with his\ndaughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him, as\nhe said, in some plan of future maintenance.\n\n\"Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix, and rendered\nhim, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could\nhave endured poverty, and when this distress had been the meed of his\nvirtue, he would have gloried in it: but the ingratitude of the Turk,\nand the loss of his beloved Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and\nirreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his\nsoul.\n\n\"When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived of his wealth\nand rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her\nlover, but to prepare to return with him to her native country. The\ngenerous nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to\nexpostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his\ntyrannical mandate.\n\n\"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment, and told\nher hastily, that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn\nhad been divulged, and that he should speedily be delivered up to the\nFrench government; he had, consequently, hired a vessel to convey him\nto Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He\nintended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant,\nto follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which\nhad not yet arrived at Leghorn.\n\n\"When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it\nwould become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was\nabhorrent to her; her religion and feelings were alike adverse to it. By\nsome papers of her father's, which fell into her hands, she heard of the\nexile of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot where he then\nresided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her\ndetermination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her, and a\nsmall sum of money, she quitted Italy, with an attendant, a native of\nLeghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed\nfor Germany.\n\n\"She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage\nof De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her\nwith the most devoted affection; but the poor girl died, and the Arabian\nwas left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country, and\nutterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however, into\ngood hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which\nthey were bound; and, after her death, the woman of the house in which\nthey had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at the\ncottage of her lover.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Now that the monster understands what the family is saying, he can understand their story, which is weirdly like what has happened to Victor's family. Safie's Turkish father was accused wrongly of a crime , and sentenced to death in Paris. Meanwhile, Safie was on the lookout for a European man to marry. Why? Because her mom taught her that Muslim men treat women like property. Quick Brain Snack: this idea that Muslim cultures thought of women as little better than animals is a really common stereotype in English thought of the eighteenth and nineteenth century. It actually became an early argument for women's rights: Christians shouldn't treat women like property because, unlike those heathens over there, Christians believe that women have souls. It was a fun time. Anyway, Safie met Felix when he was visiting her father in prison, and they fell in love. At the time, Agatha, Felix, and the blind old man were respected and rich Parisians. Felix plotted to help Safie's father escape from prison, but he was discovered, and the family was exiled sans all their money. Safie's father tried to force her to move to Constantinople, but she ran away to Felix. These stories give the monster hope that Felix and De Lacey will be compassionate toward him, since they too have suffered injustice. He seems to have quite a sophisticated understanding of the human psyche for a monster who's never talked to another living being."}, {"": "39", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nA room in Caesar's palace.\n\n[Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown.]\n\nCAESAR.\nNor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight:\nThrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out,\n\"Help, ho! They murder Caesar!\"--Who's within?\n\n[Enter a Servant.]\n\nSERVANT.\nMy lord?\n\nCAESAR.\nGo bid the priests do present sacrifice,\nAnd bring me their opinions of success.\n\nSERVANT.\nI will, my lord.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n[Enter Calpurnia.]\n\nCALPURNIA.\nWhat mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth?\nYou shall not stir out of your house to-day.\n\nCAESAR.\nCaesar shall forth: the things that threaten me\nNe'er look but on my back; when they shall see\nThe face of Caesar, they are vanished.\n\nCALPURNIA.\nCaesar, I never stood on ceremonies,\nYet now they fright me. There is one within,\nBesides the things that we have heard and seen,\nRecounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.\nA lioness hath whelped in the streets;\nAnd graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead;\nFierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds,\nIn ranks and squadrons and right form of war,\nWhich drizzled blood upon the Capitol;\nThe noise of battle hurtled in the air,\nHorses did neigh, and dying men did groan;\nAnd ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets.\nO Caesar,these things are beyond all use,\nAnd I do fear them!\n\nCAESAR.\nWhat can be avoided\nWhose end is purposed by the mighty gods?\nYet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions\nAre to the world in general as to Caesar.\n\nCALPURNIA.\nWhen beggars die, there are no comets seen;\nThe heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.\n\nCAESAR.\nCowards die many times before their deaths;\nThe valiant never taste of death but once.\nOf all the wonders that I yet have heard,\nIt seems to me most strange that men should fear;\nSeeing that death, a necessary end,\nWill come when it will come.--\n\n[Re-enter Servant.]\n\nWhat say the augurers?\n\nSERVANT.\nThey would not have you to stir forth to-day.\nPlucking the entrails of an offering forth,\nThey could not find a heart within the beast.\n\nCAESAR.\nThe gods do this in shame of cowardice:\nCaesar should be a beast without a heart,\nIf he should stay at home today for fear.\nNo, Caesar shall not: danger knows full well\nThat Caesar is more dangerous than he:\nWe are two lions litter'd in one day,\nAnd I the elder and more terrible;\nAnd Caesar shall go forth.\n\nCALPURNIA.\nAlas, my lord,\nYour wisdom is consumed in confidence!\nDo not go forth to-day: call it my fear\nThat keeps you in the house, and not your own.\nWe'll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house,\nAnd he shall say you are not well to-day:\nLet me, upon my knee, prevail in this.\n\nCAESAR.\nMark Antony shall say I am not well,\nAnd, for thy humor, I will stay at home.\n\n[Enter Decius.]\n\nHere's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.\n\nDECIUS.\nCaesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar:\nI come to fetch you to the Senate-house.\n\nCAESAR.\nAnd you are come in very happy time\nTo bear my greeting to the Senators,\nAnd tell them that I will not come to-day.\nCannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser:\nI will not come to-day. Tell them so, Decius.\n\nCALPURNIA.\nSay he is sick.\n\nCAESAR.\nShall Caesar send a lie?\nHave I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far,\nTo be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth?--\nDecius, go tell them Caesar will not come.\n\nDECIUS.\nMost mighty Caesar, let me know some cause,\nLest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so.\n\nCAESAR.\nThe cause is in my will; I will not come:\nThat is enough to satisfy the Senate.\nBut, for your private satisfaction,\nBecause I love you, I will let you know:\nCalpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home:\nShe dreamt to-night she saw my statua,\nWhich, like a fountain with an hundred spouts,\nDid run pure blood; and many lusty Romans\nCame smiling and did bathe their hands in it:\nAnd these does she apply for warnings and portents\nAnd evils imminent; and on her knee\nHath begg'd that I will stay at home to-day.\n\nDECIUS.\nThis dream is all amiss interpreted:\nIt was a vision fair and fortunate.\nYour statue spouting blood in many pipes,\nIn which so many smiling Romans bathed,\nSignifies that from you great Rome shall suck\nReviving blood; and that great men shall press\nFor tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance.\nThis by Calpurnia's dream is signified.\n\nCAESAR.\nAnd this way have you well expounded it.\n\nDECIUS.\nI have, when you have heard what I can say;\nAnd know it now: The Senate have concluded\nTo give this day a crown to mighty Caesar.\nIf you shall send them word you will not come,\nTheir minds may change. Besides, it were a mock\nApt to be render'd, for someone to say\n\"Break up the Senate till another time,\nWhen Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams.\"\nIf Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper\n\"Lo, Caesar is afraid\"?\nPardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love\nTo your proceeding bids me tell you this;\nAnd reason to my love is liable.\n\nCAESAR.\nHow foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia!\nI am ashamed I did yield to them.\nGive me my robe, for I will go.\n\n[Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca,\nTrebonius, and Cinna.]\n\nAnd look where Publius is come to fetch me.\n\nPUBLIUS.\nGood morrow, Caesar.\n\nCAESAR.\nWelcome, Publius.--\nWhat, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too?--\nGood morrow, Casca.--Caius Ligarius,\nCaesar was ne'er so much your enemy\nAs that same ague which hath made you lean.--\nWhat is't o'clock?\n\nBRUTUS.\nCaesar, 'tis strucken eight.\n\nCAESAR.\nI thank you for your pains and courtesy.\n\n[Enter Antony.]\n\nSee! Antony, that revels long o'nights,\nIs notwithstanding up.--Good morrow, Antony.\n\nANTONY.\nSo to most noble Caesar.\n\nCAESAR.\nBid them prepare within:\nI am to blame to be thus waited for.--\nNow, Cinna;--now, Metellus;--what, Trebonius!\nI have an hour's talk in store for you:\nRemember that you call on me to-day;\nBe near me, that I may remember you.\n\nTREBONIUS.\nCaesar, I will. [Aside.] and so near will I be,\nThat your best friends shall wish I had been further.\n\nCAESAR.\nGood friends, go in, and taste some wine with me;\nAnd we, like friends, will straightway go together.\n\nBRUTUS.\n[Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Caesar,\nThe heart of Brutus yearns to think upon!\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Brutus and Cassius enter the Forum with a crowd of plebeians. Cassius exits to speak to another portion of the crowd. Brutus addresses the onstage crowd, assuring them that they may trust in his honor. He did not kill Caesar out of a lack of love for him, he says, but because his love for Rome outweighed his love of a single man. He insists that Caesar was great but ambitious: it was for this reason that he slew him. He feared that the Romans would live as slaves under Caesar's leadership. He asks if any disagree with him, and none do. He thus concludes that he has offended no one and asserts that now Caesar's death has been accounted for, with both his virtues and faults in life given due attention. Antony then enters with Caesar's body. Brutus explains to the crowd that Antony had no part in the conspiracy but that he will now be part of the new commonwealth. The plebeians cheer Brutus's apparent kindness, declaring that Brutus should be Caesar. He quiets them and asks them to listen to Antony, who has obtained permission to give a funeral oration. Brutus exits. Antony ascends to the pulpit while the plebeians discuss what they have heard. They now believe that Caesar was a tyrant and that Brutus did right to kill him. But they wait to hear Antony. He asks the audience to listen, for he has come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. He acknowledges Brutus's charge that Caesar was ambitious and maintains that Brutus is \"an honourable man,\" but he says that Caesar was his friend. He adds that Caesar brought to Rome many captives, whose countrymen had to pay their ransoms, thus filling Rome's coffers. He asks rhetorically if such accumulation of money for the people constituted ambition. Antony continues that Caesar sympathized with the poor: \"When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept\". He reminds the plebeians of the day when he offered the crown to Caesar three times, and Caesar three times refused. Again, he ponders aloud whether this humility constituted ambition. He claims that he is not trying to disprove Brutus's words but rather to tell them what he, Antony, knows; he insists that as they all loved Caesar once, they should mourn for him now. Antony pauses to weep. The plebeians are touched; they remember when Caesar refused the crown and wonder if more ambitious people have not stepped into his place. Antony speaks again, saying that he would gladly stir them to mutiny and rebellion, though he will not harm Brutus or Cassius, for they are--again--honorable men. He then brings out Caesar's will. The plebeians beg him to read it. Antony says that he should not, for then they would be touched by Caesar's love for them. They implore him to read it. He replies that he has been speaking too long--he wrongs the honorable men who have let him address the crowd. The plebeians call the conspirators traitors and demand that Antony read the will. Finally, Antony descends from the pulpit and prepares to read the letter to the people as they stand in a circle around Caesar's corpse. Looking at the body, Antony points out the wounds that Brutus and Cassius inflicted, reminding the crowd how Caesar loved Brutus, and yet Brutus stabbed him viciously. He tells how Caesar died and blood ran down the steps of the Senate. Then he uncovers the body for all to see. The plebeians weep and become enraged. Antony says that they should not be stirred to mutiny against such \"honourable men\". He protests that he does not intend to steal away their hearts, for he is no orator like Brutus. He proclaims himself a plain man; he speaks only what he knows, he says--he will let Caesar's wounds speak the rest. If he were Brutus, he claims, he could urge them to rebel, but he is merely Antony. The people declare that they will mutiny nonetheless. Antony calls to them to let him finish: he has not yet read the will. He now reads that Caesar has bequeathed a sum of money from his personal holdings to every man in Rome. The citizens are struck by this act of generosity and swear to avenge this selfless man's death. Antony continues reading, revealing Caesar's plans to make his private parks and gardens available for the people's pleasure. The plebeians can take no more; they charge off to wreak havoc throughout the city. Antony, alone, wonders what will come of the mischief he has set loose on Rome. Octavius's servant enters. He reports that Octavius has arrived at Caesar's house, and also that Brutus and Cassius have been driven from Rome"}, {"": "40", "document": "SCENE II.\nAnother street.\n\nEnter Othello, Iago, and Attendants with torches.\n\n  IAGO. Though in the trade of war I have slain men,\n    Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience\n    To do no contrived murther. I lack iniquity\n    Sometimes to do me service. Nine or ten times\n    I had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs.\n  OTHELLO. 'Tis better as it is.\n  IAGO.                          Nay, but he prated\n    And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms\n    Against your honor\n    That, with the little godliness I have,\n    I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir,\n    Are you fast married? Be assured of this,\n    That the magnifico is much beloved,\n    And hath in his effect a voice potential\n    As double as the Duke's. He will divorce you,\n    Or put upon you what restraint and grievance\n    The law, with all his might to enforce it on,\n    Will give him cable.\n  OTHELLO.               Let him do his spite.\n    My services, which I have done the signiory,\n    Shall out--tongue his complaints. 'Tis yet to know--\n    Which, when I know that boasting is an honor,\n    I shall promulgate--I fetch my life and being\n    From men of royal siege, and my demerits\n    May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune\n    As this that I have reach'd. For know, Iago,\n    But that I love the gentle Desdemona,\n    I would not my unhoused free condition\n    Put into circumscription and confine\n    For the sea's worth. But, look! What lights come yond?\n  IAGO. Those are the raised father and his friends.\n    You were best go in.\n  OTHELLO.               Not I; I must be found.\n    My parts, my title, and my perfect soul\n    Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they?\n  IAGO. By Janus, I think no.\n\n           Enter Cassio and certain Officers with torches.\n\n  OTHELLO. The servants of the Duke? And my lieutenant?\n    The goodness of the night upon you, friends!\n    What is the news?\n  CASSIO.             The Duke does greet you, general,\n    And he requires your haste--post--haste appearance,\n    Even on the instant.\n  OTHELLO.               What is the matter, think you?\n  CASSIO. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine;\n    It is a business of some heat. The galleys\n    Have sent a dozen sequent messengers\n    This very night at one another's heels;\n    And many of the consuls, raised and met,\n    Are at the Duke's already. You have been hotly call'd for,\n    When, being not at your lodging to be found,\n    The Senate hath sent about three several quests\n    To search you out.\n  OTHELLO.             'Tis well I am found by you.\n    I will but spend a word here in the house\n    And go with you.\nExit.\n  CASSIO.            Ancient, what makes he here?\n  IAGO. Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carack;\n    If it prove lawful prize, he's made forever.\n  CASSIO. I do not understand.\n  IAGO.                        He's married.\n  CASSIO.                                    To who?\n\n                          Re-enter Othello.\n\n  IAGO. Marry, to--Come, captain, will you go?\n  OTHELLO.                                     Have with you.\n  CASSIO. Here comes another troop to seek for you.\n  IAGO. It is Brabantio. General, be advised,\n    He comes to bad intent.\n\n         Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and Officers with torches\n                             and weapons.\n\n  OTHELLO.                  Holla! Stand there!\n  RODERIGO. Signior, it is the Moor.\n  BRABANTIO.                         Down with him, thief!\n                                             They draw on both\nsides.\n  IAGO. You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you.\n  OTHELLO. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust\nthem.\n    Good signior, you shall more command with years\n    Than with your weapons.\n  BRABANTIO. O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my\ndaughter?\n    Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her,\n    For I'll refer me to all things of sense,\n    If she in chains of magic were not bound,\n    Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,\n    So opposite to marriage that she shunn'd\n    The wealthy, curled darlings of our nation,\n    Would ever have, to incur a general mock,\n    Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom\n    Of such a thing as thou--to fear, not to delight.\n    Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense\n    That thou hast practiced on her with foul charms,\n    Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals\n    That weaken motion. I'll have't disputed on;\n    'Tis probable, and palpable to thinking.\n    I therefore apprehend and do attach thee\n    For an abuser of the world, a practicer\n    Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.\n    Lay hold upon him. If he do resist,\n    Subdue him at his peril.\n  OTHELLO.                   Hold your hands,\n    Both you of my inclining and the rest.\n    Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it\n    Without a prompter. Where will you that I go\n    To answer this your charge?\n  BRABANTIO.                    To prison, till fit time\n    Of law and course of direct session\n    Call thee to answer.\n  OTHELLO.               What if I do obey?\n    How may the Duke be therewith satisfied,\n    Whose messengers are here about my side,\n    Upon some present business of the state\n    To bring me to him?\n  FIRST OFFICER.        'Tis true, most worthy signior;\n    The Duke's in council, and your noble self,\n    I am sure, is sent for.\n  BRABANTIO.                How? The Duke in council?\n    In this time of the night? Bring him away;\n    Mine's not an idle cause. The Duke himself,\n    Or any of my brothers of the state,\n    Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own;\n    For if such actions may have passage free,\n    Bond slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.\nExeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Iago rushes back to Othello to 'warn' him that Brabantio is furious. Cassio interrupts and tells Othello that his military advice is needed regarding an invasion of a Venetian colony by Turkish ships. Before they can leave, Brabantio finds Othello, but Othello convinces him to go to the council of soldiers and state his case to the Duke, who is part of the council."}, {"": "41", "document": "Scene III.\nFriar Laurence's cell.\n\nEnter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket.\n\n\n  Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,\n    Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light;\n    And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels\n    From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.\n    Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye\n    The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,\n    I must up-fill this osier cage of ours\n    With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.\n    The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb.\n    What is her burying gave, that is her womb;\n    And from her womb children of divers kind\n    We sucking on her natural bosom find;\n    Many for many virtues excellent,\n    None but for some, and yet all different.\n    O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies\n    In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities;\n    For naught so vile that on the earth doth live\n    But to the earth some special good doth give;\n    Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use,\n    Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.\n    Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,\n    And vice sometime's by action dignified.\n    Within the infant rind of this small flower\n    Poison hath residence, and medicine power;\n    For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;\n    Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.\n    Two such opposed kings encamp them still\n    In man as well as herbs- grace and rude will;\n    And where the worser is predominant,\n    Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.\n\n                        Enter Romeo.\n\n\n  Rom. Good morrow, father.\n\n  Friar. Benedicite!\n    What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?\n    Young son, it argues a distempered head\n    So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.\n    Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,\n    And where care lodges sleep will never lie;\n    But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain\n    Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.\n    Therefore thy earliness doth me assure\n    Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature;\n    Or if not so, then here I hit it right-\n    Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.\n\n  Rom. That last is true-the sweeter rest was mine.\n\n  Friar. God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?\n\n  Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.\n    I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.\n\n  Friar. That's my good son! But where hast thou been then?\n\n  Rom. I'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.\n    I have been feasting with mine enemy,\n    Where on a sudden one hath wounded me\n    That's by me wounded. Both our remedies\n    Within thy help and holy physic lies.\n    I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,\n    My intercession likewise steads my foe.\n\n  Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift\n    Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.\n\n  Rom. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set\n    On the fair daughter of rich Capulet;\n    As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine,\n    And all combin'd, save what thou must combine\n    By holy marriage. When, and where, and how\n    We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,\n    I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,\n    That thou consent to marry us to-day.\n\n  Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here!\n    Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,\n    So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies\n    Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.\n    Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine\n    Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!\n    How much salt water thrown away in waste,\n    To season love, that of it doth not taste!\n    The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,\n    Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears.\n    Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit\n    Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.\n    If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,\n    Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline.\n    And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then:\n    Women may fall when there's no strength in men.\n\n  Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.\n\n  Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.\n\n  Rom. And bad'st me bury love.\n\n  Friar. Not in a grave\n    To lay one in, another out to have.\n\n  Rom. I pray thee chide not. She whom I love now\n    Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.\n    The other did not so.\n\n  Friar. O, she knew well\n    Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.\n    But come, young waverer, come go with me.\n    In one respect I'll thy assistant be;\n    For this alliance may so happy prove\n    To turn your households' rancour to pure love.\n\n  Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste.\n\n  Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "That Romeo sure is fast because the next thing we know, Romeo tracks down Friar Laurence, who has been out foraging for medicinal plants and herbs for one of his concoctions. also tell us that it wasn't uncommon for clergymen to practice or dabble in medicine--after all, a visit to the physician was an expense that many people couldn't afford and priests often needed to supplement their income.) Friar Laurence delivers a speech about how herbs and plants have the potential to be healing and medicinal, but if they're misused, they can be deadly poison. Friar Laurence looks at Romeo and notices that loverboy hasn't \"been in bed tonight\" and assumes that he must have finally hooked up with Rosaline. He also notices that Romeo is suddenly cheerful after weeks of moping around. Nope, he's totally over Rosaline and into this chick Juliet. Will Friar Laurence perform the ceremony? The Friar's response: \"Holy Saint Francis!\" Friar Laurence provides a much-needed reality check: Romeo has been switching girls like highway lanes. The Friar decides to help Romeo out but not because he's a romantic: he's got political motives--a marriage between Romeo and Juliet just might reconcile the two warring families. So, in the name of reducing the yearly street-brawl-murder rate in Verona, Friar Laurence skips the lecture on fidelity and commitment and goes right to agreeing with the marriage."}, {"": "42", "document": "\n\nTheir sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her\nprobably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet\nthem at ----, and they were to return in it, by dinner-time. Their\narrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets; and Jane more especially,\nwho gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_\nbeen the culprit, was wretched in the thought of what her sister must\nendure.\n\nThey came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room, to receive\nthem. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to\nthe door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,\nanxious, uneasy.\n\nLydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and\nshe ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and\nwelcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to\nWickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an\nalacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.\n\nTheir reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite\nso cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely\nopened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was\nenough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was\nshocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and\nfearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their\ncongratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly\nround the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and\nobserved, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been\nthere.\n\nWickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners\nwere always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been\nexactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he\nclaimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had\nnot before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,\nresolving within herself, to draw no limits in future to the impudence\nof an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of\nthe two who caused their confusion, suffered no variation of colour.\n\nThere was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither\nof them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near\nElizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,\nwith a good humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her\nreplies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the\nworld. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led\nvoluntarily to subjects, which her sisters would not have alluded to for\nthe world.\n\n\"Only think of its being three months,\" she cried, \"since I went away;\nit seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things\nenough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure\nI had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I\nthought it would be very good fun if I was.\"\n\nHer father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked\nexpressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of\nwhich she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, \"Oh! mamma, do the\npeople here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might\nnot; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was\ndetermined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to\nhim, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window\nframe, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like\nany thing.\"\n\nElizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;\nand returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to\nthe dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with\nanxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to\nher eldest sister, \"Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go\nlower, because I am a married woman.\"\n\nIt was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment,\nfrom which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good\nspirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all\ntheir other neighbours, and to hear herself called \"Mrs. Wickham,\" by\neach of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her\nring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.\n\n\"Well, mamma,\" said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast\nroom, \"and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I\nam sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my\ngood luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get\nhusbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.\"\n\n\"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't\nat all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?\"\n\n\"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all\nthings. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We\nshall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some\nballs, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.\"\n\n\"I should like it beyond any thing!\" said her mother.\n\n\"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters\nbehind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the\nwinter is over.\"\n\n\"I thank you for my share of the favour,\" said Elizabeth; \"but I do not\nparticularly like your way of getting husbands.\"\n\nTheir visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham\nhad received his commission before he left London, and he was to join\nhis regiment at the end of a fortnight.\n\nNo one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and\nshe made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and\nhaving very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to\nall; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did\nthink, than such as did not.\n\nWickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to\nfind it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her\npresent observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that\ntheir elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather\nthan by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring\nfor her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain\nthat his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and\nif that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity\nof having a companion.\n\nLydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every\noccasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every\nthing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on\nthe first of September, than any body else in the country.\n\nOne morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two\nelder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,\n\n\"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were\nnot by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you\ncurious to hear how it was managed?\"\n\n\"No really,\" replied Elizabeth; \"I think there cannot be too little said\non the subject.\"\n\n\"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were\nmarried, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in\nthat parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven\no'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others\nwere to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in\nsuch a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put\nit off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my\naunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if\nshe was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten,\nfor I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to\nknow whether he would be married in his blue coat.\n\n\"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never\nbe over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt\nwere horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe\nme, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a\nfortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was\nrather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just\nas the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business\nto that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get\ntogether, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not\nknow what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond\nthe hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back\nagain in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I\nrecollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the\nwedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.\"\n\n\"Mr. Darcy!\" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.\n\n\"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me!\nI quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised\nthem so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!\"\n\n\"If it was to be secret,\" said Jane, \"say not another word on the\nsubject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.\"\n\n\"Oh! certainly,\" said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; \"we will\nask you no questions.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Lydia, \"for if you did, I should certainly tell you\nall, and then Wickham would be angry.\"\n\nOn such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her\npower, by running away.\n\nBut to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it\nwas impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her\nsister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,\nwhere he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.\nConjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her\nbrain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as\nplacing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She\ncould not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,\nwrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what\nLydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been\nintended.\n\n\"You may readily comprehend,\" she added, \"what my curiosity must be to\nknow how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively\nspeaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such\na time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,\nfor very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to\nthink necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with\nignorance.\"\n\n\"Not that I _shall_ though,\" she added to herself, as she finished the\nletter; \"and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable\nmanner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it\nout.\"\n\nJane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to\nElizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of\nit;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any\nsatisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. and Mrs. Wickham arrive at Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet welcomes them warmly, but Mr. Bennet is provoked by the couples easy manner and shameless impudence. Elizabeth is indignant over their behavior, and even the gentle Jane is mortified by their indifferent attitude. Lydia chatters unabashedly about Wickham and seems to be totally in love with him, in spite of the shabby treatment that he has given her. In contrast, Wickham does not seem to be much in love with Lydia. While talking to Elizabeth, Lydia says that Darcy was present at the wedding. Elizabeth is thoroughly intrigued at his presence there and writes to her aunt to find out why."}, {"": "43", "document": "ACT II. Scene I.\nA lane by the wall of Capulet's orchard.\n\nEnter Romeo alone.\n\n\n  Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is here?\n    Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n                     [Climbs the wall and leaps down within it.]\n\n                   Enter Benvolio with Mercutio.\n\n\n  Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\n  Mer. He is wise,\n    And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed.\n\n  Ben. He ran this way, and leapt this orchard wall.\n    Call, good Mercutio.\n\n  Mer. Nay, I'll conjure too.\n    Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!\n    Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh;\n    Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied!\n    Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove';\n    Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\n    One nickname for her purblind son and heir,\n    Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim\n    When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar maid!\n    He heareth not, he stirreth not, be moveth not;\n    The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\n    I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes.\n    By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\n    By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\n    And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\n    That in thy likeness thou appear to us!\n\n  Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\n  Mer. This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger him\n    To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle\n    Of some strange nature, letting it there stand\n    Till she had laid it and conjur'd it down.\n    That were some spite; my invocation\n    Is fair and honest: in his mistress' name,\n    I conjure only but to raise up him.\n\n  Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees\n    To be consorted with the humorous night.\n    Blind is his love and best befits the dark.\n\n  Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\n    Now will he sit under a medlar tree\n    And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\n    As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\n    O, Romeo, that she were, O that she were\n    An open et cetera, thou a pop'rin pear!\n    Romeo, good night. I'll to my truckle-bed;\n    This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\n    Come, shall we go?\n\n  Ben. Go then, for 'tis in vain\n    'To seek him here that means not to be found.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Romeo doesn't want to leave the Capulet's property, so he ditches his friends and hides out in the orchard behind the Capulet house. Benvolio and Mercutio try to find him. Unaware that Romeo now has the hots for Juliet, they shout lots of filthy things about Rosaline hoping that Romeo will come out to defend Rosaline's honor. No such luck. Eventually they give up and head home. We interrupt this program for a helpful reading tip: Worried that your copy of the play divides scenes differently than we do here? Don't trip. The division of acts and scenes varies depending on which edition of the play you're reading. Some editions of the play cut off Act 2, Scene 1 at the end of Benvolio's line and give the famous balcony scene its own section . Some other editions include Romeo and Juliet's famous balcony scene in Act 2, Scene 1. Now back to our program."}, {"": "44", "document": "\n\nElizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.\nDarcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. \"How could\nyou begin?\" said she. \"I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when\nyou had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first\nplace?\"\n\n\"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which\nlaid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I\nknew that I _had_ begun.\"\n\n\"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour\nto _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke\nto you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;\ndid you admire me for my impertinence?\"\n\n\"For the liveliness of your mind, I did.\"\n\n\"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.\nThe fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious\nattention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking\nand looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and\ninterested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really\namiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you\ntook to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and\nin your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously\ncourted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;\nand really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly\nreasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks\nof _that_ when they fall in love.\"\n\n\"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was\nill at Netherfield?\"\n\n\"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it\nby all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are\nto exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me\nto find occasions for teazing and quarrelling with you as often as may\nbe; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling\nto come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first\ncalled, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did\nyou look as if you did not care about me?\"\n\n\"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.\"\n\n\"But I was embarrassed.\"\n\n\"And so was I.\"\n\n\"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.\"\n\n\"A man who had felt less, might.\"\n\n\"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that\nI should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you\n_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when\nyou _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of\nthanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too\nmuch_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort\nsprings from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the\nsubject? This will never do.\"\n\n\"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady\nCatherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us, were the means of\nremoving all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to\nyour eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to\nwait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me\nhope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.\"\n\n\"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,\nfor she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to\nNetherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?\nor had you intended any more serious consequence?\"\n\n\"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I\nmight ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to\nmyself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,\nand if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.\"\n\n\"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine, what is to\nbefall her?\"\n\n\"I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to\nbe done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done\ndirectly.\"\n\n\"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and\nadmire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But\nI have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.\"\n\nFrom an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy\nhad been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's\nlong letter, but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would\nbe most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find, that her uncle and aunt\nhad already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as\nfollows:\n\n     \"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have\n     done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but\n     to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than\n     really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as you chuse; give a\n     loose to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible\n     flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me\n     actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very\n     soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I\n     thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I\n     be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful.\n     We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in\n     the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one\n     with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I\n     laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world, that he can\n     spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.\n\n     Your's, &c.\"\n\nMr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine, was in a different style; and\nstill different from either, was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in\nreply to his last.\n\n     \"DEAR SIR,\n\n     \"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will\n     soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as\n     you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has\n     more to give.\n\n     \"Your's sincerely, &c.\"\n\nMiss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching\nmarriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even\nto Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her\nformer professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was\naffected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing\nher a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.\n\nThe joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was\nas sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were\ninsufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of\nbeing loved by her sister.\n\nBefore any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations\nto Elizabeth, from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the\nCollinses were come themselves to Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden\nremoval was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so\nexceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that\nCharlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till\nthe storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend\nwas a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their\nmeetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she\nsaw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her\nhusband. He bore it however with admirable calmness. He could even\nlisten to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away\nthe brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all\nmeeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did\nshrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Philips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater tax on his\nforbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in\ntoo much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good\nhumour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.\nNor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all\nlikely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could, to shield\nhim from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him\nto herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse\nwithout mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising\nfrom all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it\nadded to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to\nthe time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to\neither, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at\nPemberley.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Elizabeth asks Darcy if he only loves her because of her impertinence to him, and he states that it was the liveliness of her mind. She asks why he was so quiet on the first days of his visit to Longbourn, and he states that he was embarrassed, but that he had to come to see if she had perhaps changed her mind about him. Elizabeth writes a letter to Mrs. Gardiner telling her of the engagement, and Darcy writes one to Lady Catherine. Bingley's sister congratulates her brother with affection and insincerity, and Miss Darcy is quite sincere in her happiness for her brother's engagement. The Collinses come to visit, as Charlotte wants to get away from Lady Catherine's anger about the match that Charlotte is so happy about"}, {"": "45", "document": "\n\nOn Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few\nminutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of\npaying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.\n\n\"I know not, Miss Elizabeth,\" said he, \"whether Mrs. Collins has yet\nexpressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us, but I am very\ncertain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for\nit. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know\nhow little there is to tempt any one to our humble abode. Our plain\nmanner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we\nsee of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like\nyourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,\nand that we have done every thing in our power to prevent your spending\nyour time unpleasantly.\"\n\nElizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had\nspent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with\nCharlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_\nfeel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling\nsolemnity replied,\n\n\"It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your\ntime not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most\nfortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior\nsociety, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of\nvarying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that\nyour Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation\nwith regard to Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of\nextraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on\nwhat a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In\ntruth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble\nparsonage, I should not think any one abiding in it an object of\ncompassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.\"\n\nWords were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was\nobliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility\nand truth in a few short sentences.\n\n\"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into\nHertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will\nbe able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you\nhave been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear\nthat your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be\nas well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,\nthat I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in\nmarriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of\nthinking. There is in every thing a most remarkable resemblance of\ncharacter and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each\nother.\"\n\nElizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was\nthe case, and with equal sincerity could add that she firmly believed\nand rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to\nhave the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from\nwhom they sprung. Poor Charlotte!--it was melancholy to leave her to\nsuch society!--But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though\nevidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to\nask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her\npoultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their\ncharms.\n\nAt length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels\nplaced within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate\nparting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by\nMr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning\nher with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks\nfor the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his\ncompliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her\nin, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when\nhe suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had\nhitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings.\n\n\"But,\" he added, \"you will of course wish to have your humble respects\ndelivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you\nwhile you have been here.\"\n\nElizabeth made no objection;--the door was then allowed to be shut, and\nthe carriage drove off.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" cried Maria, after a few minutes silence, \"it seems but\na day or two since we first came!--and yet how many things have\nhappened!\"\n\n\"A great many indeed,\" said her companion with a sigh.\n\n\"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there\ntwice!--How much I shall have to tell!\"\n\nElizabeth privately added, \"And how much I shall have to conceal.\"\n\nTheir journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and\nwithin four hours of their leaving Hunsford, they reached Mr. Gardiner's\nhouse, where they were to remain a few days.\n\nJane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her\nspirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt\nhad reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at\nLongbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.\n\nIt was not without an effort meanwhile that she could wait even for\nLongbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know\nthat she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish\nJane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own\nvanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation\nto openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision\nin which she remained, as to the extent of what she should communicate;\nand her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into\nrepeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister\nfarther.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "On Saturday before she leaves, Elizabeth is alone with Collins for a while, giving him the opportunity to thank her for coming, to say again how lucky they are that Lady Catherine invites them over so often, and to stress how happy he and Charlotte are. Maria and Elizabeth leave on the chaise, and in four hours are at Mr. Gardiner's house, where they will spend a few days before they and Jane return to Longbourn. Elizabeth finds Jane doing well, and cannot wait to tell her of Darcy's proposal, although she is not sure how much she should tell her of what Darcy said of Bingley"}, {"": "46", "document": "SCENE III.\n\n\n                  _A Hall in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.\n\n                       _Enter_ DUKE, _and_ VIOLA.\n\n    _Duke._ Come hither, boy:--If ever thou shalt love,\n  In the sweet pangs of it, remember me:\n  For, such as I am, all true lovers are.--\n  My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye\n  Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;\n  Hath it not, boy?\n\n    _Vio._ A little, by your favour.\n\n    _Duke._ What kind of woman is't?\n\n    _Vio._ Of your complexion.\n\n    _Duke._ She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith?\n\n    _Vio._ About your years, my lord.\n\n    _Duke._ Too old, by heaven.--Once more, Cesario,\n  Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty:\n  Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,\n  Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;\n  The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her,\n  Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;\n  But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,\n  That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.\n\n    _Vio._ But, if she cannot love you, sir?\n\n    _Duke._ I cannot be so answered.\n\n    _Vio._ Sooth, but you must.\n  Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,\n  Hath for your love as great a pang of heart\n  As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;\n  You tell her so: Must she not then be answered?\n\n    _Duke._ There is no woman's sides,\n  Can bide the beating of so strong a passion\n  As love doth give my heart:--make no compare\n  Between that love a woman can bear me,\n  And that I owe Olivia.\n\n    _Vio._ Ay, but I know,--\n\n    _Duke._ What dost thou know?\n\n    _Vio._ Too well what love women to men may owe:\n  In faith, they are as true of heart as we.\n  My father had a daughter loved a man,\n  As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,\n  I should your lordship.\n\n    _Duke._ And what's her history?\n\n    _Vio._ A blank, my lord: She never told her love,\n  But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,\n  Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;\n  And, with a green and yellow melancholy,\n  She sat like patience on a monument,\n  Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?\n  We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,\n  Our shows are more than will, for still we prove\n  Much in our vows, but little in our love.\n\n    _Duke._ But died thy sister of her love, my boy?\n\n    _Vio._ I am all the daughters of my father's house,\n  And all the brothers too.--\n  Sir, shall I to this lady?\n\n    _Duke._ Ay, that's the theme.\n  To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,\n  My love can give no place, bide no denay.                   [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n\n                             \n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Olivia's house, it is late and Sir Toby and Sir Andrew have been drinking, or \"revelling,\" as they call it. They are noisily celebrating -- reciting fragments of songs, Latin sayings, and old country proverbs. They play at logic: Sir Andrew says in all inebriated seriousness that \"to be up late is to be up late.\" Sir Toby absolutely disagrees: \"a false conclusion,\" he pronounces, and a flaw in reasoning, a vexation which he dislikes as much as he does an empty beer mug. Then he launches into an involved, implausible, and ridiculous diatribe involving the hours of the day and of the night and the four elements, and ends by praising Sir Andrew for being such a superb scholar because Sir Andrew agrees with Sir Toby's final conclusion -- that \"life . . . consists of eating and drinking,\" which reminds Sir Toby that what they both need is another drink. Thus he bellows loudly for \"Marian\" to fetch them \"a stoup of wine.\" Feste, the jester, has not gone to bed and is delighted to come in and discover a party going on. They all joke uproariously in broad comedy about their all being asses, and then they attempt to approximate the acerbic flair of high comedy, but their bits and pieces of joking become so disjointed that it is impossible to know exactly what they are laughing about, nor is it terribly important. The point is, they are having manly, goodhearted drunken fun and, therefore, they indulge quite naturally in some loud singing. Very naturally, one of the first songs is a love song. It is sung by Feste and begins \"O mistress mine\" and concerns men wooing their true loves. The second verse praises the experience of love: love is an act, to be acted upon; \"tis not hereafter.\" The future, according to the song, is unsure, therefore, lovers should kiss for \"youth's a stuff will not endure.\" The philosophy of the song is agreeable to all, as is Feste's \"mellifluous voice,\" according to the tipsy Sir Andrew. Sir Toby criticizes Feste's breath, pondering momentarily on the possibility of one's being able to hear with one's nose. Then in the next breath, he suggests that they celebrate so thoroughly that they will \"rouse the night-owl\" and make the sky itself dance. Sir Andrew thinks that this is a splendid idea: \"I am dog at a catch,\" he cries out, meaning that he is clever at singing. Yet no sooner do they begin, than their tongues tumble over the words \"knaves\" and \"knights,\" two completely different kinds of men, and they attempt to begin all over again when Maria comes in. She warns them that their \"caterwauling,\" their wailing like three sex-starved tomcats, is going to get them thrown out of the place. If Olivia is awakened, she will have her steward, Malvolio, toss them all out. Neither Sir Toby nor Sir Andrew pays any attention whatsoever to her; they are too far gone in their cups, and they call Olivia a \"Cataian\" and call Malvolio a \"Peg-a-Ramsey.\" This latter slur is very insulting, referring to an over-the-hill, henpecked impotent man who woefully longs for the long-gone days when men sported yellow hose and wooed the village maids. Sir Toby begins a new song, with the words \"On the twelfth day of December . . .\" and suddenly they are all startled to see a figure in the doorway. It is Malvolio. He is haughty and as imperious as Maria warned them that he would be. He tells them that Olivia has said that either they must quiet down or else they must leave the house. Sir Toby and Feste mock Malvolio's edicts with satiric farewells, and Malvolio becomes furious. He is scandalized to hear such insults in his lady Olivia's house. He turns on Maria and attempts to shame her for allowing such misbehavior. He shall report her part in all this \"uncivil rule.\" He warns them that they should make no mistake about what he plans to do. Their insubordination will be reported immediately! Resentful of Malvolio's lordly posings, the drunken merrymakers loudly applaud Maria's proposed plan to outwit the sharp-tongued, all-important Malvolio. She will forge a letter in Olivia's handwriting that will contain soulful, sighing admirations for \"the color of beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expression of his eye, forehead, and complexion\" -- in short, in a very brief time, Malvolio will mistakenly believe that Olivia is in love with him. \"A sport royal,\" Maria predicts. With that, she tells them to hide and eavesdrop on Malvolio when \"he shall find the letter.\" She then bids them goodnight; the three men are intoxicated at the thought of what will ensue. Malvolio will be made a fool of; he has needed such an experience for a long time, and this exciting prospect, of course, calls for a drink."}, {"": "47", "document": "\n\nThe being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in expectation\nof a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my\nideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He\ncontinued--\n\n\"You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the\ninterchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone\ncan do; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse.\"\n\nThe latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had\ndied away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and,\nas he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within\nme.\n\n\"I do refuse it,\" I replied; \"and no torture shall ever extort a consent\nfrom me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall\nnever make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself,\nwhose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered\nyou; you may torture me, but I will never consent.\"\n\n\"You are in the wrong,\" replied the fiend; \"and, instead of threatening,\nI am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable;\nam I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear\nme to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity\nman more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could\nprecipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the\nwork of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let\nhim live with me in the interchange of kindness, and, instead of injury,\nI would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his\nacceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable\nbarriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject\nslavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will\ncause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator,\ndo I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your\ndestruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse\nthe hour of your birth.\"\n\nA fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into\ncontortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he\ncalmed himself, and proceeded--\n\n\"I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not\nreflect that you are the cause of its excess. If any being felt emotions\nof benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an\nhundred fold; for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the\nwhole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be\nrealized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a\ncreature of another sex, but as hideous as myself: the gratification is\nsmall, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is\ntrue, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that\naccount we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be\nhappy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel.\nOh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one\nbenefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing;\ndo not deny me my request!\"\n\nI was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of\nmy consent; but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His\ntale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of\nfine sensations; and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of\nhappiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of\nfeeling, and continued--\n\n\"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us\nagain: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that\nof man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid, to glut my appetite;\nacorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will\nbe of the same nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare.\nWe shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on\nman, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful\nand human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the\nwantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I\nnow see compassion in your eyes: let me seize the favourable moment, and\npersuade you to promise what I so ardently desire.\"\n\n\"You propose,\" replied I, \"to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell\nin those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only\ncompanions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,\npersevere in this exile? You will return, and again seek their kindness,\nand you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be\nrenewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of\ndestruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot\nconsent.\"\n\n\"How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my\nrepresentations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints?\nI swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me,\nthat, with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of\nman, and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil\npassions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy; my life will\nflow quietly away, and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my\nmaker.\"\n\nHis words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, and\nsometimes felt a wish to console him; but when I looked upon him, when I\nsaw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my\nfeelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle\nthese sensations; I thought, that as I could not sympathize with him, I\nhad no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which\nwas yet in my power to bestow.\n\n\"You swear,\" I said, \"to be harmless; but have you not already shewn a\ndegree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not\neven this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a\nwider scope for your revenge?\"\n\n\"How is this? I thought I had moved your compassion, and yet you still\nrefuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can soften my heart, and\nrender me harmless. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice\nmust be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my\ncrimes, and I shall become a thing, of whose existence every one will be\nignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor;\nand my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an\nequal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become\nlinked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am now\nexcluded.\"\n\nI paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the various\narguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues\nwhich he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the\nsubsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which\nhis protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were\nnot omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in the ice\ncaves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of\ninaccessible precipices, was a being possessing faculties it would be\nvain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection, I concluded, that\nthe justice due both to him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that\nI should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said--\n\n\"I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,\nand every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall\ndeliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile.\"\n\n\"I swear,\" he cried, \"by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, that if\nyou grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again.\nDepart to your home, and commence your labours: I shall watch their\nprogress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are\nready I shall appear.\"\n\nSaying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in\nmy sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than\nthe flight of an eagle, and quickly lost him among the undulations of\nthe sea of ice.\n\nHis tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the verge of\nthe horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent\ntowards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my\nheart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the\nlittle paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced,\nperplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of\nthe day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came to the\nhalf-way resting-place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars\nshone at intervals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines\nrose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the\nground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange\nthoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and, clasping my hands in agony, I\nexclaimed, \"Oh! stars, and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock\nme: if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as\nnought; but if not, depart, depart and leave me in darkness.\"\n\nThese were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot describe to you how\nthe eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened\nto every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to\nconsume me.\n\nMorning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; but my\npresence, so haggard and strange, hardly calmed the fears of my family,\nwho had waited the whole night in anxious expectation of my return.\n\nThe following day we returned to Geneva. The intention of my father in\ncoming had been to divert my mind, and to restore me to my lost\ntranquillity; but the medicine had been fatal. And, unable to account\nfor the excess of misery I appeared to suffer, he hastened to return\nhome, hoping the quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees\nalleviate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might spring.\n\nFor myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the gentle\naffection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to draw me from the\ndepth of my despair. The promise I had made to the daemon weighed upon my\nmind, like Dante's iron cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites. All\npleasures of earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that\nthought only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder, that\nsometimes a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw continually\nabout me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on me incessant\ntorture, that often extorted screams and bitter groans?\n\nBy degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I entered again into\nthe every-day scene of life, if not with interest, at least with some\ndegree of tranquillity.\n\n", "summary": "Now that the monster's story is over, we're back in Victor's story. And he tells us that he refused the monster's request, obviously. The monster's pretty smart though, and he changes tactics by saying that Victor owes him a mate. It is his duty as creator. He says it will make him less evil because loneliness has made him such a grumpy jerk/murderer. The monster promises to take his new mate to a South American jungle and hide away from people for the rest of their lives. Sounds fair, except we're wondering if the people already living in the South American jungle might have an opinion about that. Ugh, fine, Victor says. The monster is thrilled. Yay! He's going to have his own custom-made girlfriend! Still, he doesn't exactly trust Victor-the-Deadbeat-Dad. He vows to follow Victor to check in on his progress, saying he'll know when the work is done, which is just a little creepy and ominous."}, {"": "48", "document": "\n\n\"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences\nof the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these\npeople; and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well\nthe treatment I had suffered the night before from the barbarous\nvillagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter\nthink it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in\nmy hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the motives which\ninfluenced their actions.\n\n\"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman\narranged the cottage, and prepared the food; and the youth departed\nafter the first meal.\n\n\"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The\nyoung man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various\nlaborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be\nblind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument, or in\ncontemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the\nyounger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They\nperformed towards him every little office of affection and duty with\ngentleness; and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.\n\n\"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often\nwent apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness;\nbut I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were\nmiserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,\nshould be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They\npossessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes), and every\nluxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious viands\nwhen hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,\nthey enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day\nlooks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they\nreally express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; but\nperpetual attention, and time, explained to me many appearances which\nwere at first enigmatic.\n\n\"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of\nthe uneasiness of this amiable family; it was poverty: and they suffered\nthat evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted\nentirely of the vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow, who\ngave very little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely\nprocure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of\nhunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers; for\nseveral times they placed food before the old man, when they reserved\nnone for themselves.\n\n\"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed,\nduring the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption;\nbut when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I\nabstained, and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I\ngathered from a neighbouring wood.\n\n\"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist\ntheir labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in\ncollecting wood for the family fire; and, during the night, I often took\nhis tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home\nfiring sufficient for the consumption of several days.\n\n\"I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she\nopened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a\ngreat pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud\nvoice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I\nobserved, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but\nspent it in repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden.\n\n\"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that\nthese people possessed a method of communicating their experience and\nfeelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words\nthey spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in\nthe minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike\nscience, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was\nbaffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation\nwas quick; and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connexion\nwith visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could\nunravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however,\nand after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the\nmoon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the\nmost familiar objects of discourse: I learned and applied the words\n_fire_, _milk_, _bread_, and _wood_. I learned also the names of the\ncottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them\nseveral names, but the old man had only one, which was _father_. The\ngirl was called _sister_, or _Agatha_; and the youth _Felix_, _brother_,\nor _son_. I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas\nappropriated to each of these sounds, and was able to pronounce them. I\ndistinguished several other words, without being able as yet to\nunderstand or apply them; such as _good_, _dearest_, _unhappy_.\n\n\"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the\ncottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt\ndepressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized in their joys. I saw few\nhuman beings beside them; and if any other happened to enter the\ncottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the\nsuperior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive,\noften endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that\nhe called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a\ncheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure\neven upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled\nwith tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I\ngenerally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after\nhaving listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with\nFelix. He was always the saddest of the groupe; and, even to my\nunpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his\nfriends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more\ncheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old\nman.\n\n\"I could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, marked\nthe dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and\nwant, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white\nflower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the\nmorning before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed\nher path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the\nwood from the out-house, where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found\nhis store always replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I\nbelieve, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he often\nwent forth, and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with\nhim. At other times he worked in the garden; but, as there was little to\ndo in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha.\n\n\"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first; but, by degrees, I\ndiscovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when\nhe talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs\nfor speech which he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend\nthese also; but how was that possible, when I did not even understand\nthe sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however, sensibly\nin this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of\nconversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour: for I\neasily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to\nthe cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become\nmaster of their language; which knowledge might enable me to make them\noverlook the deformity of my figure; for with this also the contrast\nperpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.\n\n\"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace, beauty,\nand delicate complexions: but how was I terrified, when I viewed myself\nin a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that\nit was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully\nconvinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with\nthe bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas! I did\nnot yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity.\n\n\"As the sun became warmer, and the light of day longer, the snow\nvanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this\ntime Felix was more employed; and the heart-moving indications of\nimpending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found, was\ncoarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.\nSeveral new kinds of plants sprung up in the garden, which they dressed;\nand these signs of comfort increased daily as the season advanced.\n\n\"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did\nnot rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its\nwaters. This frequently took place; but a high wind quickly dried the\nearth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been.\n\n\"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning I attended\nthe motions of the cottagers; and when they were dispersed in various\noccupations, I slept: the remainder of the day was spent in observing my\nfriends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon, or the\nnight was star-light, I went into the woods, and collected my own food\nand fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it was necessary,\nI cleared their path from the snow, and performed those offices that I\nhad seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these labours, performed\nby an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard\nthem, on these occasions, utter the words _good spirit_, _wonderful_;\nbut I did not then understand the signification of these terms.\n\n\"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the\nmotives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to\nknow why Felix appeared so miserable, and Agatha so sad. I thought\n(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to\nthese deserving people. When I slept, or was absent, the forms of the\nvenerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix,\nflitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings, who would be\nthe arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a thousand\npictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of me. I\nimagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and\nconciliating words, I should first win their favour, and afterwards\ntheir love.\n\n\"These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with fresh ardour to\nthe acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but\nsupple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their\ntones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease.\nIt was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass, whose\nintentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved\nbetter treatment than blows and execration.\n\n\"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the\naspect of the earth. Men, who before this change seemed to have been hid\nin caves, dispersed themselves, and were employed in various arts of\ncultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves\nbegan to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for\ngods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome.\nMy spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature; the\npast was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the\nfuture gilded by bright rays of hope, and anticipations of joy.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The creature begins by recalling his deep and tormenting desire to speak to the cottagers, who impress him with their gentleness and simplicity. He hesitates, however, as he is fearful of incurring the same kind of disgust and cruelty that he experienced at the hands of the villagers. In observing the family, he discovers that they suffer from great poverty. The two young people are very generous with the old man, and often go hungry so that he might eat. The creature, greatly touched by this, ceases to take from their store of food, even though he is terribly hungry himself. He begins to cut their firewood for them, so that the young man, whose name is Felix, will no longer have to. The creature spends the entire winter watching the cottagers, and grows to love each of them passionately. He attempts to learn their language, which he regards as \"a godlike science. At first, he makes little progress. Every act of the cottagers, however banal, strikes him as miraculous: to watch them read aloud, or play music, or simply speak to one another, delights him immeasurably. Though he realizes that they are terribly unhappy, he cannot understand why: to him, the family seems to possess everything one could want: a roof, a fire, and the glories of human companionship. Upon seeing his own reflection in a pool of water, the creature becomes even more certain that he will never know such happiness; he finds his own face to be monstrous, capable of inspiring only fear or disgust. Nonetheless, he dreams of winning the love of the cottagers by mastering their language; in this way, he hopes, he can reveal to them the beauty and gentleness of his soul."}, {"": "49", "document": "SCENE III.\n\nEngland. Before the King's Palace.\n\n[Enter Malcolm and Macduff.]\n\nMALCOLM.\nLet us seek out some desolate shade and there\nWeep our sad bosoms empty.\n\nMACDUFF.\nLet us rather\nHold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men,\nBestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn\nNew widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows\nStrike heaven on the face, that it resounds\nAs if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out\nLike syllable of dolour.\n\nMALCOLM.\nWhat I believe, I'll wail;\nWhat know, believe; and what I can redress,\nAs I shall find the time to friend, I will.\nWhat you have spoke, it may be so perchance.\nThis tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,\nWas once thought honest: you have loved him well;\nHe hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something\nYou may deserve of him through me; and wisdom\nTo offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb\nTo appease an angry god.\n\nMACDUFF.\nI am not treacherous.\n\nMALCOLM.\nBut Macbeth is.\nA good and virtuous nature may recoil\nIn an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon;\nThat which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose;\nAngels are bright still, though the brightest fell:\nThough all things foul would wear the brows of grace,\nYet grace must still look so.\n\nMACDUFF.\nI have lost my hopes.\n\nMALCOLM.\nPerchance even there where I did find my doubts.\nWhy in that rawness left you wife and child,--\nThose precious motives, those strong knots of love,--\nWithout leave-taking?--I pray you,\nLet not my jealousies be your dishonors,\nBut mine own safeties:--you may be rightly just,\nWhatever I shall think.\n\nMACDUFF.\nBleed, bleed, poor country!\nGreat tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,\nFor goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs,\nThe title is affeer'd.--Fare thee well, lord:\nI would not be the villain that thou think'st\nFor the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp\nAnd the rich East to boot.\n\nMALCOLM.\nBe not offended:\nI speak not as in absolute fear of you.\nI think our country sinks beneath the yoke;\nIt weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash\nIs added to her wounds. I think, withal,\nThere would be hands uplifted in my right;\nAnd here, from gracious England, have I offer\nOf goodly thousands: but, for all this,\nWhen I shall tread upon the tyrant's head,\nOr wear it on my sword, yet my poor country\nShall have more vices than it had before;\nMore suffer, and more sundry ways than ever,\nBy him that shall succeed.\n\nMACDUFF.\nWhat should he be?\n\nMALCOLM.\nIt is myself I mean: in whom I know\nAll the particulars of vice so grafted\nThat, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth\nWill seem as pure as snow; and the poor state\nEsteem him as a lamb, being compar'd\nWith my confineless harms.\n\nMACDUFF.\nNot in the legions\nOf horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd\nIn evils to top Macbeth.\n\nMALCOLM.\nI grant him bloody,\nLuxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,\nSudden, malicious, smacking of every sin\nThat has a name: but there's no bottom, none,\nIn my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,\nYour matrons, and your maids, could not fill up\nThe cistern of my lust; and my desire\nAll continent impediments would o'erbear,\nThat did oppose my will: better Macbeth\nThan such an one to reign.\n\nMACDUFF.\nBoundless intemperance\nIn nature is a tyranny; it hath been\nThe untimely emptying of the happy throne,\nAnd fall of many kings. But fear not yet\nTo take upon you what is yours: you may\nConvey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,\nAnd yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.\nWe have willing dames enough; there cannot be\nThat vulture in you, to devour so many\nAs will to greatness dedicate themselves,\nFinding it so inclin'd.\n\nMALCOLM.\nWith this there grows,\nIn my most ill-compos'd affection, such\nA stanchless avarice, that, were I king,\nI should cut off the nobles for their lands;\nDesire his jewels, and this other's house:\nAnd my more-having would be as a sauce\nTo make me hunger more; that I should forge\nQuarrels unjust against the good and loyal,\nDestroying them for wealth.\n\nMACDUFF.\nThis avarice\nSticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root\nThan summer-seeming lust; and it hath been\nThe sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear;\nScotland hath foysons to fill up your will,\nOf your mere own: all these are portable,\nWith other graces weigh'd.\n\nMALCOLM.\nBut I have none: the king-becoming graces,\nAs justice, verity, temperance, stableness,\nBounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,\nDevotion, patience, courage, fortitude,\nI have no relish of them; but abound\nIn the division of each several crime,\nActing it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should\nPour the sweet milk of concord into hell,\nUproar the universal peace, confound\nAll unity on earth.\n\nMACDUFF.\nO Scotland, Scotland!\n\nMALCOLM.\nIf such a one be fit to govern, speak:\nI am as I have spoken.\n\nMACDUFF.\nFit to govern!\nNo, not to live!--O nation miserable,\nWith an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,\nWhen shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,\nSince that the truest issue of thy throne\nBy his own interdiction stands accurs'd\nAnd does blaspheme his breed?--Thy royal father\nWas a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,\nOftener upon her knees than on her feet,\nDied every day she lived. Fare-thee-well!\nThese evils thou repeat'st upon thyself\nHave banish'd me from Scotland.--O my breast,\nThy hope ends here!\n\nMALCOLM.\nMacduff, this noble passion,\nChild of integrity, hath from my soul\nWiped the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts\nTo thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth\nBy many of these trains hath sought to win me\nInto his power; and modest wisdom plucks me\nFrom over-credulous haste: but God above\nDeal between thee and me! for even now\nI put myself to thy direction, and\nUnspeak mine own detraction; here abjure\nThe taints and blames I laid upon myself,\nFor strangers to my nature. I am yet\nUnknown to woman; never was forsworn;\nScarcely have coveted what was mine own;\nAt no time broke my faith; would not betray\nThe devil to his fellow; and delight\nNo less in truth than life: my first false speaking\nWas this upon myself:--what I am truly,\nIs thine and my poor country's to command:\nWhither, indeed, before thy here-approach,\nOld Siward, with ten thousand warlike men\nAlready at a point, was setting forth:\nNow we'll together; and the chance of goodness\nBe like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent?\n\nMACDUFF.\nSuch welcome and unwelcome things at once\n'Tis hard to reconcile.\n\n[Enter a Doctor.]\n\nMALCOLM.\nWell; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you?\n\nDOCTOR.\nAy, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls\nThat stay his cure: their malady convinces\nThe great assay of art; but, at his touch,\nSuch sanctity hath heaven given his hand,\nThey presently amend.\n\nMALCOLM.\nI thank you, doctor.\n\n[Exit Doctor.]\n\nMACDUFF.\nWhat's the disease he means?\n\nMALCOLM.\n'Tis call'd the evil:\nA most miraculous work in this good king;\nWhich often, since my here-remain in England,\nI have seen him do. How he solicits heaven,\nHimself best knows: but strangely-visited people,\nAll swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,\nThe mere despair of surgery, he cures;\nHanging a golden stamp about their necks,\nPut on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,\nTo the succeeding royalty he leaves\nThe healing benediction. With this strange virtue,\nHe hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;\nAnd sundry blessings hang about his throne,\nThat speak him full of grace.\n\nMACDUFF.\nSee, who comes here?\n\nMALCOLM.\nMy countryman; but yet I know him not.\n\n[Enter Ross.]\n\nMACDUFF.\nMy ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.\n\nMALCOLM.\nI know him now. Good God, betimes remove\nThe means that makes us strangers!\n\nROSS.\nSir, amen.\n\nMACDUFF.\nStands Scotland where it did?\n\nROSS.\nAlas, poor country,--\nAlmost afraid to know itself! It cannot\nBe call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing,\nBut who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;\nWhere sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air,\nAre made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems\nA modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell\nIs there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives\nExpire before the flowers in their caps,\nDying or ere they sicken.\n\nMACDUFF.\nO, relation\nToo nice, and yet too true!\n\nMALCOLM.\nWhat's the newest grief?\n\nROSS.\nThat of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;\nEach minute teems a new one.\n\nMACDUFF.\nHow does my wife?\n\nROSS.\nWhy, well.\n\nMACDUFF.\nAnd all my children?\n\nROSS.\nWell too.\n\nMACDUFF.\nThe tyrant has not batter'd at their peace?\n\nROSS.\nNo; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.\n\nMACDUFF.\nBe not a niggard of your speech: how goes't?\n\nROSS.\nWhen I came hither to transport the tidings,\nWhich I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour\nOf many worthy fellows that were out;\nWhich was to my belief witness'd the rather,\nFor that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot:\nNow is the time of help; your eye in Scotland\nWould create soldiers, make our women fight,\nTo doff their dire distresses.\n\nMALCOLM.\nBe't their comfort\nWe are coming thither: gracious England hath\nLent us good Siward and ten thousand men;\nAn older and a better soldier none\nThat Christendom gives out.\n\nROSS.\nWould I could answer\nThis comfort with the like! But I have words\nThat would be howl'd out in the desert air,\nWhere hearing should not latch them.\n\nMACDUFF.\nWhat concern they?\nThe general cause? or is it a fee-grief\nDue to some single breast?\n\nROSS.\nNo mind that's honest\nBut in it shares some woe; though the main part\nPertains to you alone.\n\nMACDUFF.\nIf it be mine,\nKeep it not from me, quickly let me have it.\n\nROSS.\nLet not your ears despise my tongue for ever,\nWhich shall possess them with the heaviest sound\nThat ever yet they heard.\n\nMACDUFF.\nHumh! I guess at it.\n\nROSS.\nYour castle is surpris'd; your wife and babes\nSavagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner\nWere, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,\nTo add the death of you.\n\nMALCOLM.\nMerciful heaven!--\nWhat, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;\nGive sorrow words: the grief that does not speak\nWhispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.\n\nMACDUFF.\nMy children too?\n\nROSS.\nWife, children, servants, all\nThat could be found.\n\nMACDUFF.\nAnd I must be from thence!\nMy wife kill'd too?\n\nROSS.\nI have said.\n\nMALCOLM.\nBe comforted:\nLet's make us medicines of our great revenge,\nTo cure this deadly grief.\n\nMACDUFF.\nHe has no children.--All my pretty ones?\nDid you say all?--O hell-kite!--All?\nWhat, all my pretty chickens and their dam\nAt one fell swoop?\n\nMALCOLM.\nDispute it like a man.\n\nMACDUFF.\nI shall do so;\nBut I must also feel it as a man:\nI cannot but remember such things were,\nThat were most precious to me.--Did heaven look on,\nAnd would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,\nThey were all struck for thee! naught that I am,\nNot for their own demerits, but for mine,\nFell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now!\n\nMALCOLM.\nBe this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief\nConvert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.\n\nMACDUFF.\nO, I could play the woman with mine eye,\nAnd braggart with my tongue!--But, gentle heavens,\nCut short all intermission; front to front\nBring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;\nWithin my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,\nHeaven forgive him too!\n\nMALCOLM.\nThis tune goes manly.\nCome, go we to the king; our power is ready;\nOur lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth\nIs ripe for shaking, and the powers above\nPut on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may;\nThe night is long that never finds the day.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Outside the palace the original two murderers are joined by a third one sent by Macbeth. As the scene opens, the three of them are waiting for Banquo and Fleance to return from their ride in the countryside in order to carry out the murders plotted by the king. Banquo and Fleance enter on foot and converse about the weather. The dark, cloudy skies cause them to forecast rain. The murderers attack and stab Banquo first. He, in turn, screams to Fleance to \"Fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge .\" Banquo dies, but his son escapes on foot into the darkness of the night. The murderers comment to one another that they \"have lost  best half of our affair,\" and depart to tell the king the bad news."}, {"": "50", "document": "\n\nHad Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could\nnot have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic\ncomfort. Her father captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance\nof good humour, which youth and beauty generally give, had married a\nwoman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind, had very early in\ntheir marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,\nesteem, and confidence, had vanished for ever; and all his views of\ndomestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a\ndisposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own\nimprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often\nconsole the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of\nthe country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal\nenjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as\nher ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not\nthe sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his\nwife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true\nphilosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.\n\nElizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her\nfather's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but\nrespecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of\nherself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to\nbanish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation\nand decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own\nchildren, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so\nstrongly as now, the disadvantages which must attend the children of so\nunsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils\narising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents which rightly\nused, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters,\neven if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.\n\nWhen Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure, she found little\nother cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties\nabroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and\nsister whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing around\nthem, threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty\nmight in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers\nof her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition\ngreater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her\nfolly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a watering\nplace and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been\nsometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward\nwith impatient desire, did not in taking place, bring all the\nsatisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to\nname some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have\nsome other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by\nagain enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the\npresent, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes\nwas now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation\nfor all the uncomfortable hours, which the discontentedness of her\nmother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in\nthe scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.\n\n\"But it is fortunate,\" thought she, \"that I have something to wish for.\nWere the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.\nBut here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my\nsister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of\npleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can\nnever be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by\nthe defence of some little peculiar vexation.\"\n\nWhen Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and very minutely\nto her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and\nalways very short. Those to her mother, contained little else, than that\nthey were just returned from the library, where such and such officers\nhad attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as\nmade her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which\nshe would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a\nviolent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the\ncamp;--and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less\nto be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much\ntoo full of lines under the words to be made public.\n\nAfter the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good\nhumour and cheerfulness began to re-appear at Longbourn. Everything wore\na happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came\nback again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet\nwas restored to her usual querulous serenity, and by the middle of June\nKitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without\ntears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope, that by\nthe following Christmas, she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to\nmention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious\narrangement at the war-office, another regiment should be quartered in\nMeryton.\n\nThe time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast\napproaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter\narrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and\ncurtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from\nsetting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again\nwithin a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so\nfar, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with\nthe leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up\nthe Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the\npresent plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that\ncounty, there was enough to be seen, to occupy the chief of their three\nweeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The\ntown where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where\nthey were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of\nher curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,\nDovedale, or the Peak.\n\nElizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing\nthe Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it\nwas her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;\nand all was soon right again.\n\nWith the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was\nimpossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its\nowner. \"But surely,\" said she, \"I may enter his county with impunity,\nand rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.\"\n\nThe period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away\nbefore her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and\nMrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at\nLongbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two\nyounger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin\nJane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and\nsweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every\nway--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.\n\nThe Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next\nmorning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One\nenjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a\nsuitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear\ninconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection\nand intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were\ndisappointments abroad.\n\nIt is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,\nnor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither\nlay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are\nsufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present\nconcern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's\nformer residence, and where she had lately learned that some\nacquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen\nall the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of\nLambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It\nwas not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In\ntalking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an\ninclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his\nwillingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.\n\n\"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so\nmuch?\" said her aunt. \"A place too, with which so many of your\nacquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you\nknow.\"\n\nElizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at\nPemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She\nmust own that she was tired of great houses; after going over so many,\nshe really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.\n\nMrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. \"If it were merely a fine house\nrichly furnished,\" said she, \"I should not care about it myself; but the\ngrounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the\ncountry.\"\n\nElizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The\npossibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly\noccurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and\nthought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run\nsuch a risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally\nresolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries as\nto the absence of the family, were unfavourably answered.\n\nAccordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid\nwhether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its\nproprietor, and with no little alarm, whether the family were down for\nthe summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her\nalarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of\ncuriosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the\nnext morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and\nwith a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike\nto the scheme.\n\nTo Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.\n\n\nEND OF THE SECOND VOLUME.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: MATLOCK]\n\n\n\n\nPRIDE AND PREJUDICE:\n\nA Novel.\n\nIn Three Volumes.\n\nBy the Author of \"Sense and Sensibility.\"\n\nVOL. III.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nPrinted for T. Egerton,\nMilitary Library, Whitehall.", "summary": "It is summer at Longbourn; Lydia has gone to Brighton, and Mrs. Bennet and Kitty constantly complain of boredom. Mr. Bennett, as always, stays aloof and uninvolved. Elizabeth, remembering the contents of Darcys letter, is more bothered by her parents behavior than ever. She realizes they are totally mismatched and decides she will not marry until she finds someone with whom she can have a proper and supportive relationship. Unlike the bored Kitty and her mother, Elizabeth is eagerly awaiting her trip with the Gardiners. As she dreams about the northern tour, she receives a letter explaining that the trip has to be shortened to only Derbyshire. She is momentarily disappointed, for she has been looking forward to seeing the lake. The Gardiners take Elizabeth to Lambton, where Mrs. Gardiner once resided. Pemberley, Darcys residence, is situated about five miles away. Elizabeth is persuaded by her aunt and uncle to visit Pemberley, since the family is away."}, {"": "51", "document": "CHAPTER IV.\n\n     MILENDO, THE METROPOLIS OF LILLIPUT, DESCRIBED TOGETHER WITH THE\n     EMPEROR'S PALACE. A CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE AUTHOR AND A PRINCIPAL\n     SECRETARY, CONCERNING THE AFFAIRS OF THAT EMPIRE. THE AUTHOR OFFERS\n     TO SERVE THE EMPEROR IN HIS WARS.\n\n\nThe first request I made, after I had obtained my liberty, was, that I\nmight have license to see Milendo, the metropolis; which the emperor\neasily granted me, but with a special charge to do no hurt, either to\nthe inhabitants or their houses. The people had notice, by proclamation,\nof my design to visit the town.\n\nThe wall, which encompassed it, is two feet and a half high, and at\nleast eleven inches broad, so that a coach and horses may be driven very\nsafely round it; and it is flanked with strong towers at ten feet\ndistance. I stept over the great western gate, and passed very gently,\nand sideling, through the two principal streets, only in my short\nwaistcoat, for fear of damaging the roofs and eaves of the houses with\nthe skirts[23] of my coat. I walked with the utmost circumspection, to\navoid treading on any stragglers who might remain in the streets;\nalthough the orders were very strict, that all people should keep in\ntheir houses at their own peril. The garret-windows and tops of houses\nwere so crowded with spectators, that I thought in all my travels I had\nnot seen a more populous place.\n\nThe city is an exact square, each side of the wall being five hundred\nfeet long. The two great streets, which run across and divide it into\nfour quarters, are five feet wide. The lanes and alleys, which I could\nnot enter, but only viewed them as I passed, are from twelve to eighteen\ninches. The town is capable of holding five hundred thousand souls; the\nhouses are from three to five stories; the shops and markets well\nprovided.\n\nThe emperor's palace is in the centre of the city, where the two great\nstreets meet. It is enclosed by a wall of two foot high, and twenty foot\ndistant from the buildings. I had his majesty's permission to step over\nthis wall; and the space being so wide between that and the palace, I\ncould easily view it on every side.\n\nThe outward court is a square of forty feet, and includes two other\ncourts; in the inmost are the royal apartments, which I was very\ndesirous to see, but found it extremely difficult; for the great gates\nfrom one square into another were but eighteen inches high, and seven\ninches wide. Now the buildings of the outer court were at least five\nfeet high, and it was impossible for me to stride over them without\ninfinite damage to the pile, though the walls were strongly built of\nhewn stone, and four inches thick.\n\nAt the same time, the emperor had a great desire that I should see the\nmagnificence of his palace; but this I was not able to do till three\ndays after, which I spent in cutting down, with my knife, some of the\nlargest trees in the royal park, about an hundred yards distance from\nthe city. Of these trees I made two stools, each about three feet high,\nand strong enough to bear my weight.\n\n[Illustration: \"HER IMPERIAL MAJESTY WAS PLEASED TO SMILE VERY GRACIOUSLY\nUPON ME\" P. 50.]\n\nThe people having received notice a second time, I went again through\nthe city to the palace, with my two stools in my hands. When I came to\nthe side of the outer court, I stood upon one stool, and took the other\nin my hand; this I lifted over the roof, and gently set it down on the\nspace between the first and second court, which was eight feet wide. I\nthen stept over the building very conveniently, from one stool to the\nother, and drew up the first after me with a hooked stick. By this\ncontrivance I got into the inmost court; and, lying down upon my side, I\napplied my face to the windows of the middle stories, which were left\nopen on purpose, and discovered the most splendid apartments that can be\nimagined. There I saw the empress and the young princes in their several\nlodgings, with their chief attendants about them. Her imperial majesty\nwas pleased to smile very graciously upon me, and gave me out of the\nwindow her hand to kiss.\n\nBut I shall not anticipate the reader with farther descriptions of this\nkind, because I reserve them for a greater work, which is now almost\nready for the press, containing a general description of this empire,\nfrom its first erection, through a long series of princes, with a\nparticular account of their wars and politics, laws, learning, and\nreligion, their plants and animals, their peculiar manners and customs,\nwith other matters very curious and useful; my chief design, at present,\nbeing only to relate such events and transactions as happened to the\npublic, or to myself, during a residence of about nine months in that\nempire.\n\nOne morning, about a fortnight after I had obtained my liberty,\nReldresal, principal secretary (as they style him) for private affairs,\ncame to my house, attended only by one servant. He ordered his coach to\nwait at a distance, and desired I would give him an hour's audience;\nwhich I readily consented to, on account of his quality and personal\nmerits, as well as of the many good offices he had done me during my\nsolicitations at court. I offered to lie down, that he might the more\nconveniently reach my ear; but he chose rather to let me hold him in my\nhand during our conversation.\n\nHe began with compliments on my liberty; said he might pretend to some\nmerit in it. But however, added, that if it had not been for the present\nsituation of things at court, perhaps I might not have obtained it so\nsoon. For, said he, as flourishing a condition as we may appear to be in\nto foreigners, we labor under two mighty evils: a violent faction at\nhome, and the danger of an invasion, by a most potent enemy, from\nabroad. As to the first, you are to understand, that, for above seventy\nmoons past, there have been two struggling parties in this empire, under\nthe names of _Tramecksan_ and _Slamecksan_, from the high and low heels\nof their shoes, by which they distinguish themselves. It is alleged,\nindeed, that the high heels are most agreeable to our ancient\nconstitution; but, however this may be, his majesty hath determined to\nmake use only of low heels in the administration of the government, and\nall offices in the gift of the crown, as you cannot but observe: and\nparticularly, that his majesty's imperial heels are lower, at least by a\n_drurr_, than any of his court (_drurr_ is a measure about the\nfourteenth part of an inch). The animosities between these two parties\nrun so high, that they will neither eat nor drink nor talk with each\nother. We compute the _Tramecksan_, or high heels, to exceed us in\nnumber; but the power is wholly on our side. We apprehend his imperial\nhighness, the heir to the crown, to have some tendency towards the high\nheels; at least, we can plainly discover that one of his heels is higher\nthan the other, which gives him a hobble in his gait. Now, in the midst\nof these intestine disquiets, we are threatened with an invasion from\nthe island of Blefuscu, which is the other great empire of the universe,\nalmost as large and powerful as this of his majesty. For, as to what we\nhave heard you affirm, that there are other kingdoms and states in the\nworld, inhabited by human creatures as large as yourself, our\nphilosophers are in much doubt, and would rather conjecture that you\ndropped from the moon or one of the stars, because it is certain, that\nan hundred mortals of your bulk would, in a short time, destroy all the\nfruits and cattle of his majesty's dominions. Besides, our histories of\nsix thousand moons make no mention of any other regions than the two\ngreat empires of Lilliput and Blefuscu. Which two mighty powers have, as\nI was going to tell you, been engaged in a most obstinate war for\nsix-and-thirty moons past. It began upon the following occasion: It is\nallowed on all hands, that the primitive way of breaking eggs, before we\neat them, was upon the larger end; but his present majesty's\ngrandfather, while he was a boy, going to eat an egg, and breaking it\naccording to the ancient practice, happened to cut one of his fingers.\nWhereupon the emperor, his father, published an edict, commanding all\nhis subjects, upon great penalties, to break the smaller end of their\neggs. The people so highly resented this law, that our histories tell\nus, there have been six rebellions raised on that account, wherein one\nemperor lost his life, and another his crown. These civil commotions\nwere constantly fomented by the monarchs of Blefuscu; and when they\nwere quelled, the exiles always fled for refuge to that empire. It is\ncomputed, that eleven thousand persons have, at several times, suffered\ndeath, rather than submit to break their eggs at the smaller end. Many\nhundred large volumes have been published upon this controversy, but the\nbooks of the Big-endians have been long forbidden, and the whole party\nrendered incapable, by law, of holding employments. During the course of\nthese troubles, the Emperors of Blefuscu did frequently expostulate, by\ntheir ambassadors, accusing us of making a schism in religion, by\noffending against a fundamental doctrine of our great prophet Lustrog,\nin the fifty-fourth chapter of the Blundecral (which is their\nAlcoran)[24] This, however, is thought to be a mere strain upon the\ntext; for the words are these: That all true believers break their eggs\nat the convenient end. And which is the convenient end, seems, in my\nhumble opinion, to be left to every man's conscience, or, at least, in\nthe power of the chief magistrate to determine. Now, the Big-endian\nexiles have found so much credit in the emperor of Blefuscu's court, and\nso much private assistance and encouragement from their party here at\nhome, that a bloody war hath been carried on between the two empires for\nsix-and-thirty moons, with various success; during which time we have\nlost forty capital ships, and a much greater number of smaller vessels,\ntogether with thirty thousand of our best seamen and soldiers; and the\ndamage received by the enemy is reckoned to be somewhat greater than\nours. However, they have now equipped a numerous fleet, and are just\npreparing to make a descent upon us; and his imperial majesty, placing\ngreat confidence in your valor and strength, hath commanded me to lay\nthis account of his affairs before you.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\nI desired the secretary to present my humble duty to the emperor, and to\nlet him know that I thought it would not become me, who was a foreigner,\nto interfere with parties; but I was ready, with the hazard of my life,\nto defend his person and state against all invaders.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "\"The Country described. A Proposal for correcting modern Maps. The King's Palace, and some Account of the Metropolis. The Author's way of travelling. The chief Temple described. Gulliver spends a great deal of time describing the landscape of Brobdingnag, the palace that he now lives in and his manner of traveling in a small traveling box designed especially for him. He also sees and describes the largest temple in Brobdingnag, which he does not find impressive in its size"}, {"": "52", "document": "\nIn the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried\ntheir dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence.  It\nwas all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and\nremained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen\n--something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts\nto bear.\n\nBut the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation--the\nhopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy.  Sometimes\nthey hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and\ntheir days were long to weariness.\n\nIt was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night,\nstretched out his hand and found himself alone.  The room was in\ndarkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window.  He\nraised himself in bed and listened.\n\n\"Come back,\" he said, tenderly.  \"You will be cold.\"\n\n\"It is colder for my son,\" said the old woman, and wept afresh.\n\nThe sound of her sobs died away on his ears.  The bed was warm, and his\neyes heavy with sleep.  He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden\nwild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.\n\n\"The paw!\"  she cried wildly.  \"The monkey's paw!\"\n\nHe started up in alarm.  \"Where?  Where is it?  What's the matter?\"\n\nShe came stumbling across the room toward him.  \"I want it,\" she said,\nquietly.  \"You've not destroyed it?\"\n\n\"It's in the parlour, on the bracket,\" he replied, marvelling.  \"Why?\"\n\nShe cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.\n\n\"I only just thought of it,\" she said, hysterically.  \"Why didn't I think\nof it before?  Why didn't you think of it?\"\n\n\"Think of what?\"  he questioned.\n\n\"The other two wishes,\" she replied, rapidly. \"We've only had one.\"\n\n\"Was not that enough?\"  he demanded, fiercely.\n\n\"No,\" she cried, triumphantly; \"we'll have one more.  Go down and get it\nquickly, and wish our boy alive again.\"\n\nThe man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs.\n\"Good God, you are mad!\"  he cried, aghast.\n\n\"Get it,\" she panted; \"get it quickly, and wish--Oh, my boy, my boy!\"\n\nHer husband struck a match and lit the candle.  \"Get back to bed,\" he\nsaid, unsteadily.  \"You don't know what you are saying.\"\n\n\"We had the first wish granted,\" said the old woman, feverishly; \"why not\nthe second?\"\n\n\"A coincidence,\" stammered the old man.\n\n\"Go and get it and wish,\" cried his wife, quivering with excitement.\n\nThe old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook.  \"He has been\ndead ten days, and besides he--I would not tell you else, but--I could\nonly recognize him by his clothing.  If he was too terrible for you to\nsee then, how now?\"\n\n\"Bring him back,\" cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door.\n\"Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?\"\n\nHe went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then\nto the mantelpiece.  The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear\nthat the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he\ncould escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as\nhe found that he had lost the direction of the door.  His brow cold with\nsweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until\nhe found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his\nhand.\n\nEven his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room.  It was white\nand expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it.\nHe was afraid of her.\n\n\"Wish!\"  she cried, in a strong voice.\n\n\"It is foolish and wicked,\" he faltered.\n\n\"Wish!\"  repeated his wife.\n\nHe raised his hand.  \"I wish my son alive again.\"\n\nThe talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully.  Then he\nsank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked\nto the window and raised the blind.\n\nHe sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the\nfigure of the old woman peering through the window.  The candle-end,\nwhich had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing\npulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger\nthan the rest, it expired.  The old man, with an unspeakable sense of\nrelief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a\nminute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically\nbeside him.\n\nNeither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock.  A\nstair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall.\nThe darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up\nhis courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went\ndownstairs for a candle.\n\nAt the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike\nanother; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be\nscarcely audible, sounded on the front door.\n\nThe matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage.  He stood\nmotionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated.  Then he\nturned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him.\nA third knock sounded through the house.\n\n\"What's that?\"  cried the old woman, starting up.\n\n\"A rat,\" said the old man in shaking tones--\"a rat.  It passed me on the\nstairs.\"\n\nHis wife sat up in bed listening.  A loud knock resounded through the\nhouse.\n\n\"It's Herbert!\"  she screamed.  \"It's Herbert!\"\n\nShe ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by\nthe arm, held her tightly.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\"  he whispered hoarsely.\n\n\"It's my boy; it's Herbert!\"  she cried, struggling mechanically.\n\"I forgot it was two miles away.  What are you holding me for?  Let go.\nI must open the door.\"\n\n\"For God's sake don't let it in,\" cried the old man, trembling.\n\n\"You're afraid of your own son,\" she cried, struggling.  \"Let me go.  I'm\ncoming, Herbert; I'm coming.\"\n\nThere was another knock, and another.  The old woman with a sudden wrench\nbroke free and ran from the room.  Her husband followed to the landing,\nand called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs.  He heard the\nchain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the\nsocket.  Then the old woman's voice, strained and panting.\n\n\"The bolt,\" she cried, loudly.  \"Come down.  I can't reach it.\"\n\nBut her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in\nsearch of the paw.  If he could only find it before the thing outside got\nin.  A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he\nheard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage\nagainst the door.  He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly\nback, and at the same moment he found the monkey's paw, and frantically\nbreathed his third and last wish.\n\nThe knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the\nhouse.  He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened.  A cold wind\nrushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and\nmisery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then\nto the gate beyond.  The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet\nand deserted road.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Whites bury Herbert in a cemetery two miles from their house. Their home is now a dark and lonely place. The Whites feel like they are waiting for something to happen to help them with their sadness. One night, about a week later, Mrs. White remembers the monkey's paw. She wants Mr. White to wish Herbert back to life. Mr. White, who isn't sure whether Herbert's death has anything to do with the paw, is totally against this idea. But Mrs. White won't take no for an answer, so Mr. White, against his own judgment, wishes Herbert back to life. Nothing happens. They go back to bed. Mr. White is relieved. Herbert has been dead ten days and his body looked really horrible ten days ago. Mr. White has no desire to see the undead version of his son. After a while, the Whites hear someone - or something - banging on the front door. Mrs. White decides that it just took Herbert a little while to get home, because the graveyard where he was buried is two miles away. She runs downstairs to welcome home undead Herbert. Mr. White is scared. He wants nothing to do with undead Herbert. He quickly makes his third wish. The story doesn't say what this wish is, but the knocking stops just as Mrs. White gets the door open. When she steps outside, nobody there and the road is empty. She screams because Herbert isn't there. Mr. White goes outside and comforts her. Want to talk about the ending? Hurry over to \"What's Up With the Ending?\""}, {"": "53", "document": "ACT III. SCENE I.\n\nForres. A Room in the Palace.\n\n[Enter Banquo.]\n\nBANQUO.\nThou hast it now,--king, Cawdor, Glamis, all,\nAs the weird women promis'd; and, I fear,\nThou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said\nIt should not stand in thy posterity;\nBut that myself should be the root and father\nOf many kings. If there come truth from them,--\nAs upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,--\nWhy, by the verities on thee made good,\nMay they not be my oracles as well,\nAnd set me up in hope? But hush; no more.\n\n[Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth\nas Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.]\n\nMACBETH.\nHere's our chief guest.\n\nLADY MACBETH.\nIf he had been forgotten,\nIt had been as a gap in our great feast,\nAnd all-thing unbecoming.\n\nMACBETH.\nTo-night we hold a solemn supper, sir,\nAnd I'll request your presence.\n\nBANQUO.\nLet your highness\nCommand upon me; to the which my duties\nAre with a most indissoluble tie\nFor ever knit.\n\nMACBETH.\nRide you this afternoon?\n\nBANQUO.\nAy, my good lord.\n\nMACBETH.\nWe should have else desir'd your good advice,--\nWhich still hath been both grave and prosperous,--\nIn this day's council; but we'll take to-morrow.\nIs't far you ride?\n\nBANQUO.\nAs far, my lord, as will fill up the time\n'Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better,\nI must become a borrower of the night,\nFor a dark hour or twain.\n\nMACBETH.\nFail not our feast.\n\nBANQUO.\nMy lord, I will not.\n\nMACBETH.\nWe hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd\nIn England and in Ireland; not confessing\nTheir cruel parricide, filling their hearers\nWith strange invention: but of that to-morrow;\nWhen therewithal we shall have cause of state\nCraving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu,\nTill you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?\n\nBANQUO.\nAy, my good lord: our time does call upon's.\n\nMACBETH.\nI wish your horses swift and sure of foot;\nAnd so I do commend you to their backs.\nFarewell.--\n\n[Exit  Banquo.]\n\nLet every man be master of his time\nTill seven at night; to make society\nThe sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself\nTill supper time alone: while then, God be with you!\n\n[Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, Ladies, &c.]\n\nSirrah, a word with you: attend those men\nOur pleasure?\n\nATTENDANT.\nThey are, my lord, without the palace gate.\n\nMACBETH.\nBring them before us.\n\n[Exit Attendant.]\n\nTo be thus is nothing;\nBut to be safely thus:--our fears in Banquo.\nStick deep; and in his royalty of nature\nReigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares;\nAnd, to that dauntless temper of his mind,\nHe hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour\nTo act in safety. There is none but he\nWhose being I do fear: and under him,\nMy genius is rebuk'd; as, it is said,\nMark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters\nWhen first they put the name of king upon me,\nAnd bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like,\nThey hail'd him father to a line of kings:\nUpon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown,\nAnd put a barren sceptre in my gripe,\nThence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,\nNo son of mine succeeding. If't be so,\nFor Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind;\nFor them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd;\nPut rancours in the vessel of my peace\nOnly for them; and mine eternal jewel\nGiven to the common enemy of man,\nTo make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!\nRather than so, come, fate, into the list,\nAnd champion me to the utterance!--Who's there?--\n\n[Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers.]\n\nNow go to the door, and stay there till we call.\n\n[Exit Attendant.]\n\nWas it not yesterday we spoke together?\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nIt was, so please your highness.\n\nMACBETH.\nWell then, now\nHave you consider'd of my speeches? Know\nThat it was he, in the times past, which held you\nSo under fortune; which you thought had been\nOur innocent self: this I made good to you\nIn our last conference, pass'd in probation with you\nHow you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments,\nWho wrought with them, and all things else that might\nTo half a soul and to a notion craz'd\nSay, \"Thus did Banquo.\"\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nYou made it known to us.\n\nMACBETH.\nI did so; and went further, which is now\nOur point of second meeting. Do you find\nYour patience so predominant in your nature,\nThat you can let this go? Are you so gospell'd,\nTo pray for this good man and for his issue,\nWhose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave,\nAnd beggar'd yours forever?\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nWe are men, my liege.\n\nMACBETH.\nAy, in the catalogue ye go for men;\nAs hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,\nShoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept\nAll by the name of dogs: the valu'd file\nDistinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,\nThe house-keeper, the hunter, every one\nAccording to the gift which bounteous nature\nHath in him clos'd; whereby he does receive\nParticular addition, from the bill\nThat writes them all alike: and so of men.\nNow, if you have a station in the file,\nNot i' the worst rank of manhood, say it;\nAnd I will put that business in your bosoms,\nWhose execution takes your enemy off;\nGrapples you to the heart and love of us,\nWho wear our health but sickly in his life,\nWhich in his death were perfect.\n\nSECOND MURDERER.\nI am one, my liege,\nWhom the vile blows and buffets of the world\nHave so incens'd that I am reckless what\nI do to spite the world.\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nAnd I another,\nSo weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,\nThat I would set my life on any chance,\nTo mend it or be rid on't.\n\nMACBETH.\nBoth of you\nKnow Banquo was your enemy.\n\nBOTH MURDERERS.\nTrue, my lord.\n\nMACBETH.\nSo is he mine; and in such bloody distance,\nThat every minute of his being thrusts\nAgainst my near'st of life; and though I could\nWith barefac'd power sweep him from my sight,\nAnd bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,\nFor certain friends that are both his and mine,\nWhose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall\nWho I myself struck down: and thence it is\nThat I to your assistance do make love;\nMasking the business from the common eye\nFor sundry weighty reasons.\n\nSECOND MURDERER.\nWe shall, my lord,\nPerform what you command us.\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nThough our lives--\n\nMACBETH.\nYour spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most,\nI will advise you where to plant yourselves;\nAcquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,\nThe moment on't; for't must be done to-night\nAnd something from the palace; always thought\nThat I require a clearness; and with him,--\nTo leave no rubs nor botches in the work,--\nFleance his son, that keeps him company,\nWhose absence is no less material to me\nThan is his father's, must embrace the fate\nOf that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart:\nI'll come to you anon.\n\nBOTH MURDERERS.\nWe are resolv'd, my lord.\n\nMACBETH.\nI'll call upon you straight: abide within.\n\n[Exeunt Murderers.]\n\nIt is concluded:--Banquo, thy soul's flight,\nIf it find heaven, must find it out to-night.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Macbeth's new palace in Forres, Banquo, alone on stage, delivers a soliloquy: he's totally suspicious of Macbeth. But he does take the time to note that his part of the prophecy, regarding his royal seed, will also probably come true. Banquo pipes down when the newly crowned Macbeth, his lovely Queen, and a posse of noblemen enter the room. Macbeth sweet talks Banquo, calling him his honored guest and requesting his presence at a fancy banquet to be held that night. Banquo says he will, of course, do whatever Macbeth asks. However, he won't be around to offer any advice this afternoon as he has errands to run. Macbeth oh-so-casually asks what Banquo will be up to, and finds out that he'll be riding off somewhere before the dinner, but that he'll definitely be back in time for the feast. Having obtained the information he needs, Macbeth changes the subject to the fact that the \"bloody\" Malcolm and Donalbain are suspiciously missing, and respectively hiding out with new friends in Ireland and England. Plus, it seems that Duncan's sons are busy \"not confessing\" to Duncan's murder --instead, they're spreading nasty rumors about their father's death. Macbeth adds a little BTW as Banquo leaves, asking if his son, Fleance, will be riding along with him that evening. Fleance will indeed be going, and upon hearing this, Macbeth bids them farewell. Everyone except for Macbeth and a servant leave the room. Macbeth has the servant call in the men he has waiting at the gate. Left to himself, Macbeth launches into a long speech about why it's necessary and good to kill his friend, Banquo. Uh, okay. Macbeth is worried about Banquo's noble nature, wisdom, and valor. Plus, if the rest of the witches' prophecy comes true, Macbeth figures that he'll have sold his soul to the devil only for Banquo's kids to take his crown. He concludes his speech by inviting fate to wrestle with him, and says he won't give up until he's won or dead. Hm. It seems like it's getting a whole lot easier for Macbeth to think about murder, don't you think? The two men at the gate are brought in, and we discover that Macbeth intends for them to murder Banquo and his son while on their ride. Macbeth speechifies to the two murderers about how Banquo is their enemy and anything bad that has ever happened to them is surely Banquo's fault. Macbeth says that no turn-the-other-cheek Christianity is necessary here. The murderers respond by saying that they are only \"men,\" and then Macbeth uses the technique he learned while being berated by his own wife: he claims they're not real men if they're not brave enough to murder a man for their own good. Um...okay, say the henchmen. We'll do it. Their lives are pretty bad anyway. They're fine with taking a chance on eternal damnation. Macbeth says that Banquo is his enemy, too, and he'd do the kingly thing and just have him publicly killed, except that they have a lot of mutual friends, which might make things a little awkward at parties. The murderers again say they'll do it, and Macbeth says he'll tell them where they need to be and when. Oh, and they'll have to kill the Fleance, too. Macbeth will be in touch shortly, but right now he has to go get ready for a dinner party. After they leave, Macbeth delivers a nice rhyming couplet indicating that if Banquo's soul is headed to heaven, it will arrive there tonight."}, {"": "54", "document": "\n\nIt was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out\ntogether from Gracechurch-street, for the town of ---- in Hertfordshire;\nand, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was\nto meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's\npunctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up\nstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily\nemployed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on\nguard, and dressing a sallad and cucumber.\n\nAfter welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set\nout with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,\n\"Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?\"\n\n\"And we mean to treat you all,\" added Lydia; \"but you must lend us the\nmoney, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.\" Then shewing\nher purchases: \"Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it\nis very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall\npull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any\nbetter.\"\n\nAnd when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect\nunconcern, \"Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and\nwhen I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I\nthink it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what\none wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they\nare going in a fortnight.\"\n\n\"Are they indeed?\" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.\n\n\"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to\ntake us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme,\nand I dare say would hardly cost any thing at all. Mamma would like to\ngo too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall\nhave!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" thought Elizabeth, \"_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed,\nand completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole\ncampful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor\nregiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton.\"\n\n\"Now I have got some news for you,\" said Lydia, as they sat down to\ntable. \"What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about\na certain person that we all like.\"\n\nJane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he\nneed not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,\n\n\"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the\nwaiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse\nthings said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad\nhe is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for\nmy news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it?\nThere is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She\nis gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe.\"\n\n\"And Mary King is safe!\" added Elizabeth; \"safe from a connection\nimprudent as to fortune.\"\n\n\"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.\"\n\n\"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,\" said Jane.\n\n\"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it he never cared\nthree straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled\nthing?\"\n\nElizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such\ncoarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_\nwas little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied\nliberal!\n\nAs soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was\nordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their\nboxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and\nLydia's purchases, were seated in it.\n\n\"How nicely we are crammed in!\" cried Lydia. \"I am glad I bought my\nbonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now\nlet us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way\nhome. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all,\nsince you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any\nflirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband\nbefore you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.\nShe is almost three and twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not\nbeing married before three and twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to\nget husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.\nCollins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!\nhow I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would\nchaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece\nof fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend\nthe day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the\nevening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so\nshe asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen\nwas forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We\ndressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes, on purpose to pass for a\nlady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Col. and Mrs.\nForster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow\none of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,\nand Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they\ndid not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.\nForster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect\nsomething, and then they soon found out what was the matter.\"\n\nWith such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia,\nassisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her\ncompanions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she\ncould, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.\n\nTheir reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane\nin undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet\nsay voluntarily to Elizabeth,\n\n\"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.\"\n\nTheir party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases\ncame to meet Maria and hear the news: and various were the subjects\nwhich occupied them; lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria across the table,\nafter the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was\ndoubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present\nfashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other,\nretailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice\nrather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various\npleasures of the morning to any body who would hear her.\n\n\"Oh! Mary,\" said she, \"I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!\nas we went along, Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended\nthere was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if\nKitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we\nbehaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest\ncold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have\ntreated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought\nwe never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter.\nAnd then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so\nloud, that any body might have heard us ten miles off!\"\n\nTo this, Mary very gravely replied, \"Far be it from me, my dear sister,\nto depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with\nthe generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms\nfor _me_. I should infinitely prefer a book.\"\n\nBut of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to any\nbody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.\n\nIn the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to\nMeryton and see how every body went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed\nthe scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at\nhome half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was\nanother reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham again,\nand was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_,\nof the regiment's approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In\na fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be\nnothing more to plague her on his account.\n\nShe had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton\nscheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under\nfrequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her\nfather had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were\nat the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often\ndisheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Kitty and Lydia wait at the village inn for their elder sisters. On their way back to Longbourn, they tell anecdotes and jokes to Elizabeth and Jane. Lydia reveals that Miss King has gone to Liverpool to break free from Wickham. Elizabeth and Jane are warmly welcomed by their parents. Mrs. Bennet is pleased to see Jane is still so beautiful, and Mr. Bennet more than once voices how glad he is to have his darling Lizzy back. Mrs. Bennet and her younger daughters are aggrieved because the militia regiment is leaving for Brighton. Elizabeth is relieved on hearing the news for two reasons. First, she does not want to see Wickham in her present agitated state of mind; and secondly, she feels her sisters will not be so capricious with the soldiers gone. Lydia has been invited to Brighton for the summer, and Mrs. Bennet and the younger girls want Mr. Bennet to take the whole family there. Although Mr. Bennet has no intentions of doing this, his answers are vague and equivocal."}, {"": "55", "document": "\n\n\"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events\nthat impressed me with feelings which, from what I was, have made me\nwhat I am.\n\n\"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and the skies\ncloudless. It surprised me, that what before was desert and gloomy\nshould now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses\nwere gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight, and a\nthousand sights of beauty.\n\n\"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from\nlabour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to\nhim--I observed that the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond\nexpression: he sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his\nmusic, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired the cause of his\nson's sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was\nrecommencing his music, when some one tapped at the door.\n\n\"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman as a guide. The\nlady was dressed in a dark suit, and covered with a thick black veil.\nAgatha asked a question; to which the stranger only replied by\npronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was\nmusical, but unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing this word,\nFelix came up hastily to the lady; who, when she saw him, threw up her\nveil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression. Her\nhair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were\ndark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular\nproportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a\nlovely pink.\n\n\"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of\nsorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of\necstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his eyes\nsparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I\nthought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by\ndifferent feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held\nout her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously, and called her, as\nwell as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to\nunderstand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and, dismissing\nher guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some conversation took place\nbetween him and his father; and the young stranger knelt at the old\nman's feet, and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and\nembraced her affectionately.\n\n\"I soon perceived, that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds,\nand appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood\nby, or herself understood, the cottagers. They made many signs which I\ndid not comprehend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness\nthrough the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the\nmorning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight\nwelcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands\nof the lovely stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made signs which\nappeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some\nhours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the\ncause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent\nrecurrence of one sound which the stranger repeated after them, that she\nwas endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea instantly\noccurred to me, that I should make use of the same instructions to the\nsame end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson,\nmost of them indeed were those which I had before understood, but I\nprofited by the others.\n\n\"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they\nseparated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, 'Good night,\nsweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing with his father; and, by\nthe frequent repetition of her name, I conjectured that their lovely\nguest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to\nunderstand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found\nit utterly impossible.\n\n\"The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the usual\noccupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the\nold man, and, taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly\nbeautiful, that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my\neyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or\ndying away, like a nightingale of the woods.\n\n\"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first\ndeclined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in\nsweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old\nman appeared enraptured, and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured\nto explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that\nshe bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.\n\n\"The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration,\nthat joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.\nSafie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the\nknowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most\nof the words uttered by my protectors.\n\n\"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and\nthe green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the\nscent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;\nthe sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal\nrambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably\nshortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I never\nventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same\ntreatment as I had formerly endured in the first village which I\nentered.\n\n\"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily\nmaster the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than\nthe Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed in broken\naccents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that\nwas spoken.\n\n\"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, as it\nwas taught to the stranger; and this opened before me a wide field for\nwonder and delight.\n\n\"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's _Ruins of\nEmpires_. I should not have understood the purport of this book, had not\nFelix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this\nwork, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of\nthe eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of\nhistory, and a view of the several empires at present existing in the\nworld; it gave me an insight into the manners, governments, and\nreligions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful\nAsiatics; of the stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians;\nof the wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans--of their\nsubsequent degeneration--of the decline of that mighty empire; of\nchivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the\nAmerican hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its\noriginal inhabitants.\n\n\"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man,\nindeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so\nvicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil\nprinciple, and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and\ngodlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that\ncan befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record\nhave been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than\nthat of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not\nconceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why\nthere were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and\nbloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and\nloathing.\n\n\"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While\nI listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian,\nthe strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard of the\ndivision of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank,\ndescent, and noble blood.\n\n\"The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the\npossessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were, high and\nunsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with only\none of these acquisitions; but without either he was considered, except\nin very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his\npowers for the profit of the chosen few. And what was I? Of my creation\nand creator I was absolutely ignorant; but I knew that I possessed no\nmoney, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endowed with a\nfigure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same\nnature as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon\ncoarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to\nmy frame; my stature far exceeded their's. When I looked around, I saw\nand heard of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth,\nfrom which all men fled, and whom all men disowned?\n\n\"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted\nupon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with\nknowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known\nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!\n\n\"Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it\nhas once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to\nshake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one\nmeans to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state\nwhich I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good\nfeelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my\ncottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through\nmeans which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and\nwhich rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one\namong my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of\nthe charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of the old\nman, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were not for me.\nMiserable, unhappy wretch!\n\n\"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the\ndifference of sexes; of the birth and growth of children; how the father\ndoated on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older\nchild; how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapt up in the\nprecious charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge; of\nbrother, sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human\nbeing to another in mutual bonds.\n\n\"But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my\ninfant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if\nthey had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I\ndistinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then\nwas in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling\nme, or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The question\nagain recurred, to be answered only with groans.\n\n\"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but allow me now to\nreturn to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings\nof indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in\nadditional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an\ninnocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them).\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Because the monster is all sensitive and stuff, he starts to realize that Felix is totally sad, too. Soon, a hot, foreign woman arrives at the cottage. Felix perks up. So does everyone else. The woman, Safie, doesn't speak the language that the rest of the cottage people do, so they teach it to her, which is convenient for the monster--he eavesdrops on her lessons and learns the language, too. He also learns to read and learn about the world. He learns about history from the book Ruins of Empires that Felix uses to teach Safie. All this literacy is both good and bad ; it helps him understand the world, but it also reminds him that he can't really participate in the world. He's ugly and different and alone, and now he really knows it."}, {"": "56", "document": "\n\nAfter a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.\nCollins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of\nSaturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his\nside, by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason\nto hope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day\nwould be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave\nof his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished\nhis fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father\nanother letter of thanks.\n\nOn the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her\nbrother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at\nLongbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentleman-like man, greatly\nsuperior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield\nladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by\ntrade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well\nbred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than\nMrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant\nwoman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the\ntwo eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular\nregard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.\n\nThe first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival, was to\ndistribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was\ndone, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.\nMrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They\nhad all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her\ngirls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing\nin it.\n\n\"I do not blame Jane,\" she continued, \"for Jane would have got Mr.\nBingley, if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think\nthat she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had not it\nbeen for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,\nand she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have\na daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as\nmuch entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,\nsister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of\nthem, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted\nso in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves\nbefore anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the\ngreatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of\nlong sleeves.\"\n\nMrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in\nthe course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her\nsister a slight answer, and in compassion to her nieces turned the\nconversation.\n\nWhen alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. \"It\nseems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,\" said she. \"I am\nsorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such\nas you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl\nfor a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets\nher, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent.\"\n\n\"An excellent consolation in its way,\" said Elizabeth, \"but it will not\ndo for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often happen\nthat the interference of friends will persuade a young man of\nindependent fortune to think no more of a girl, whom he was violently in\nlove with only a few days before.\"\n\n\"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so\ndoubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as\noften applied to feelings which arise from an half-hour's acquaintance,\nas to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's\nlove?\"\n\n\"I never saw a more promising inclination. He was growing quite\ninattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time\nthey met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he\noffended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance, and I\nspoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be\nfiner symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor\nJane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get\nover it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you\nwould have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she\nwould be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of\nservice--and perhaps a little relief from home, may be as useful as\nanything.\"\n\nElizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded\nof her sister's ready acquiescence.\n\n\"I hope,\" added Mrs. Gardiner, \"that no consideration with regard to\nthis young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of\ntown, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go\nout so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all,\nunless he really comes to see her.\"\n\n\"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his\nfriend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a\npart of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may\nperhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would\nhardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its\nimpurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley\nnever stirs without him.\"\n\n\"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane\ncorrespond with the sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.\"\n\n\"She will drop the acquaintance entirely.\"\n\nBut in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this\npoint, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being\nwithheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which\nconvinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely\nhopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that\nhis affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends\nsuccessfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's\nattractions.\n\nMiss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the\nBingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the time, than as she\nhoped that, by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,\nshe might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of\nseeing him.\n\nThe Gardiners staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses,\nthe Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its\nengagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment\nof her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family\ndinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always\nmade part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and\non these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's\nwarm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing\nthem, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference\nof each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she\nresolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left\nHertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such\nan attachment.\n\nTo Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,\nunconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,\nbefore her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part\nof Derbyshire, to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many\nacquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since\nthe death of Darcy's father, five years before, it was yet in his power\nto give her fresher intelligence of her former friends, than she had\nbeen in the way of procuring.\n\nMrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by\ncharacter perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject\nof discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley, with the\nminute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her\ntribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was\ndelighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the\npresent Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember something of\nthat gentleman's reputed disposition when quite a lad, which might agree\nwith it, and was confident at last, that she recollected having heard\nMr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured\nboy.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Collins returns to his parish, and soon Mrs. Bennet's brother and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner arrive for the Christmas holidays. Mrs. Gardiner is close to Elizabeth and Jane, and when she learns of all that has happened with Jane and Bingley, she invites Jane to stay with them in London for a while"}, {"": "57", "document": "\n\nAs soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;\nor in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that\nmust deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.\n\n\"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,\" said she,\n\"did he come at all?\"\n\nShe could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.\n\n\"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when\nhe was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If\nhe no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will\nthink no more about him.\"\n\nHer resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach\nof her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her\nbetter satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.\n\n\"Now,\" said she, \"that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly\neasy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by\nhis coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly\nseen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent\nacquaintance.\"\n\n\"Yes, very indifferent indeed,\" said Elizabeth, laughingly. \"Oh, Jane,\ntake care.\"\n\n\"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now.\"\n\n\"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with\nyou as ever.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in\nthe meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good\nhumour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had\nrevived.\n\nOn Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two,\nwho were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as\nsportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the\ndining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take\nthe place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by\nher sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to\ninvite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to\nhesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was\ndecided. He placed himself by her.\n\nElizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He\nbore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that\nBingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes\nlikewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing\nalarm.\n\nHis behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed an\nadmiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded\nElizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his\nown, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the\nconsequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It\ngave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in\nno cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her, as the table\ncould divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little\nsuch a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to\nadvantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but\nshe could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and\ncold was their manner, whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,\nmade the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;\nand she would, at times, have given any thing to be privileged to tell\nhim, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of\nthe family.\n\nShe was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of\nbringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away\nwithout enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, than\nthe mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and\nuneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the\ngentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree, that almost made her\nuncivil. She looked forward to their entrance, as the point on which all\nher chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.\n\n\"If he does not come to me, _then_,\" said she, \"I shall give him up for\never.\"\n\nThe gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have\nanswered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,\nwhere Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,\nin so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her,\nwhich would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of\nthe girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,\n\n\"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;\ndo we?\"\n\nDarcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with\nher eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience\nenough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself\nfor being so silly!\n\n\"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to\nexpect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not\nprotest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?\nThere is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!\"\n\nShe was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup\nhimself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,\n\n\"Is your sister at Pemberley still?\"\n\n\"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.\"\n\n\"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,\nthese three weeks.\"\n\nShe could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse\nwith her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for\nsome minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering\nto Elizabeth again, he walked away.\n\nWhen the tea-things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies\nall rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when\nall her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her\nmother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated\nwith the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.\nThey were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had\nnothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side\nof the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.\n\nMrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to\nsupper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the\nothers, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.\n\n\"Well girls,\" said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, \"What\nsay you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,\nI assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The\nvenison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat\na haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the\nLucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges\nwere remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French\ncooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater\nbeauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And\nwhat do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her\nat Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good\na creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,\nand not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.\"\n\nMrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of\nBingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at\nlast; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy\nhumour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at\nnot seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.\n\n\"It has been a very agreeable day,\" said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. \"The\nparty seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we\nmay often meet again.\"\n\nElizabeth smiled.\n\n\"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I\nassure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an\nagreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am\nperfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any\ndesign of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with\ngreater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally\npleasing than any other man.\"\n\n\"You are very cruel,\" said her sister, \"you will not let me smile, and\nare provoking me to it every moment.\"\n\n\"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!\"\n\n\"And how impossible in others!\"\n\n\"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I\nacknowledge?\"\n\n\"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to\ninstruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive\nme; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your\nconfidante.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Darcy and Bingley come to dinner on Tuesday, and Jane is determined that she and Bingley be seen as \"indifferent acquaintances,\" as she does not want to gain any hopes from his coming. Mrs. Bennet however, had renewed all of her hopes for marrying Jane to him. Elizabeth notes that Bingley sits by Jane at dinner and shows much admiration of her, and while she is anxious to converse with Darcy, she does not get a chance that night, and he seems to show little interest in her. After the guests have left, Jane tells Elizabeth that she has no hopes for her and Bingley, and Elizabeth tells her that if she persists in indifference, not to make her her confidante"}, {"": "58", "document": "\n\nIf Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to\ncontain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of\nits contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly\nshe went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.\nHer feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did\nshe first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;\nand steadfastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to\ngive, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong\nprejudice against every thing he might say, she began his account of\nwhat had happened at Netherfield. She read, with an eagerness which\nhardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing\nwhat the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the\nsense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's\ninsensibility, she instantly resolved to be false, and his account of\nthe real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have\nany wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had\ndone which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It\nwas all pride and insolence.\n\nBut when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when\nshe read with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events, which,\nif true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which\nbore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings\nwere yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.\nAstonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished\nto discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, \"This must be false!\nThis cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!\"--and when she had\ngone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any thing of the\nlast page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not\nregard it, that she would never look in it again.\n\nIn this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on\nnothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter\nwas unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she\nagain began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and\ncommanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.\nThe account of his connection with the Pemberley family, was exactly\nwhat he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy,\nthough she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his\nown words. So far each recital confirmed the other: but when she came to\nthe will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living\nwas fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was\nimpossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the\nother; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did\nnot err. But when she read, and re-read with the closest attention, the\nparticulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions\nto the living, of his receiving in lieu, so considerable a sum as three\nthousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the\nletter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be\nimpartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with\nlittle success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on.\nBut every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had\nbelieved it impossible that any contrivance could so represent, as to\nrender Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a\nturn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.\n\nThe extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to\nMr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could\nbring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his\nentrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the\npersuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town,\nhad there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life,\nnothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to\nhis real character, had information been in her power, she had never\nfelt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had\nestablished him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to\nrecollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of\nintegrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.\nDarcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those\ncasual errors, under which she would endeavour to class, what Mr. Darcy\nhad described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no\nsuch recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before\nher, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more\nsubstantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and\nthe regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After\npausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to\nread. But, alas! the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy,\nreceived some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel\nFitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was\nreferred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam\nhimself--from whom she had previously received the information of his\nnear concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no\nreason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to\nhim, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and\nat length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never\nhave hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his\ncousin's corroboration.\n\nShe perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation\nbetween Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips's.\nMany of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_\nstruck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and\nwondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting\nhimself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions\nwith his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear\nof seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that\n_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball\nthe very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield\nfamily had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but\nherself; but that after their removal, it had been every where\ndiscussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr.\nDarcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the\nfather, would always prevent his exposing the son.\n\nHow differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned!\nHis attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and\nhatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer\nthe moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing.\nHis behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had\neither been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying\nhis vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most\nincautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter\nand fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not\nbut allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago\nasserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as\nwere his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their\nacquaintance, an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much\ntogether, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen any thing\nthat betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--any thing that spoke him\nof irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was\nesteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a\nbrother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of\nhis sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling. That had\nhis actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of\nevery thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and\nthat friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man\nas Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.\n\nShe grew absolutely ashamed of herself.--Of neither Darcy nor Wickham\ncould she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial,\nprejudiced, absurd.\n\n\"How despicably have I acted!\" she cried.--\"I, who have prided myself on\nmy discernment!--I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have\noften disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my\nvanity, in useless or blameable distrust.--How humiliating is this\ndiscovery!--Yet, how just a humiliation!--Had I been in love, I could\nnot have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my\nfolly.--Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect\nof the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted\nprepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were\nconcerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.\"\n\nFrom herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line\nwhich soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation\n_there_, had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely\ndifferent was the effect of a second perusal.--How could she deny that\ncredit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to\ngive in the other?--He declared himself to have been totally\nunsuspicious of her sister's attachment;--and she could not help\nremembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been.--Neither could she\ndeny the justice of his description of Jane.--She felt that Jane's\nfeelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a\nconstant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great\nsensibility.\n\nWhen she came to that part of the letter in which her family were\nmentioned, in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense\nof shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly\nfor denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as\nhaving passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first\ndisapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind\nthan on hers.\n\nThe compliment to herself and her sister, was not unfelt. It soothed,\nbut it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus\nself-attracted by the rest of her family;--and as she considered that\nJane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest\nrelations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt\nby such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she\nhad ever known before.\n\nAfter wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every\nvariety of thought; re-considering events, determining probabilities,\nand reconciling herself as well as she could, to a change so sudden and\nso important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her\nat length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of\nappearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such\nreflections as must make her unfit for conversation.\n\nShe was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each\ncalled during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take\nleave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least\nan hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her\ntill she could be found.--Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in\nmissing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no\nlonger an object. She could think only of her letter.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At first, Elizabeth finds the contents of Darcys letter incredulous, but soon the veracity of it dawns on her as she recalls the unscrupulous way in which Wickham has floated tales about Darcy and the purely mercenary attachment he has formed with Miss King. She chides herself for being so wretchedly blind to Wickhams faults, which she believes she failed to discern because of her vanity. Although she cannot accept that Jane was ever insensitive to Bingley, Elizabeth concedes to the critical statements Darcy has made about her parents. When Elizabeth returns to the parsonage from the park, she learns that Darcy and Fitzwilliam will be leaving Rosings."}, {"": "59", "document": "Chapter III How Dorothy saved the Scarecrow.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she went\nto the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with\nbutter. She gave some to Toto, and taking a pail from the shelf\nshe carried it down to the little brook and filled it with clear,\nsparkling water. Toto ran over to the trees and began to bark at the\nbirds sitting there. Dorothy went to get him, and saw such delicious\nfruit hanging from the branches that she gathered some of it, finding\nit just what she wanted to help out her breakfast.\n\nThen she went back to the house, and having helped herself and Toto\nto a good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about making ready\nfor the journey to the City of Emeralds.\n\nDorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be clean and\nwas hanging on a peg beside her bed. It was gingham, with checks\nof white and blue; and although the blue was somewhat faded with\nmany washings, it was still a pretty frock. The girl washed herself\ncarefully, dressed herself in the clean gingham, and tied her pink\nsunbonnet on her head. She took a little basket and filled it with\nbread from the cupboard, laying a white cloth over the top. Then she\nlooked down at her feet and noticed how old and worn her shoes were.\n\n\"They surely will never do for a long journey, Toto,\" she said. And\nToto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged\nhis tail to show he knew what she meant.\n\nAt that moment Dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes that\nhad belonged to the Witch of the East.\n\n\"I wonder if they will fit me,\" she said to Toto. \"They would be just\nthe thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out.\"\n\nShe took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver ones,\nwhich fitted her as well as if they had been made for her.\n\nFinally she picked up her basket.\n\n\"Come along, Toto,\" she said, \"we will go to the Emerald City and ask\nthe great Oz how to get back to Kansas again.\"\n\nShe closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in the\npocket of her dress. And so, with Toto trotting along soberly behind\nher, she started on her journey.\n\nThere were several roads near by, but it did not take her long to\nfind the one paved with yellow brick. Within a short time she was\nwalking briskly toward the Emerald City, her silver shoes tinkling\nmerrily on the hard, yellow roadbed. The sun shone bright and the\nbirds sang sweet and Dorothy did not feel nearly as bad as you might\nthink a little girl would who had been suddenly whisked away from her\nown country and set down in the midst of a strange land.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nShe was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the country\nwas about her. There were neat fences at the sides of the road,\npainted a dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of grain and\nvegetables in abundance. Evidently the Munchkins were good farmers\nand able to raise large crops. Once in a while she would pass a\nhouse, and the people came out to look at her and bow low as she\nwent by; for everyone knew she had been the means of destroying the\nwicked witch and setting them free from bondage. The houses of the\nMunchkins were odd looking dwellings, for each was round, with a big\ndome for a roof. All were painted blue, for in this country of the\nEast blue was the favorite color.\n\nTowards evening, when Dorothy was tired with her long walk and began\nto wonder where she should pass the night, she came to a house rather\nlarger than the rest. On the green lawn before it many men and women\nwere dancing. Five little fiddlers played as loudly as possible and\nthe people were laughing and singing, while a big table near by was\nloaded with delicious fruits and nuts, pies and cakes, and many other\ngood things to eat.\n\nThe people greeted Dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and to\npass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the richest\nMunchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with him to\ncelebrate their freedom from the bondage of the wicked witch.\n\nDorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich Munchkin\nhimself, whose name was Boq. Then she sat down upon a settee and\nwatched the people dance.\n\nWhen Boq saw her silver shoes he said,\n\n\"You must be a great sorceress.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked the girl.\n\n\"Because you wear silver shoes and have killed the wicked witch.\nBesides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and\nsorceresses wear white.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_You must be a great sorceress._\"]\n\n\"My dress is blue and white checked,\" said Dorothy, smoothing out the\nwrinkles in it.\n\n\"It is kind of you to wear that,\" said Boq. \"Blue is the color of\nthe Munchkins, and white is the witch color; so we know you are a\nfriendly witch.\"\n\nDorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people seemed\nto think her a witch, and she knew very well she was only an ordinary\nlittle girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone into a strange land.\n\nWhen she had tired watching the dancing, Boq led her into the house,\nwhere he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it. The sheets were\nmade of blue cloth, and Dorothy slept soundly in them till morning,\nwith Toto curled up on the blue rug beside her.\n\nShe ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee Munchkin baby, who\nplayed with Toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in a way\nthat greatly amused Dorothy. Toto was a fine curiosity to all the\npeople, for they had never seen a dog before.\n\n\"How far is it to the Emerald City?\" the girl asked.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"I do not know,\" answered Boq, gravely, \"for I have never been there.\nIt is better for people to keep away from Oz, unless they have\nbusiness with him. But it is a long way to the Emerald City, and it\nwill take you many days. The country here is rich and pleasant, but\nyou must pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the\nend of your journey.\"\n\nThis worried Dorothy a little, but she knew that only the great Oz\ncould help her get to Kansas again, so she bravely resolved not to\nturn back.\n\nShe bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of\nyellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she would\nstop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road\nand sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not\nfar away she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds\nfrom the ripe corn.\n\nDorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the\nScarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes,\nnose and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed\nblue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on this\nhead, and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and\nfaded, which had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some\nold boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and\nthe figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole\nstuck up its back.\n\n[Illustration: \"_Dorothy gazed thoughtfully at the Scarecrow._\"]\n\nWhile Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of\nthe Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink\nat her. She thought she must have been mistaken, at first, for none of\nthe scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its\nhead to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence and\nwalked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked.\n\n\"Good day,\" said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice.\n\n\"Did you speak?\" asked the girl, in wonder.\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered the Scarecrow; \"how do you do?\"\n\n\"I'm pretty well, thank you,\" replied Dorothy, politely; \"how do you\ndo?\"\n\n\"I'm not feeling well,\" said the Scarecrow, with a smile, \"for it is\nvery tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows.\"\n\n\"Can't you get down?\" asked Dorothy.\n\n\"No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please take away\nthe pole I shall be greatly obliged to you.\"\n\nDorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole; for,\nbeing stuffed with straw, it was quite light.\n\n\"Thank you very much,\" said the Scarecrow, when he had been set down\non the ground. \"I feel like a new man.\"\n\nDorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed\nman speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her.\n\n\"Who are you?\" asked the Scarecrow, when he had stretched himself and\nyawned, \"and where are you going?\"\n\n\"My name is Dorothy,\" said the girl, \"and I am going to the Emerald\nCity, to ask the great Oz to send me back to Kansas.\"\n\n\"Where is the Emerald City?\" he enquired; \"and who is Oz?\"\n\n\"Why, don't you know?\" she returned, in surprise.\n\n\"No, indeed; I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have\nno brains at all,\" he answered, sadly.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dorothy; \"I'm awfully sorry for you.\"\n\n\"Do you think,\" he asked, \"If I go to the Emerald City with you, that\nthe great Oz would give me some brains?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell,\" she returned; \"but you may come with me, if you\nlike. If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off\nthan you are now.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" said the Scarecrow. \"You see,\" he continued,\nconfidentially, \"I don't mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed,\nbecause I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes or sticks a\npin into me, it doesn't matter, for I cant feel it. But I do not want\npeople to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw\ninstead of with brains, as yours is, how am I ever to know anything?\"\n\n\"I understand how you feel,\" said the little girl, who was truly\nsorry for him. \"If you will come with me I'll ask Oz to do all he can\nfor you.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" he answered, gratefully.\n\nThey walked back to the road, Dorothy helped him over the fence, and\nthey started along the path of yellow brick for the Emerald City.\n\nToto did not like this addition to the party, at first. He smelled\naround the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest of\nrats in the straw, and he often growled in an unfriendly way at the\nScarecrow.\n\n\"Don't mind Toto,\" said Dorothy, to her new friend; \"he never bites.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not afraid,\" replied the Scarecrow, \"he can't hurt the\nstraw. Do let me carry that basket for you. I shall not mind it,\nfor I can't get tired. I'll tell you a secret,\" he continued, as he\nwalked along; \"there is only one thing in the world I am afraid of.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" asked Dorothy; \"the Munchkin farmer who made you?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the Scarecrow; \"it's a lighted match.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Dorothy's hungry so she and Toto grab a snack and get ready for their road trip to the Emerald City. She notices her shoes are looking a bit shabby, so she decides to try on the dead witch's silver shoes. They fit perfectly. And they're off...down the yellow brick road, of course. Dorothy's feeling strangely cheerful. As she and Toto walk, they pass a lot of nice farms. Along the road, all the Munchkins bow to Dorothy. Evidently they heard about her killing the witch. It's getting late and Dorothy's wondering about where to sleep when she comes across a house. The people there are having a party and they invite her to stay for the evening. Boq, the guy who's hosting, asks Dorothy about her shoes. He thinks she must be super powerful to be wearing them. Dorothy remains unconvinced. Dorothy goes to sleep, wakes up, and passes a pleasant morning at the house. As she and Toto prepare to take off, she asks Boq how far the Emerald City is. He has no idea. He mentions that Oz has sort of a weird reputation. People tend to keep their distance. Dorothy knows this isn't good news, but she has no choice but to go anyway. Soon after she and Toto set off, Dorothy encounters a scarecrow in a field. Correction: not a scarecrow. The Scarecrow. Dorothy's a little taken aback when the Scarecrow starts talking to her, but she quickly recovers. They have a nice conversation. Dorothy helps the Scarecrow down from the pole he's attached to. As they chat, she tells him about her plan to go see Oz. The Scarecrow wants to go with her. He doesn't have any brains and he thinks Oz can help. The party of three sets off."}, {"": "60", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nFife. A Room in Macduff's Castle.\n\n[Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.]\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nWhat had he done, to make him fly the land?\n\nROSS.\nYou must have patience, madam.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nHe had none:\nHis flight was madness: when our actions do not,\nOur fears do make us traitors.\n\nROSS.\nYou know not\nWhether it was his wisdom or his fear.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nWisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes,\nHis mansion, and his titles, in a place\nFrom whence himself does fly? He loves us not:\nHe wants the natural touch; for the poor wren,\nThe most diminutive of birds, will fight,\nHer young ones in her nest, against the owl.\nAll is the fear, and nothing is the love;\nAs little is the wisdom, where the flight\nSo runs against all reason.\n\nROSS.\nMy dearest coz,\nI pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband,\nHe is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows\nThe fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further:\nBut cruel are the times, when we are traitors,\nAnd do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour\nFrom what we fear, yet know not what we fear,\nBut float upon a wild and violent sea\nEach way and move.--I take my leave of you:\nShall not be long but I'll be here again:\nThings at the worst will cease, or else climb upward\nTo what they were before.--My pretty cousin,\nBlessing upon you!\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nFather'd he is, and yet he's fatherless.\n\nROSS.\nI am so much a fool, should I stay longer,\nIt would be my disgrace and your discomfort:\nI take my leave at once.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nSirrah, your father's dead;\nAnd what will you do now? How will you live?\n\nSON.\nAs birds do, mother.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nWhat, with worms and flies?\n\nSON.\nWith what I get, I mean; and so do they.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nPoor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime,\nThe pit-fall nor the gin.\n\nSON.\nWhy should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for.\nMy father is not dead, for all your saying.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nYes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for father?\n\nSON.\nNay, how will you do for a husband?\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nWhy, I can buy me twenty at any market.\n\nSON.\nThen you'll buy 'em to sell again.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nThou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith,\nWith wit enough for thee.\n\nSON.\nWas my father a traitor, mother?\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nAy, that he was.\n\nSON.\nWhat is a traitor?\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nWhy, one that swears and lies.\n\nSON.\nAnd be all traitors that do so?\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nEveryone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged.\n\nSON.\nAnd must they all be hanged that swear and lie?\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nEvery one.\n\nSON.\nWho must hang them?\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nWhy, the honest men.\n\nSON.\nThen the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars\nand swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nNow, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt\nthou do for a father?\n\nSON.\nIf he were dead, you'ld weep for him: if you would not, it\nwere a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nPoor prattler, how thou talk'st!\n\n[Enter a Messenger.]\n\nMESSENGER.\nBless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,\nThough in your state of honor I am perfect.\nI doubt some danger does approach you nearly:\nIf you will take a homely man's advice,\nBe not found here; hence, with your little ones.\nTo fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage;\nTo do worse to you were fell cruelty,\nWhich is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!\nI dare abide no longer.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nWhither should I fly?\nI have done no harm. But I remember now\nI am in this earthly world; where to do harm\nIs often laudable; to do good sometime\nAccounted dangerous folly:  why then, alas,\nDo I put up that womanly defence,\nTo say I have done no harm?--What are these faces?\n\n[Enter Murderers.]\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nWhere is your husband?\n\nLADY MACDUFF.\nI hope, in no place so unsanctified\nWhere such as thou mayst find him.\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nHe's a traitor.\n\nSON.\nThou liest, thou shag-haar'd villain!\n\nFIRST MURDERER.\nWhat, you egg!\n\n[Stabbing him.]\n\nYoung fry of treachery!\n\nSON.\nHe has kill'd me, mother:\nRun away, I pray you!\n\n[Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying Murder, and pursued by the\nMurderers.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Lady Macduff asks Ross why her husband has suddenly fled to England. She is not aware of the troubles between Macbeth and Macduff and does not realize that she is in danger. Lady Macduff decides that her husband left his family because he did not love them anymore. Ross tries to comfort her and warns her that Scotland is a dangerous place to be at the present. Lady Macduff tells her young son that Macduff is dead to ease the pain of his departure from the family. She also tells him that his father was a traitor. A messenger runs in and interrupts the mother-son conversation, telling Lady Macduff to escape while she can. A few moments later, murderers under the bidding of Macbeth enter the castle and kill Lady Macduff and her son"}, {"": "61", "document": "Scene III.\nJuliet's chamber.\n\nEnter Juliet and Nurse.\n\n\n  Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse,\n    I pray thee leave me to myself to-night;\n    For I have need of many orisons\n    To move the heavens to smile upon my state,\n    Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin.\n\n                          Enter Mother.\n\n\n  Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?\n\n  Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries\n    As are behooffull for our state to-morrow.\n    So please you, let me now be left alone,\n    And let the nurse this night sit up with you;\n    For I am sure you have your hands full all\n    In this so sudden business.\n\n  Mother. Good night.\n    Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.\n                                      Exeunt [Mother and Nurse.]\n\n  Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.\n    I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins\n    That almost freezes up the heat of life.\n    I'll call them back again to comfort me.\n    Nurse!- What should she do here?\n    My dismal scene I needs must act alone.\n    Come, vial.\n    What if this mixture do not work at all?\n    Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?\n    No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.\n                                             Lays down a dagger.\n    What if it be a poison which the friar\n    Subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead,\n    Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd\n    Because he married me before to Romeo?\n    I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not,\n    For he hath still been tried a holy man.\n    I will not entertain so bad a thought.\n    How if, when I am laid into the tomb,\n    I wake before the time that Romeo\n    Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point!\n    Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,\n    To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,\n    And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?\n    Or, if I live, is it not very like\n    The horrible conceit of death and night,\n    Together with the terror of the place-\n    As in a vault, an ancient receptacle\n    Where for this many hundred years the bones\n    Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd;\n    Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,\n    Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say,\n    At some hours in the night spirits resort-\n    Alack, alack, is it not like that I,\n    So early waking- what with loathsome smells,\n    And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,\n    That living mortals, hearing them, run mad-\n    O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,\n    Environed with all these hideous fears,\n    And madly play with my forefathers' joints,\n    And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud.,\n    And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone\n    As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains?\n    O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost\n    Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body\n    Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!\n    Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.\n\n        She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Juliet convinces the Nurse and Lady Capulet to leave her alone, then takes out the potion the Friar gave her. She worries for a brief moment that it might be real poison, and then freaks herself out by imagining what it'll be like to awake surrounded by a bunch of dead bodies, including the fresh corpse of her cousin Tybalt. She drinks the potion, making sure to fall on to the bed instead of dropping awkwardly onto the floor."}, {"": "62", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE 1.\n\nNorthampton. A Room in the Castle.\n\n[Enter HUBERT and two Attendants.]\n\nHUBERT.\nHeat me these irons hot; and look thou stand\nWithin the arras: when I strike my foot\nUpon the bosom of the ground, rush forth\nAnd bind the boy which you shall find with me\nFast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.\n\nFIRST ATTENDANT.\nI hope your warrant will bear out the deed.\n\nHUBERT.\nUncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to't.--\n\n\n[Exeunt ATTENDANTS.]\n\nYoung lad, come forth; I have to say with you.\n\n[Enter ARTHUR.]\n\nARTHUR.\nGood morrow, Hubert.\n\nHUBERT.\nGood morrow, little prince.\n\nARTHUR.\nAs little prince, having so great a tide\nTo be more prince, as may be.--You are sad.\n\nHUBERT.\nIndeed I have been merrier.\n\nARTHUR.\nMercy on me!\nMethinks no body should be sad but I:\nYet, I remember, when I was in France,\nYoung gentlemen would be as sad as night,\nOnly for wantonness. By my christendom,\nSo I were out of prison, and kept sheep,\nI should be as merry as the day is long;\nAnd so I would be here, but that I doubt\nMy uncle practises more harm to me:\nHe is afraid of me, and I of him:\nIs it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?\nNo, indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven\nI were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.\n\nHUBERT.\n[Aside.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate\nHe will awake my mercy, which lies dead:\nTherefore I will be sudden and despatch.\n\nARTHUR.\nAre you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:\nIn sooth, I would you were a little sick,\nThat I might sit all night and watch with you:\nI warrant I love you more than you do me.\n\nHUBERT.\n[Aside.] His words do take possession of my bosom.--\nRead here, young Arthur.\n\n[Showing a paper.]\n\n[Aside.]  How now, foolish rheum!\nTurning dispiteous torture out of door!\nI must be brief, lest resolution drop\nOut at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.--\nCan you not read it? is it not fair writ?\n\nARTHUR.\nToo fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.\nMust you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?\n\nHUBERT.\nYoung boy, I must.\n\nARTHUR.\nAnd will you?\n\nHUBERT.\nAnd I will.\n\nARTHUR.\nHave you the heart? When your head did but ache,\nI knit my handkerchief about your brows,--\nThe best I had, a princess wrought it me,--\nAnd I did never ask it you again;\nAnd with my hand at midnight held your head;\nAnd, like the watchful minutes to the hour,\nStill and anon cheer'd up the heavy time,\nSaying 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?'\nOr 'What good love may I perform for you?'\nMany a poor man's son would have lien still,\nAnd ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;\nBut you at your sick service had a prince.\nNay, you may think my love was crafty love,\nAnd call it cunning.--do, an if you will:\nIf heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,\nWhy, then you must.--Will you put out mine eyes,\nThese eyes that never did nor never shall\nSo much as frown on you?\n\nHUBERT.\nI have sworn to do it!\nAnd with hot irons must I burn them out.\n\nARTHUR.\nAh, none but in this iron age would do it!\nThe iron of itself, though heat red-hot,\nApproaching near these eyes would drink my tears,\nAnd quench his fiery indignation,\nEven in the matter of mine innocence;\nNay, after that, consume away in rust,\nBut for containing fire to harm mine eye.\nAre you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?\nAn if an angel should have come to me\nAnd told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,\nI would not have believ'd him,--no tongue but Hubert's.\n\nHUBERT.\n[Stamps.]  Come forth.\n\n[Re-enter Attendants, with cords, irons, &c.]\n\nDo as I bid you do.\n\nARTHUR.\nO, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out\nEven with the fierce looks of these bloody men.\n\nHUBERT.\nGive me the iron, I say, and bind him here.\n\nARTHUR.\nAlas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?\nI will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.\nFor heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!\nNay, hear me, Hubert!--drive these men away,\nAnd I will sit as quiet as a lamb;\nI will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,\nNor look upon the iron angerly:\nThrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,\nWhatever torment you do put me to.\n\nHUBERT.\nGo, stand within; let me alone with him.\n\nFIRST ATTENDANT.\nI am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.\n\n[Exeunt Attendants.]\n\nARTHUR.\nAlas, I then have chid away my friend!\nHe hath a stern look but a gentle heart:--\nLet him come back, that his compassion may\nGive life to yours.\n\nHUBERT.\nCome, boy, prepare yourself.\n\nARTHUR.\nIs there no remedy?\n\nHUBERT.\nNone, but to lose your eyes.\n\nARTHUR.\nO heaven!--that there were but a mote in yours,\nA grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,\nAny annoyance in that precious sense!\nThen, feeling what small things are boisterous there,\nYour vile intent must needs seem horrible.\n\nHUBERT.\nIs this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.\n\nARTHUR.\nHubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues\nMust needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:\nLet me not hold my tongue,--let me not, Hubert;\nOr, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,\nSo I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes,\nThough to no use but still to look on you!--\nLo, by my troth, the instrument is cold\nAnd would not harm me.\n\nHUBERT.\nI can heat it, boy.\n\nARTHUR.\nNo, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,\nBeing create for comfort, to be us'd\nIn undeserv'd extremes: see else yourself;\nThere is no malice in this burning coal;\nThe breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,\nAnd strew'd repentant ashes on his head.\n\nHUBERT.\nBut with my breath I can revive it, boy.\n\nARTHUR.\nAn if you do, you will but make it blush,\nAnd glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert.\nNay, it, perchance will sparkle in your eyes;\nAnd, like a dog that is compell'd to fight,\nSnatch at his master that doth tarre him on.\nAll things that you should use to do me wrong,\nDeny their office: only you do lack\nThat mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,\nCreatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.\n\nHUBERT.\nWell, see to live; I will not touch thine eye\nFor all the treasure that thine uncle owes:\nYet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,\nWith this same very iron to burn them out.\n\nARTHUR.\nO, now you look like Hubert! all this while\nYou were disguised.\n\nHUBERT.\nPeace; no more. Adieu!\nYour uncle must not know but you are dead;\nI'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:\nAnd, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure\nThat Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,\nWill not offend thee.\n\nARTHUR.\nO heaven! I thank you, Hubert.\n\nHUBERT.\n Silence; no more: go closely in with me:\nMuch danger do I undergo for thee.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Act IV opens in a castle prison in England. Onstage is a brazier with some hot coals smoldering in it. Hubert comes on stage, along with some scary-looking executioners who are holding some rope and irons. Hubert tells the executioners to heat up the irons in the hot coals but he wants them to do this out of sight, behind the arras . You'd think this would be a fire hazard, but Hubert doesn't seem to mind. He just tells them to wait until they hear him stamp his foot; that will be their signal to run out and tie Arthur to a chair. One of the executioners says, \"I sure hope you have the authority to do this.\" Hubert says, \"Quit your whining. I've got it under control.\" The executioners go hide. Hubert calls out to Arthur. Arthur comes out on stage. As Arthur and Hubert chit chat, it becomes obvious that Hubert has sort of grown attached to little Arthur. In an aside , Hubert says that he'd better act quickly--otherwise his sense of pity will get the better of him. Arthur sees that Hubert's upset, and asks him what the matter is. Hubert shows Arthur a piece of paper: it is a warrant from the king, commanding Hubert to burn out Arthur's eyes. Arthur can't believe what he has just read. Hubert tells him the truth. Now Arthur says he can't believe Hubert would do it. Hubert says he will. Then Arthur reminds Hubert of how he took care of him when he was sick. But Hubert tries to act hard; he says he has sworn to blind Arthur, and therefore has to do it. Arthur can't believe that he will--he says that he doesn't even think the iron itself could do it , so how could Hubert do it? At that, Hubert stamps his foot, and the executioners come forward. He tells them to do what they agreed on. Arthur begs the executioners not to be so rough. Finally, Hubert tells the executioners to go away and leave him alone with Arthur. One of the executioners says he's glad to do so. Arthur begs Hubert to spare him. Hubert keeps saying that he won't. Arthur notices that the iron has gone cold and Hubert says he can heat it up. Arthur uses the iron as a metaphor for Hubert's own emotions; he claims that Hubert has lost his momentum, and doesn't have it in him any more to do the deed. Finally, without warning, Hubert says that he won't do it; he won't burn out Arthur's eyes. Hubert tells Arthur that he'll have to lie low for a while: no one can know that he's still alive."}, {"": "63", "document": "SCENE III.\n\n\n                           OLIVIA'S _Garden_.\n\n            _Enter_ CLOWN, _playing on a Tabor, and_ VIOLA.\n\n    _Vio._ Save thee, friend, and thy music: Dost thou live by thy\ntabor?\n\n    _Clo._ No, sir, I live by the church.\n\n    _Vio._ Art thou a churchman?\n\n    _Clo._ No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live\nat my house, and my house doth stand by the church.\n\n    _Vio._ Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?\n\n    _Clo._ No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep\nno fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands, as\npilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am, indeed, not\nher fool, but her corrupter of words.\n\n    _Vio._ I saw thee late at the Duke Orsino's.\n\n    _Clo._ Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it\nshines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft\nwith your master, as with my mistress: I think, I saw your wisdom there.\n\n    _Vio._ Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold,\nthere's expences for thee.\n\n                                                     [_Gives him money._\n\n    _Clo._ Now, Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!\n\n    _Vio._ By my troth, I'll tell thee; I am almost sick for one.--Is\nthy lady within?\n\n    _Clo._ Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?\n\n    _Vio._ Yes, being kept together, and put to use.\n\n    _Clo._ I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a\nCressida to this Troilus.\n\n    _Vio._ I understand you, sir: [_Gives him more money._] 'tis well\nbegged.\n\n    _Clo._ My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you\ncame: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin: I might\nsay, element; but the word is over-worn.                  [_Exit_ CLOWN.\n\n    _Vio._ This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;\n  And to do that well, craves a kind of wit:\n  He must observe their mood on whom he jests,\n  The quality of persons, and the time;\n  And, like the haggard, check at every feather\n  That comes before his eye. This is a practice,\n  As full of labour as a wise man's art.\n\n                  _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _and_ SIR ANDREW.\n\n    _Sir To._ Save you, gentleman.\n\n    _Vio._ And you, sir.\n\n    _Sir To._ My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to\nher.\n\n    _Vio._ I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my\nvoyage.\n\n    _Sir To._ Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion.\n\n    _Vio._ My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what\nyou mean by bidding me taste my legs.\n\n    _Sir To._ I mean,--to go, sir, to enter.\n\n    _Vio._ I will answer you with gait and entrance: But we are\nprevented.\n\n                            _Enter_ OLIVIA.\n\nMost excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!\n\n    _Sir And._ That youth's a rare courtier!--_Rain odours!_--well.\n\n    _Vio._ My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant\nand vouchsafed ear.\n\n    _Sir And._ _Odours_, _pregnant_, and _vouchsafed_!--I'll get 'em all\nthree ready.\n\n    _Oli._ Leave me to my hearing.\n\n    _Sir And._ _Odours--pregnant--vouchsafed._\n\n                                    [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW.\n\n    _Oli._ Give me your hand, sir.\n\n    _Vio._ My duty, madam, and most humble service.\n\n    _Oli._ What is your name?\n\n    _Vio._ Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.\n\n    _Oli._ My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world,\n  Since lowly feigning was called compliment:\n  You are servant to the Duke Orsino, youth.\n\n    _Vio._ And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;\n  Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.\n\n    _Oli._ For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,\n  'Would they were blanks, rather than filled with me!\n\n    _Vio._ Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf:--\n\n    _Oli._ O, by your leave, I pray you;\n  I bade you never speak again of him:\n  But, would you undertake another suit,\n  I had rather hear you to solicit that,\n  Than music from the spheres.\n\n    _Vio._ Dear lady,----\n\n    _Oli._ Give me leave, I beseech you: I did send,\n  After the last enchantment you did here,\n  A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse\n  Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:\n  Under your hard construction must I sit,\n  To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,\n  Which you knew none of yours: What might you think?\n  Have you not set mine honour at the stake,\n  And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts\n  That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving\n  Enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom,\n  Hides my poor heart: So let me hear you speak.\n\n    _Vio._ I pity you.\n\n    _Oli._ That's a degree to love.\n\n    _Vio._ No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof,\n  That very oft we pity enemies.\n\n    _Oli._ Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again:\n  O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!\n                                                       [_Clock strikes._\n  The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.--\n  Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:\n  And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,\n  Your wife is like to reap a proper man:\n  There lies your way, due west.\n\n    _Vio._ Then westward-hoe:\n  Grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!\n  You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?\n\n    _Oli._ Stay:\n  I pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me.\n\n    _Vio._ That you do think, you are not what you are.\n\n    _Oli._ If I think so, I think the same of you.\n\n    _Vio._ Then think you right; I am not what I am.\n\n    _Oli._ I would, you were as I would have you be!\n\n    _Vio._ Would it be better, madam, than I am,\n  I wish it might; for now I am your fool.\n\n    _Oli._ O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful\n  In the contempt and anger of his lip!\n  Cesario, by the roses of the spring,\n  By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,\n  I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,\n  Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.\n\n    _Vio._ By innocence, I swear, and by my youth.\n  I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,\n  And that no woman has; nor never none\n  Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.\n  And so adieu, good madam; never more\n  Will I my master's tears to you deplore.\n\n    _Oli._ Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move\n  That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.\n\n                                                              [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sebastian, Viola's twin brother, and Antonio, the sea captain, enter. They are strolling down a street not far from Duke Orsino's palace, and Antonio is explaining that because of his fondness and concern for Sebastian, he simply could not let him wander around Illyria alone, even though he knows that it is risky for him to accompany Sebastian. He knows that he is likely to be arrested on sight if he is recognized, but he had no choice: he likes Sebastian so much that he cannot bear to think of any harm coming to him. Sebastian is very grateful for the risk which Antonio is taking, and Antonio tells him that it is best that already he should be taking precautions. He asks to be excused so that he can take cover. He gives Sebastian his purse, and they arrange to meet in an hour at a tavern called The Elephant. Thus Sebastian, with a purse full of money in hand, goes off to see the sights of the town."}, {"": "64", "document": "ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I.\n\n\n                                \n\n                            _The Sea-coast._\n\n      _Enter_ VIOLA, ROBERTO, _and two Sailors, carrying a Trunk_.\n\n    _Vio._ What country, friends, is this?\n\n    _Rob._ This is Illyria, lady.\n\n    _Vio._ And what should I do in Illyria?\n  My brother he is in Elysium.\n  Perchance, he is not drown'd:--What think you, sailors?\n\n    _Rob._ It is perchance, that you yourself were saved.\n\n    _Vio._ O my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be.\n\n    _Rob._ True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,\n  Assure yourself, after our ship did split,\n  When you, and that poor number saved with you,\n  Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,\n  Most provident in peril, bind himself\n  (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)\n  To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea;\n  Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,\n  I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,\n  So long as I could see.\n\n    _Vio._ Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,\n  Whereto thy speech serves for authority,\n  The like of him. Know'st thou this country?\n\n    _Rob._ Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born,\n  Not three hours travel from this very place.\n\n    _Vio._ Who governs here?\n\n    _Rob._ A noble duke, in nature,\n  As in his name.\n\n    _Vio._ What is his name?\n\n    _Rob._ Orsino.\n\n    _Vio._ Orsino!--I have heard my father name him:\n  He was a bachelor then.\n\n    _Rob._ And so is now,\n  Or was so very late: for but a month\n  Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh\n  In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do,\n  The less will prattle of,) that he did seek\n  The love of fair Olivia.\n\n    _Vio._ What is she?\n\n    _Rob._ A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count\n  That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her\n  In the protection of his son, her brother,\n  Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,\n  They say, she hath abjured the company\n  And sight of men.\n\n    _Vio._ Oh, that I served that lady!\n  And might not be deliver'd to the world,\n  Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,\n  What my estate is!\n\n    _Rob._ That were hard to compass;\n  Because she will admit no kind of suit,\n  No, not the duke's.\n\n    _Vio._ There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;\n  And, I believe, thou hast a mind that suits\n  With this thy fair and outward character.\n  I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,\n  Conceal me what I am; and be my aid\n  For such disguise as, haply, shall become\n  The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;\n  Thou shalt present me as a page unto him,\n  Of gentle breeding, and my name, Cesario:--\n  That trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother,\n  Will furnish man's apparel to my need:--\n  It may be worth thy pains: for I can sing,\n  And speak to him in many sorts of music,\n  That will allow me very worth his service.\n  What else may hap, to time I will commit;\n  Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.\n\n    _Rob._ Be you his page, and I your mute will be;\n  When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see!\n\n    _Vio._ I thank thee:--Lead me on.                         [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, is sitting in his palace and enjoying himself by listening to music. He is in love and is in a whimsical, romantic mood, luxuriating in the various emotions which the music evokes. But he impulsively decides that he has heard enough, and after sending the musicians away, he expounds on the subject of love. Curio, one of his pages, asks his master if he wouldn't like to hunt; perhaps exercise will cure his master's soulful, philosophical moodiness. Orsino replies that he would like to hunt -- but he would like to hunt the lovely Olivia, to whom he has sent another of his pages, Valentine, as an emissary. At that moment, Valentine enters. But he brings such bad news that he begs \"not be admitted\": Olivia's brother has died, and she has vowed to mourn her brother's death for seven years. Surprisingly, the news does not dampen Orsino's spirit. He rhapsodizes on how a girl with such sensitivity can express her emotions; if she \"hath a heart of that fine frame,\" he says, then she would be even more devoted and loyal to a lover."}, {"": "65", "document": "ACT I. SCENE I.\n\nVerona. An open place\n\nEnter VALENTINE and PROTEUS\n\n  VALENTINE. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:\n    Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.\n    Were't not affection chains thy tender days\n    To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,\n    I rather would entreat thy company\n    To see the wonders of the world abroad,\n    Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home,\n    Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.\n    But since thou lov'st, love still, and thrive therein,\n    Even as I would, when I to love begin.\n  PROTEUS. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!\n    Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest\n    Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel.\n    Wish me partaker in thy happiness\n    When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,\n    If ever danger do environ thee,\n    Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,\n    For I will be thy headsman, Valentine.\n  VALENTINE. And on a love-book pray for my success?\n  PROTEUS. Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.\n  VALENTINE. That's on some shallow story of deep love:\n    How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.\n  PROTEUS. That's a deep story of a deeper love;\n    For he was more than over shoes in love.\n  VALENTINE. 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love,\n    And yet you never swum the Hellespont.\n  PROTEUS. Over the boots! Nay, give me not the boots.\n  VALENTINE. No, I will not, for it boots thee not.\n  PROTEUS. What?\n  VALENTINE. To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans,\n    Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth\n    With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights;\n    If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;\n    If lost, why then a grievous labour won;\n    However, but a folly bought with wit,\n    Or else a wit by folly vanquished.\n  PROTEUS. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.\n  VALENTINE. So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.\n  PROTEUS. 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Love.\n  VALENTINE. Love is your master, for he masters you;\n    And he that is so yoked by a fool,\n    Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.\n  PROTEUS. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud\n    The eating canker dwells, so eating love\n    Inhabits in the finest wits of all.\n  VALENTINE. And writers say, as the most forward bud\n    Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,\n    Even so by love the young and tender wit\n    Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud,\n    Losing his verdure even in the prime,\n    And all the fair effects of future hopes.\n    But wherefore waste I time to counsel the\n    That art a votary to fond desire?\n    Once more adieu. My father at the road\n    Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.\n  PROTEUS. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.\n  VALENTINE. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.\n    To Milan let me hear from thee by letters\n    Of thy success in love, and what news else\n    Betideth here in absence of thy friend;\n    And I likewise will visit thee with mine.\n  PROTEUS. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!\n  VALENTINE. As much to you at home; and so farewell!\n                                                  Exit VALENTINE\n  PROTEUS. He after honour hunts, I after love;\n    He leaves his friends to dignify them more:\n    I leave myself, my friends, and all for love.\n    Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphis'd me,\n    Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,\n    War with good counsel, set the world at nought;\n    Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.\n\n                         Enter SPEED\n\n  SPEED. Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master?\n  PROTEUS. But now he parted hence to embark for Milan.\n  SPEED. Twenty to one then he is shipp'd already,\n    And I have play'd the sheep in losing him.\n  PROTEUS. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray,\n    An if the shepherd be awhile away.\n  SPEED. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and\n    I a sheep?\n  PROTEUS. I do.\n  SPEED. Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or\nsleep.\n  PROTEUS. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.\n  SPEED. This proves me still a sheep.\n  PROTEUS. True; and thy master a shepherd.\n  SPEED. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.\n  PROTEUS. It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another.\n  SPEED. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the\n    shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me;\n    therefore, I am no sheep.\n  PROTEUS. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd\nfor\n    food follows not the sheep: thou for wages followest thy\nmaster;\n    thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore, thou art a\n    sheep.\n  SPEED. Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.'\n  PROTEUS. But dost thou hear? Gav'st thou my letter to Julia?\n  SPEED. Ay, sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a\nlac'd\n    mutton; and she, a lac'd mutton, gave me, a lost mutton,\nnothing\n    for my labour.\n  PROTEUS. Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons.\n  SPEED. If the ground be overcharg'd, you were best stick her.\n  PROTEUS. Nay, in that you are astray: 'twere best pound you.\n  SPEED. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying\nyour\n    letter.\n  PROTEUS. You mistake; I mean the pound- a pinfold.\n  SPEED. From a pound to a pin? Fold it over and over,\n    'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your\nlover.\n  PROTEUS. But what said she?\n  SPEED.  [Nodding]  Ay.\n  PROTEUS. Nod- ay. Why, that's 'noddy.'\n  SPEED. You mistook, sir; I say she did nod; and you ask me if\nshe\n    did nod; and I say 'Ay.'\n  PROTEUS. And that set together is 'noddy.'\n  SPEED. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it\nfor\n    your pains.\n  PROTEUS. No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.\n  SPEED. Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.\n  PROTEUS. Why, sir, how do you bear with me?\n  SPEED. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but\nthe\n    word 'noddy' for my pains.\n  PROTEUS. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.\n  SPEED. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.\n  PROTEUS. Come, come, open the matter; in brief, what said she?\n  SPEED. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be\nboth\n    at once delivered.\n  PROTEUS. Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she?\n  SPEED. Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her.\n  PROTEUS. Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her?\n  SPEED. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not\nso\n    much as a ducat for delivering your letter; and being so hard\nto\n    me that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as hard to you\nin\n    telling your mind. Give her no token but stones, for she's as\n    hard as steel.\n  PROTEUS. What said she? Nothing?\n  SPEED. No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To testify\n\n    your bounty, I thank you, you have testern'd me; in requital\n    whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself; and so, sir,\n    I'll commend you to my master.\n  PROTEUS. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck,\n    Which cannot perish, having thee aboard,\n    Being destin'd to a drier death on shore.         Exit SPEED\n    I must go send some better messenger.\n    I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,\n    Receiving them from such a worthless post.              Exit\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Two Gentlemen of Verona opens on a street in Verona as Valentine bids an emotional farewell to his dearest friend, Proteus. Valentine explains to Proteus that he must leave Verona for Milan because he believes that young gentlemen remain simple if they do not venture out to see the world. Proteus responds that his passion for Julia keeps him at home in Verona. Valentine chides Proteus for being so consumed with love, and hints that Proteus' devotion to love will ultimately make him a fool. Proteus promises to pray for his friend, and Valentine departs. Proteus muses that Valentine has set out to find honor, and that Valentine honors his friends by becoming more dignified himself. With melancholy in his voice, Proteus notes that he has abandoned his friends, his studies, and his rational thoughts, all for his love of Julia. Proteus' mournful thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of Speed, Valentine's punning page. After a long, silly discussion about whether Speed is a sheep and Valentine a shepherd, Proteus asks Speed if he has delivered Proteus' love letter to Julia. More punning ensues, until Speed finally confesses that while he did indeed deliver the letter, he could discern no particular response from Julia since she simply nodded her head when she received the letter. Speed notes that Julia did not tip him for delivering the letter, from which he infers that Julia will be hard and withholding toward Proteus' as well. Proteus angrily sends Speed after Valentine's ship, worrying himself over Julia's cold reception to his love letter."}, {"": "66", "document": "ACT I. SCENE I. _An apartment in the DUKE'S palace._\n\n\n\n\n\n  _Enter DUKE, ESCALUS, _Lords_ and _Attendants_._\n\n_Duke._ Escalus.\n\n_Escal._ My lord.\n\n_Duke._ Of government the properties to unfold,\nWould seem in me to affect speech and discourse;\nSince I am put to know that your own science                         5\nExceeds, in that, the lists of all advice\nMy strength can give you: then no more remains,\nBut that to your sufficiency . . . . . .\n. . . . . . . . . . . . . . as your worth is able,\nAnd let them work. The nature of our people,                        10\nOur city's institutions, and the terms\nFor common justice, you're as pregnant in\nAs art and practice hath enriched any\nThat we remember. There is our commission,\nFrom which we would not have you warp. Call hither,                 15\nI say, bid come before us Angelo.    [_Exit an Attendant._\nWhat figure of us think you he will bear?\nFor you must know, we have with special soul\nElected him our absence to supply;\nLent him our terror, dress'd him with our love,                     20\nAnd given his deputation all the organs\nOf our own power: what think you of it?\n\n_Escal._ If any in Vienna be of worth\nTo undergo such ample grace and honour,\nIt is Lord Angelo.\n\n_Duke._          Look where he comes.                               25\n\n  _Enter ANGELO._\n\n_Ang._ Always obedient to your Grace's will,\nI come to know your pleasure.\n\n_Duke._                     Angelo,\nThere is a kind of character in thy life,\nThat to th' observer doth thy history\nFully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings                            30\nAre not thine own so proper, as to waste\nThyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.\nHeaven doth with us as we with torches do,\nNot light them for themselves; for if our virtues\nDid not go forth of us, 'twere all alike                            35\nAs if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd\nBut to fine issues; nor Nature never lends\nThe smallest scruple of her excellence,\nBut, like a thrifty goddess, she determines\nHerself the glory of a creditor,                                    40\nBoth thanks and use. But I do bend my speech\nTo one that can my part in him advertise;\nHold therefore, Angelo:--\nIn our remove be thou at full ourself;\nMortality and mercy in Vienna                                       45\nLive in thy tongue and heart: old Escalus,\nThough first in question, is thy secondary.\nTake thy commission.\n\n_Ang._             Now, good my lord,\nLet there be some more test made of my metal,\nBefore so noble and so great a figure                               50\nBe stamp'd upon it.\n\n_Duke._           No more evasion:\nWe have with a leaven'd and prepared choice\nProceeded to you; therefore take your honours.\nOur haste from hence is of so quick condition,\nThat it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd                     55\nMatters of needful value. We shall write to you,\nAs time and our concernings shall importune,\nHow it goes with us; and do look to know\nWhat doth befall you here. So, fare you well:\nTo the hopeful execution do I leave you                             60\nOf your commissions.\n\n_Ang._             Yet, give leave, my lord,\nThat we may bring you something on the way.\n\n_Duke._ My haste may not admit it;\nNor need you, on mine honour, have to do\nWith any scruple; your scope is as mine own,                        65\nSo to enforce or qualify the laws\nAs to your soul seems good. Give me your hand:\nI'll privily away. I love the people,\nBut do not like to stage me to their eyes:\nThough it do well, I do not relish well                             70\nTheir loud applause and Aves vehement;\nNor do I think the man of safe discretion\nThat does affect it. Once more, fare you well.\n\n_Ang._ The heavens give safety to your purposes!\n\n_Escal._ Lead forth and bring you back in happiness!                75\n\n_Duke._ I thank you. Fare you well.    [_Exit._\n\n_Escal._ I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave\nTo have free speech with you; and it concerns me\nTo look into the bottom of my place:\nA power I have, but of what strength and nature                     80\nI am not yet instructed.\n\n_Ang._ 'Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,\nAnd we may soon our satisfaction have\nTouching that point.\n\n_Escal._           I'll wait upon your honour.    [_Exeunt._\n\n\n  NOTES: I, 1.\n\n  SCENE I. Lords and Attendants.] Singer. Lords. Ff. and Attendants.\n    Capell.\n  5: _put_] _not_ Pope. _apt_ Collier MS.\n  7, 8: _remains, But that_] _remains; Put that_ Rowe.\n  8, 9: _But that to your sufficiency ..._]\n    _But that to your sufficiency you add Due diligency ..._\n      Theobald conj.\n    _But that to your sufficiency you joyn A will to serve us ..._\n      Hanmer.\n    _But that to your sufficiency you put A zeal as willing ..._\n      Tyrwhitt conj.\n    _But that to your sufficiencies your worth is abled_ Johnson conj.\n    _But your sufficiency as worth is able_ Farmer conj.\n    _Your sufficiency ... able_ Steevens conj.\n    _But that your sufficiency be as your worth is stable_ Becket conj.\n    _But state to your sufficiency ..._ Jackson conj.\n    _But thereto your sufficiency ..._ Singer.\n    _But add to your sufficiency your worth_ Collier MS.\n    _But that_ [tendering his commission] _to your sufficiency. And, as\n      your worth is able, let them work_ Staunton conj.\n    _But that to your sufficiency I add Commission ample_ Spedding conj.\n    See note (I).\n  11: _city's_] _cities_ Ff.\n  16: [Exit an Attendant.] Capell.\n  18: _soul_] _roll_ Warburton. _seal_ Johnson conj.\n  22: _what_] _say, what_ Pope.\n  25: SCENE II. Pope.\n  27: _your pleasure_] F1. _your Graces pleasure_ F2 F3 F4.\n  28: _life_] _look_ Johnson conj.\n  28, 29: _character ... history_] _history ... character_\n    Monck Mason conj.\n  32: _they_] _them_ Hanmer.\n  35, 36: _all alike As if we_] _all as if We_ Hanmer.\n  37: _nor_] om. Pope.\n  42: _my part in him_] _in my part me_ Hanmer. _my part to him_\n    Johnson conj. _in him, my part_ Becket conj.\n  43: _Hold therefore, Angelo:--_] _Hold therefore, Angelo:_ [Giving\n    him his commission] Hanmer. _Hold therefore. Angelo,_ Tyrwhitt conj.\n    _Hold therefore, Angelo, our place and power:_ Grant White.\n  45: _Mortality_] _Morality_ Pope.\n  51: _upon it_] _upon 't_ Capell.\n  _No more_] _Come, no more_ Pope.\n  52: _leaven'd and prepared_] Ff. _leven'd and prepar'd_ Rowe.\n    _prepar'd and leaven'd_ Pope. _prepar'd and level'd_ Warburton.\n    _prepar'd unleaven'd_ Heath conj.\n  56: _to you_] om. Hanmer.\n  61: _your commissions_] F1. _your commission_ F2 F3 F4.\n    _our commission_ Pope.\n  66: _laws_] _law_ Pope.\n  76: [Exit.] F2. [Exit. (after line 75) F1.\n  84: _your_] _you_ F2.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At his palace in Vienna, Duke Vincentio makes a big speech about how a lord in his court, Escalus, is the wisest and most knowledgeable guy in Vienna--he knows more about Vienna's laws and people than anybody else. The Duke tells Escalus that he's going out of town. While he's away, Angelo will be in charge. Escalus thinks if anyone is up for representing the Duke in his absence, it's Angelo. When Angelo comes in, the Duke gives him the news. He also says that while he is gone, Angelo should make sure the people of Vienna don't step out of line. If they do, he has full authority to punish them according to the law . Escalus, an old lord, will be second in command because he's so wise and knows so much about Vienna's laws and its people. Angelo goes through an \"aw, shucks\" routine and says he hasn't demonstrated that he's worthy enough to fill in for the Duke. \"Nonsense,\" says the Duke, who announces rather cryptically that he has to go somewhere immediately and that he'll be in touch soon. Before he leaves, the Duke reminds Angelo that while he is away, Angelo is his substitute and has full authority to enforce the laws or to bend the rules of justice as he sees fit. Yeah, yeah. We heard you the first time. He also adds that, even though he loves his people, he's not big on public appearances, especially since people are always cheering for him like he's a rock star. History Snack: Some literary critics think the Duke's whole \"I really don't like the limelight\" speech is a reference to King James I, who, unlike his predecessor Queen Elizabeth I, wasn't a huge fan of being in the public spotlight all the time. The Duke exits and Escalus and Angelo make plans to talk so they can work out the details of their new jobs."}, {"": "67", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nVerona. The garden Of JULIA'S house\n\nEnter JULIA and LUCETTA\n\n  JULIA. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,\n    Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?\n  LUCETTA. Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully.\n  JULIA. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen\n    That every day with parle encounter me,\n    In thy opinion which is worthiest love?\n  LUCETTA. Please you, repeat their names; I'll show my mind\n    According to my shallow simple skill.\n  JULIA. What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?\n  LUCETTA. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine;\n    But, were I you, he never should be mine.\n  JULIA. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio?\n  LUCETTA. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so.\n  JULIA. What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus?\n  LUCETTA. Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us!\n  JULIA. How now! what means this passion at his name?\n  LUCETTA. Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a passing shame\n    That I, unworthy body as I am,\n    Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.\n  JULIA. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?\n  LUCETTA. Then thus: of many good I think him best.\n  JULIA. Your reason?\n  LUCETTA. I have no other but a woman's reason:\n    I think him so, because I think him so.\n  JULIA. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?\n  LUCETTA. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.\n  JULIA. Why, he, of all the rest, hath never mov'd me.\n  LUCETTA. Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.\n  JULIA. His little speaking shows his love but small.\n  LUCETTA. Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.\n  JULIA. They do not love that do not show their love.\n  LUCETTA. O, they love least that let men know their love.\n  JULIA. I would I knew his mind.\n  LUCETTA. Peruse this paper, madam.\n  JULIA. 'To Julia'- Say, from whom?\n  LUCETTA. That the contents will show.\n  JULIA. Say, say, who gave it thee?\n  LUCETTA. Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from Proteus.\n    He would have given it you; but I, being in the way,\n    Did in your name receive it; pardon the fault, I pray.\n  JULIA. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!\n    Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?\n    To whisper and conspire against my youth?\n    Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth,\n    And you an officer fit for the place.\n    There, take the paper; see it be return'd;\n    Or else return no more into my sight.\n  LUCETTA. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.\n  JULIA. Will ye be gone?\n  LUCETTA. That you may ruminate.                           Exit\n  JULIA. And yet, I would I had o'erlook'd the letter.\n    It were a shame to call her back again,\n    And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.\n    What fool is she, that knows I am a maid\n    And would not force the letter to my view!\n    Since maids, in modesty, say 'No' to that\n    Which they would have the profferer construe 'Ay.'\n    Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love,\n    That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse,\n    And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod!\n    How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,\n    When willingly I would have had her here!\n    How angerly I taught my brow to frown,\n    When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile!\n    My penance is to call Lucetta back\n    And ask remission for my folly past.\n    What ho! Lucetta!\n\n                     Re-enter LUCETTA\n\n  LUCETTA. What would your ladyship?\n  JULIA. Is't near dinner time?\n  LUCETTA. I would it were,\n    That you might kill your stomach on your meat\n    And not upon your maid.\n  JULIA. What is't that you took up so gingerly?\n  LUCETTA. Nothing.\n  JULIA. Why didst thou stoop then?\n  LUCETTA. To take a paper up that I let fall.\n  JULIA. And is that paper nothing?\n  LUCETTA. Nothing concerning me.\n  JULIA. Then let it lie for those that it concerns.\n  LUCETTA. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,\n    Unless it have a false interpreter.\n  JULIA. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.\n  LUCETTA. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune.\n    Give me a note; your ladyship can set.\n  JULIA. As little by such toys as may be possible.\n    Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' Love.'\n  LUCETTA. It is too heavy for so light a tune.\n  JULIA. Heavy! belike it hath some burden then.\n  LUCETTA. Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it.\n  JULIA. And why not you?\n  LUCETTA. I cannot reach so high.\n  JULIA. Let's see your song.     [LUCETTA withholds the letter]\n    How now, minion!\n  LUCETTA. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out.\n    And yet methinks I do not like this tune.\n  JULIA. You do not!\n  LUCETTA. No, madam; 'tis too sharp.\n  JULIA. You, minion, are too saucy.\n  LUCETTA. Nay, now you are too flat\n    And mar the concord with too harsh a descant;\n    There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.\n  JULIA. The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass.\n  LUCETTA. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.\n  JULIA. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.\n    Here is a coil with protestation!         [Tears the letter]\n    Go, get you gone; and let the papers lie.\n    You would be fing'ring them, to anger me.\n  LUCETTA. She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas'd\n    To be so ang'red with another letter.                   Exit\n  JULIA. Nay, would I were so ang'red with the same!\n    O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!\n    Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey\n    And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!\n    I'll kiss each several paper for amends.\n    Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia,\n    As in revenge of thy ingratitude,\n    I throw thy name against the bruising stones,\n    Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.\n    And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'\n    Poor wounded name! my bosom,,as a bed,\n    Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly heal'd;\n    And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.\n    But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.\n    Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away\n    Till I have found each letter in the letter-\n    Except mine own name; that some whirlwind bear\n    Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock,\n    And throw it thence into the raging sea.\n    Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ:\n    'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,\n    To the sweet Julia.' That I'll tear away;\n    And yet I will not, sith so prettily\n    He couples it to his complaining names.\n    Thus will I fold them one upon another;\n    Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.\n\n                        Re-enter LUCETTA\n\n  LUCETTA. Madam,\n    Dinner is ready, and your father stays.\n  JULIA. Well, let us go.\n  LUCETTA. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?\n  JULIA. If you respect them, best to take them up.\n  LUCETTA. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down;\n    Yet here they shall not lie for catching cold.\n  JULIA. I see you have a month's mind to them.\n  LUCETTA. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;\n    I see things too, although you judge I wink.\n  JULIA. Come, come; will't please you go?                Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Meanwhile, Julia is lounging around her garden having a little girl talk with her woman in waiting, Lucetta. Julia is in desperate need of some advice about the following: Should she fall in love? If so, which one of her dozens of suitors should she hook up with? Julia ticks off a few names of guys who are drooling over her before she gets around to asking Lucetta what she thinks of Proteus. Lucetta's first response is something like \"That clown?\" But then she catches herself and says what Julia wants to hear--that Proteus is the best of the lot. Plus, he seems to love Julia the most. Julia wonders why Proteus hasn't proposed to her yet and declares that you can measure a guy's love by the amount of time he spends telling you he loves you. According to Julia, Proteus hasn't spent nearly enough time doing this. Then Lucetta is all, \"Oh yeah, this letter from Proteus came for you earlier\" and gives Julia the love letter. She also says that, um, she may have led the page to believe that she was Julia and accepted the letter in Julia's name. Julia is miffed! How could Lucetta accept a secret love letter on her behalf? Sneaking around is bad behavior for a lady of Julia's class, and she can't believe Lucetta represented her so poorly. Doesn't she take her job seriously? Sheesh. Julia orders Lucetta to return the letter to Proteus. Now. As soon as Lucetta leaves, Julia regrets her decision. She pretended to be mad that Proteus sent her a letter when deep down inside she was jumping for joy. She calls back Lucetta, who returns and then plays \"keep away\" with the letter and teases Julia about Proteus. Julia, who is now back in tantrum mode, grabs the letter and tears it to shreds to demonstrate that she doesn't really care about love. Julia's roller coaster ride of emotions isn't over--she immediately bends down and gathers the bits and pieces of the letter. She reads each snippet of paper aloud and tries to piece the fragments together. Lucetta comes back and tells Julia dinner's ready, and Julia again pretends not to care about the letter, even though Lucetta saw here picking up all the pieces. Lucetta lets her know she sees what's going on, even if Julia likes to pretend otherwise. Then they head off to get some grub."}, {"": "68", "document": "\n\nEvery morning now brought its regular duties--shops were to be visited;\nsome new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be\nattended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at\neverybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance\nin Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after\nevery fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at\nall.\n\nThey made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more\nfavourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to\nher a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.\nHe seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a\npleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not\nquite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine\nfelt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking\nwhile they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him as\nagreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with\nfluency and spirit--and there was an archness and pleasantry in his\nmanner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After\nchatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects\naround them, he suddenly addressed her with--\"I have hitherto been very\nremiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not\nyet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here\nbefore; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and\nthe concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been\nvery negligent--but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these\nparticulars? If you are I will begin directly.\"\n\n\"You need not give yourself that trouble, sir.\"\n\n\"No trouble, I assure you, madam.\" Then forming his features into a set\nsmile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering\nair, \"Have you been long in Bath, madam?\"\n\n\"About a week, sir,\" replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.\n\n\"Really!\" with affected astonishment.\n\n\"Why should you be surprised, sir?\"\n\n\"Why, indeed!\" said he, in his natural tone. \"But some emotion must\nappear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,\nand not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never\nhere before, madam?\"\n\n\"Never, sir.\"\n\n\"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.\"\n\n\"Have you been to the theatre?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"To the concert?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, on Wednesday.\"\n\n\"And are you altogether pleased with Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes--I like it very well.\"\n\n\"Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.\"\nCatherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to\nlaugh. \"I see what you think of me,\" said he gravely--\"I shall make but\na poor figure in your journal tomorrow.\"\n\n\"My journal!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower\nRooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings--plain black\nshoes--appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a\nqueer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed\nme by his nonsense.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall say no such thing.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?\"\n\n\"If you please.\"\n\n\"I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had\na great deal of conversation with him--seems a most extraordinary\ngenius--hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to\nsay.\"\n\n\"But, perhaps, I keep no journal.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by\nyou. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a\njournal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your\nlife in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of\nevery day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every\nevening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,\nand the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be\ndescribed in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to\na journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as\nyou wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which\nlargely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies\nare so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing\nagreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something,\nbut I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping\na journal.\"\n\n\"I have sometimes thought,\" said Catherine, doubtingly, \"whether ladies\ndo write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is--I should not\nthink the superiority was always on our side.\"\n\n\"As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the\nusual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three\nparticulars.\"\n\n\"And what are they?\"\n\n\"A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a\nvery frequent ignorance of grammar.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the\ncompliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.\"\n\n\"I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better\nletters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better\nlandscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence\nis pretty fairly divided between the sexes.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: \"My dear Catherine,\" said she, \"do\ntake this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;\nI shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though\nit cost but nine shillings a yard.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,\" said Mr. Tilney,\nlooking at the muslin.\n\n\"Do you understand muslins, sir?\"\n\n\"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an\nexcellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a\ngown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a\nprodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a\nyard for it, and a true Indian muslin.\"\n\nMrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. \"Men commonly take so little\nnotice of those things,\" said she; \"I can never get Mr. Allen to know\none of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your\nsister, sir.\"\n\n\"I hope I am, madam.\"\n\n\"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?\"\n\n\"It is very pretty, madam,\" said he, gravely examining it; \"but I do not\nthink it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.\"\n\n\"How can you,\" said Catherine, laughing, \"be so--\" She had almost said\n\"strange.\"\n\n\"I am quite of your opinion, sir,\" replied Mrs. Allen; \"and so I told\nMiss Morland when she bought it.\"\n\n\"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other;\nMiss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or\na cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister\nsay so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than\nshe wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.\"\n\n\"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We\nare sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in\nSalisbury, but it is so far to go--eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen\nsays it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than\neight; and it is such a fag--I come back tired to death. Now, here one\ncan step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.\"\n\nMr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and\nshe kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.\nCatherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged\nhimself a little too much with the foibles of others. \"What are you\nthinking of so earnestly?\" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom;\n\"not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your\nmeditations are not satisfactory.\"\n\nCatherine coloured, and said, \"I was not thinking of anything.\"\n\n\"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once\nthat you will not tell me.\"\n\n\"Well then, I will not.\"\n\n\"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to\ntease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world\nadvances intimacy so much.\"\n\nThey danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the\nlady's side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the\nacquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her\nwarm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him\nwhen there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in\na slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a\ncelebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified\nin falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must be\nvery improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the\ngentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney\nmight be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's\nhead, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for\nhis young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the\nevening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured\nof Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in\nGloucestershire.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Catherine settles into a Bath routine which consists of shopping, sightseeing, visiting the Pump-room, which was a spa/social gathering spot - much more fun than being cooped up with nine siblings all day. Catherine attends another ball and finally gets a dancing partner: a handsome man named Henry Tilney. Henry is attractive, smart, and very witty and Catherine likes him instantly. Henry banters with Catherine while they dance and he mocks traditional \"getting to know you\" conversation by asking her inane questions about the ball and giving over-excited replies. Henry then instructs Catherine on how to describe him in her journal, which she insists she doesn't keep. Henry finds this assertion scandalous and insists that all ladies keep journals. Henry then gives women everywhere a backhanded compliment, noting that women write wonderful letters and journal entries that don't obey the laws of grammar and spelling. Catherine finds that questionable and Henry backpedals. They finish dancing and head back over to Mrs. Allen. Mrs. Allen needs help pinning her sleeve and Henry starts talking to her about women's fashion. Catherine thinks he is strange, but funny. Henry lets us know that he has a sister, hence his women's fashion knowledge. After chatting up Mrs. Allen about shopping and clothes, Henry and Catherine dance again. Catherine thinks Henry might enjoy mocking people a bit too much. He confirms this by mocking Catherine for refusing to tell him what she's thinking about. The ball ends and Catherine goes home. She may or may not have dreamed about Henry that night. The next day Catherine and the Allens discuss the ball. Mr. Allen fills us in on Henry. He finds Henry suitable company since he is from a respectable family and is a clergyman. Yes, Henry is a clergyman. Historical Context Lesson: You might be wondering why Henry is a clergyman. Well, back in this period, the younger sons of wealthy families were really out of luck when it came to job options. Older sons inherited the whole estate, castle, whatever. Younger sons had to go fend for themselves in a handful of \"respectable' professions: the army, the church, the law, or maybe business. Why Henry picked the church is anyone's guess, but his Sunday sermons were most likely highly entertaining."}, {"": "69", "document": "Scene IV.\nCapulet's house\n\nEnter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris.\n\n\n  Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily\n    That we have had no time to move our daughter.\n    Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly,\n    And so did I. Well, we were born to die.\n    'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night.\n    I promise you, but for your company,\n    I would have been abed an hour ago.\n\n  Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo.\n    Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.\n\n  Lady. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;\n    To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.\n\n  Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender\n    Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd\n    In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.\n    Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;\n    Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love\n    And bid her (mark you me?) on Wednesday next-\n    But, soft! what day is this?\n\n  Par. Monday, my lord.\n\n  Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon.\n    Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her\n    She shall be married to this noble earl.\n    Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?\n    We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two;\n    For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,\n    It may be thought we held him carelessly,\n    Being our kinsman, if we revel much.\n    Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,\n    And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?\n\n  Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.\n\n  Cap. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.\n    Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed;\n    Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day.\n    Farewell, My lord.- Light to my chamber, ho!\n    Afore me, It is so very very late\n    That we may call it early by-and-by.\n    Good night.\n                                                          Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Paris is still hanging around hoping he can marry Juliet. Unfortunately, Juliet's still way depressed about Tybalt/Romeo. Of course, her parents don't know about the Romeo part, and Juliet's grief for Tybalt seems so extreme to her father that he changes his mind about waiting a few years before she is married. What better way to cheer her up than to force her into a marriage with a man she's just not that into? Figuring that there's no way Juliet could refuse a great guy like Paris, Lord Capulet decides to go full speed ahead. How about marrying her next week? he asks Paris. Sure!"}, {"": "70", "document": "Act II. Scene I.\nElsinore. A room in the house of Polonius.\n\nEnter Polonius and Reynaldo.\n\n  Pol. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.\n  Rey. I will, my lord.\n  Pol. You shall do marvell's wisely, good Reynaldo,\n    Before You visit him, to make inquire\n    Of his behaviour.\n  Rey. My lord, I did intend it.\n  Pol. Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir,\n    Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris;\n    And how, and who, what means, and where they keep,\n    What company, at what expense; and finding\n    By this encompassment and drift of question\n    That they do know my son, come you more nearer\n    Than your particular demands will touch it.\n    Take you, as 'twere, some distant knowledge of him;\n    As thus, 'I know his father and his friends,\n    And in part him.' Do you mark this, Reynaldo?\n  Rey. Ay, very well, my lord.\n  Pol. 'And in part him, but,' you may say, 'not well.\n    But if't be he I mean, he's very wild\n    Addicted so and so'; and there put on him\n    What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank\n    As may dishonour him- take heed of that;\n    But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips\n    As are companions noted and most known\n    To youth and liberty.\n  Rey. As gaming, my lord.\n  Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,\n    Drabbing. You may go so far.\n  Rey. My lord, that would dishonour him.\n  Pol. Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge.\n    You must not put another scandal on him,\n    That he is open to incontinency.\n    That's not my meaning. But breathe his faults so quaintly\n    That they may seem the taints of liberty,\n    The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,\n    A savageness in unreclaimed blood,\n    Of general assault.\n  Rey. But, my good lord-\n  Pol. Wherefore should you do this?\n  Rey. Ay, my lord,\n    I would know that.\n  Pol. Marry, sir, here's my drift,\n    And I believe it is a fetch of warrant.\n    You laying these slight sullies on my son\n    As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i' th' working,\n    Mark you,\n    Your party in converse, him you would sound,\n    Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes\n    The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur'd\n    He closes with you in this consequence:\n    'Good sir,' or so, or 'friend,' or 'gentleman'-\n    According to the phrase or the addition\n    Of man and country-\n  Rey. Very good, my lord.\n  Pol. And then, sir, does 'a this- 'a does- What was I about to\nsay?\n    By the mass, I was about to say something! Where did I leave?\n  Rey. At 'closes in the consequence,' at 'friend or so,' and\n    gentleman.'\n  Pol. At 'closes in the consequence'- Ay, marry!\n    He closes thus: 'I know the gentleman.\n    I saw him yesterday, or t'other day,\n    Or then, or then, with such or such; and, as you say,\n    There was 'a gaming; there o'ertook in's rouse;\n    There falling out at tennis'; or perchance,\n    'I saw him enter such a house of sale,'\n    Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth.\n    See you now-\n    Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth;\n    And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,\n    With windlasses and with assays of bias,\n    By indirections find directions out.\n    So, by my former lecture and advice,\n    Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?\n  Rey. My lord, I have.\n  Pol. God b' wi' ye, fare ye well!\n  Rey. Good my lord!                                    [Going.]\n  Pol. Observe his inclination in yourself.\n  Rey. I shall, my lord.\n  Pol. And let him ply his music.\n  Rey. Well, my lord.\n  Pol. Farewell!\n                                                  Exit Reynaldo.\n\n                       Enter Ophelia.\n\n    How now, Ophelia? What's the matter?\n  Oph. O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!\n  Pol. With what, i' th' name of God?\n  Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,\n    Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd,\n    No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd,\n    Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle;\n    Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,\n    And with a look so piteous in purport\n    As if he had been loosed out of hell\n    To speak of horrors- he comes before me.\n  Pol. Mad for thy love?\n  Oph. My lord, I do not know,\n    But truly I do fear it.\n  Pol. What said he?\n  Oph. He took me by the wrist and held me hard;\n    Then goes he to the length of all his arm,\n    And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow,\n    He falls to such perusal of my face\n    As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so.\n    At last, a little shaking of mine arm,\n    And thrice his head thus waving up and down,\n    He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound\n    As it did seem to shatter all his bulk\n    And end his being. That done, he lets me go,\n    And with his head over his shoulder turn'd\n    He seem'd to find his way without his eyes,\n    For out o' doors he went without their help\n    And to the last bended their light on me.\n  Pol. Come, go with me. I will go seek the King.\n    This is the very ecstasy of love,\n    Whose violent property fordoes itself\n    And leads the will to desperate undertakings\n    As oft as any passion under heaven\n    That does afflict our natures. I am sorry.\n    What, have you given him any hard words of late?\n  Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command,\n    I did repel his letters and denied\n    His access to me.\n  Pol. That hath made him mad.\n    I am sorry that with better heed and judgment\n    I had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle\n    And meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my jealousy!\n    By heaven, it is as proper to our age\n    To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions\n    As it is common for the younger sort\n    To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King.\n    This must be known; which, being kept close, might move\n    More grief to hide than hate to utter love.\n    Come.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n", "summary": "Polonius dispatches his servant Reynaldo to France with money and written notes for Laertes, also ordering him to inquire about and spy on Laertes' personal life. He gives him explicit directions as to how to pursue his investigations, then sends him on his way. As Reynaldo leaves, Ophelia enters, visibly upset. She tells Polonius that Hamlet, unkempt and wild-eyed, has accosted her. Hamlet grabbed her, held her, and sighed heavily, but did not speak to her. Polonius says that Hamlet must be mad with his love for Ophelia, for she has distanced herself from him ever since Polonius ordered her to do so. Polonius speculates that this lovesickness might be the cause of Hamlet's moodiness, and he hurries out to tell Claudius of his idea"}, {"": "71", "document": "SCENE 7.\n\nThe orchard of Swinstead Abbey.\n\n[Enter PRINCE HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.]\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nIt is too late: the life of all his blood\nIs touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain,--\nWhich some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,--\nDoth, by the idle comments that it makes,\nForetell the ending of mortality.\n\n[Enter PEMBROKE.]\n\nPEMBROKE.\nHis Highness yet doth speak; and holds belief\nThat, being brought into the open air,\nIt would allay the burning quality\nOf that fell poison which assaileth him.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nLet him be brought into the orchard here.--\nDoth he still rage?\n\n[Exit BIGOT.]\n\nPEMBROKE.\nHe is more patient\nThan when you left him; even now he sung.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nO vanity of sickness! fierce extremes\nIn their continuance will not feel themselves.\nDeath, having prey'd upon the outward parts,\nLeaves them invisible; and his siege is now\nAgainst the mind, the which he pricks and wounds\nWith many legions of strange fantasies,\nWhich, in their throng and press to that last hold,\nConfound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing.--\nI am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,\nWho chants a doleful hymn to his own death;\nAnd from the organ-pipe of frailty sings\nHis soul and body to their lasting rest.\n\nSALISBURY.\nBe of good comfort, prince; for you are born\nTo set a form upon that indigest\nWhich he hath left so shapeless and so rude.\n\n[Re-enter BIGOT and Attendants, who bring in KING JOHN in a\nchair.]\n\nKING JOHN.\nAy, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;\nIt would not out at windows nor at doors.\nThere is so hot a summer in my bosom\nThat all my bowels crumble up to dust;\nI am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen,\nUpon a parchment; and against this fire\nDo I shrink up.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nHow fares your majesty?\n\nKING JOHN.\nPoison'd,--ill-fare;--dead, forsook, cast off;\nAnd none of you will bid the winter come,\nTo thrust his icy fingers in my maw;\nNor let my kingdom's rivers take their course\nThrough my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north\nTo make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,\nAnd comfort me with cold:--I do not ask you much;\nI beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,\nAnd so ingrateful, you deny me that.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nO, that there were some virtue in my tears,\nThat might relieve you!\n\nKING JOHN.\nThe salt in them is hot.--\nWithin me is a hell; and there the poison\nIs, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize\nOn unreprievable condemned blood.\n\n[Enter the BASTARD.]\n\nBASTARD.\nO, I am scalded with my violent motion\nAnd spleen of speed to see your majesty!\n\nKING JOHN.\nO cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:\nThe tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;\nAnd all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,\nAre turned to one thread, one little hair:\nMy heart hath one poor string to stay it by,\nWhich holds but till thy news be uttered;\nAnd then all this thou seest is but a clod,\nAnd module of confounded royalty.\n\nBASTARD.\nThe Dauphin is preparing hitherward,\nWhere heaven he knows how we shall answer him;\nFor in a night the best part of my power,\nAs I upon advantage did remove,\nWere in the washes all unwarily\nDevoured by the unexpected flood.\n\n[The KING dies.]\n\nSALISBURY.\nYou breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.\nMy liege! my lord!--But now a king,--now thus.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nEven so must I run on, and even so stop.\nWhat surety of the world, what hope, what stay,\nWhen this was now a king, and now is clay?\n\nBASTARD.\nArt thou gone so? I do but stay behind\nTo do the office for thee of revenge,\nAnd then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,\nAs it on earth hath been thy servant still.--\nNow, now, you stars that move in your right spheres,\nWhere be your powers? Show now your mended faiths;\nAnd instantly return with me again,\nTo push destruction and perpetual shame\nOut of the weak door of our fainting land.\nStraight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought;\nThe Dauphin rages at our very heels.\n\nSALISBURY.\nIt seems you know not, then, so much as we:\nThe Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,\nWho half an hour since came from the Dauphin,\nAnd brings from him such offers of our peace\nAs we with honour and respect may take,\nWith purpose presently to leave this war.\n\nBASTARD.\nHe will the rather do it when he sees\nOurselves well sinewed to our defence.\n\nSALISBURY.\nNay, 'tis in a manner done already;\nFor many carriages he hath despatch'd\nTo the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel\nTo the disposing of the cardinal:\nWith whom yourself, myself, and other lords,\nIf you think meet, this afternoon will post\nTo consummate this business happily.\n\nBASTARD.\nLet it be so:--And you, my noble prince,\nWith other princes that may best be spar'd,\nShall wait upon your father's funeral.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nAt Worcester must his body be interr'd;\nFor so he will'd it.\n\nBASTARD.\nThither shall it, then:\nAnd happily may your sweet self put on\nThe lineal state and glory of the land!\nTo whom, with all submission, on my knee,\nI do bequeath my faithful services\nAnd true subjection everlastingly.\n\nSALISBURY.\nAnd the like tender of our love we make,\nTo rest without a spot for evermore.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nI have a kind soul that would give you thanks,\nAnd knows not how to do it but with tears.\n\nBASTARD.\nO, let us pay the time but needful woe,\nSince it hath been beforehand with our griefs.--\nThis England never did, nor never shall,\nLie at the proud foot of a conqueror,\nBut when it first did help to wound itself.\nNow these her princes are come home again,\nCome the three corners of the world in arms,\nAnd we shall shock them: nought shall make us rue,\nIf England to itself do rest but true.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The scene opens in an orchard at Swinstead Abbey. Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Lord Bigot come onstage first. Prince Henry tells us that his old man isn't doing so well: the poison has gone throughout his whole body, and his brain has been affected. Pembroke says that King John can still talk and suggests bringing him into the orchard. Hey, maybe all the fruit trees will make him feel better? Pembroke tells us that the king has been acting a little loopy. Just moments ago, he was singing. This makes Prince Henry reflect on the nature of sickness in general; according to him, death first attacks the body, then the mind. Right now, we're seeing the last stages of the king's illness. At this point, Lord Bigot and some other attendants come in, carrying King John in a chair. King John complains about the horrible pain he's in; he wants to die as quickly as possible. He complains that nothing can get rid of the burning sensation that is tormenting him. Now the Bastard comes in. The Bastard warns them all that Louis the Dauphin is on his way there. He doesn't know how they will resist him, seeing as most of his men got drowned by the tide on the way there. Just then, King John dies. Salisbury and Prince Henry can't believe that a guy can be a king one moment, and a corpse the next. The Bastard says, \"True that. But what I'm most worried about is the army of Louis the Dauphin, which is on its way here to give us all a royal thumping.\" But then Salisbury says, \"Hey, calm down. Don't you know? Cardinal Pandolf is inside--he just came to us with a message from Louis, who says he quits. There's no more war.\" Salisbury explains that Louis is already on his way to the coast to head back to France. Prince Henry starts planning his dad's funeral. He says he going to Worcester, because that's where King John wanted to be buried. The Bastard thinks this is a good idea. He swears his loyalty to Prince Henry; Salisbury does the same. Prince Henry tries to thank them, but he is all choked up with tears. The Bastard ends the play by making a patriotic speech saying that England only came this close to being conquered because the country was divided against itself. So long as England remains unified, he says, no one will be able to conquer it. That's it. What? You're not satisfied? Go to \"What's Up With the Ending?\" if you want more."}, {"": "72", "document": "SCENE III.\nRome. MARCIUS' house\n\nEnter VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA, mother and wife to MARCIUS;\nthey set them down on two low stools and sew\n\n  VOLUMNIA. I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a\nmore\n    comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should\nfreelier\n    rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the\n    embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When\nyet\n    he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when\nyouth\n    with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day of\n    kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from\nher\n    beholding; I, considering how honour would become such a\nperson-\n    that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th' wall,\nif\n    renown made it not stir- was pleas'd to let him seek danger\nwhere\n    he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence\nhe\n    return'd his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I\n    sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child\nthan\n    now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.\n  VIRGILIA. But had he died in the business, madam, how then?\n  VOLUMNIA. Then his good report should have been my son; I\ntherein\n    would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a\ndozen\n    sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine\nand my\n    good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their\ncountry\n    than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.\n\n                        Enter a GENTLEWOMAN\n\n  GENTLEWOMAN. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.\n  VIRGILIA. Beseech you give me leave to retire myself.\n  VOLUMNIA. Indeed you shall not.\n    Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum;\n    See him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair;\n    As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him.\n    Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus:\n    'Come on, you cowards! You were got in fear,\n    Though you were born in Rome.' His bloody brow\n    With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes,\n    Like to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow\n    Or all or lose his hire.\n  VIRGILIA. His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood!\n  VOLUMNIA. Away, you fool! It more becomes a man\n    Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba,\n    When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier\n    Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood\n    At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria\n    We are fit to bid her welcome.              Exit GENTLEWOMAN\n  VIRGILIA. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!\n  VOLUMNIA. He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee\n    And tread upon his neck.\n\n         Re-enter GENTLEWOMAN, With VALERIA and an usher\n\n  VALERIA. My ladies both, good day to you.\n  VOLUMNIA. Sweet madam!\n  VIRGILIA. I am glad to see your ladyship.\n  VALERIA. How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What\nare\n    you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your\nlittle\n    son?\n  VIRGILIA. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam.\n  VOLUMNIA. He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than\nlook\n    upon his schoolmaster.\n  VALERIA. O' my word, the father's son! I'll swear 'tis a very\n    pretty boy. O' my troth, I look'd upon him a Wednesday half\nan\n    hour together; has such a confirm'd countenance! I saw him\nrun\n    after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it he let it go\n    again, and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up\n    again, catch'd it again; or whether his fall enrag'd him, or\nhow\n    'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant, how\nhe\n    mammock'd it!\n  VOLUMNIA. One on's father's moods.\n  VALERIA. Indeed, la, 'tis a noble child.\n  VIRGILIA. A crack, madam.\n  VALERIA. Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play\nthe\n    idle huswife with me this afternoon.\n  VIRGILIA. No, good madam; I will not out of doors.\n  VALERIA. Not out of doors!\n  VOLUMNIA. She shall, she shall.\n  VIRGILIA. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the\nthreshold\n    till my lord return from the wars.\n  VALERIA. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably; come, you\n\n\n    must go visit the good lady that lies in.\n  VIRGILIA. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with\nmy\n    prayers; but I cannot go thither.\n  VOLUMNIA. Why, I pray you?\n  VIRGILIA. 'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.\n  VALERIA. You would be another Penelope; yet they say all the\nyarn\n    she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of\nmoths.\n    Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that\nyou\n    might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us.\n  VIRGILIA. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed I will not forth.\n  VALERIA. In truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you excellent\nnews\n    of your husband.\n  VIRGILIA. O, good madam, there can be none yet.\n  VALERIA. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from\nhim\n    last night.\n  VIRGILIA. Indeed, madam?\n  VALERIA. In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it.\nThus it\n    is: the Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the\n    general is gone, with one part of our Roman power. Your lord\nand\n    Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they\n    nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is\ntrue,\n    on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us.\n  VIRGILIA. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in\neverything\n    hereafter.\n  VOLUMNIA. Let her alone, lady; as she is now, she will but\ndisease\n    our better mirth.\n  VALERIA. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then.\nCome,\n    good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o'\n    door and go along with us.\n  VIRGILIA. No, at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you\nmuch\n    mirth.\n  VALERIA. Well then, farewell.                           Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Back in Rome, we get to meet Caius Martius' dysfunctional family. His mom and his wife are chillaxing with their sewing needles and thread, trying to pass the time while their favorite guy in the world is away. Apparently, there's some tension, because the first thing out of Volumnia's mouth is that her daughter-in-law needs to quit boo-hooing about her husband being off at war. Then Volumnia says something icky like \"If my son was my husband, I'd be happier when he was out killing enemy soldiers than I'd be if we were having sex.\" Because that's not creepy at all. See, Volumnia raised her boy to be a killing machine and she wants him to totally crush the Volscians. In fact, she hopes he gets maimed in the process so he can come home and show off his \"bloody brow\" and some awesome new scars. Now Virgilia's BFF, Valeria, shows up. Valeria makes small talk about Virgilia's adorable little boy. He did the cutest thing the other day--he tortured a butterfly before tearing it apart with his teeth. The women are all \"How precious! Like father like son.\" Valeria invites the ladies out for the ancient Roman equivalent of \"lunch with the girls.\" Virgilia refuses. She can't bear to leave the house when her beloved hubby is risking life and limb. She'll just stay at home and keep sewing. Valeria is all \"Who do you think you are: Penelope? Brain Snack: Penelope is maybe the most famous wife in literary history. In Homer's Odyssey, she stays at home pretend-weaving while her man is out having an epic adventure. Valeria obviously thinks this is major loser territory. Now Valeria reports that she heard some news about the war--apparently, Caius Martius and Titus Lartius are giving the city of Corioles a good old fashioned Roman beating. Meanwhile, on the battlefields between Rome and Corioles, another general is leading some Roman soldiers against the Volscians. Virgilia is happy to hear all this but she won't budge. Finally, her mother-in-law and BFF leave without her."}, {"": "73", "document": "Chapter X. The Guardian of the Gate.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIt was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain\namong the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance;\nbut when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad\nto find himself still alive.\n\n\"I ran as fast as I could,\" he said, sitting down and yawning; \"but\nthe flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?\"\n\nThen they told him of the field-mice, and how they had generously\nsaved him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said,\n\n\"I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such small\nthings as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as\nmice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what\nshall we do now?\"\n\n\"We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again,\"\nsaid Dorothy; \"and then we can keep on to the Emerald City.\"\n\nSo, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again,\nthey all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through\nthe soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the\nroad of yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald City where\nthe great Oz dwelt.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was\nbeautiful; so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far\nbehind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy\nshades. Once more they could see fences built beside the road; but\nthese were painted green, and when they came to a small house, in\nwhich a farmer evidently lived, that also was painted green. They\npassed by several of these houses during the afternoon, and sometimes\npeople came to the doors and looked at them as if they would like to\nask questions; but no one came near them nor spoke to them because of\nthe great Lion, of which they were much afraid. The people were all\ndressed in clothing of a lovely emerald green color and wore peaked\nhats like those of the Munchkins.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"This must be the Land of Oz,\" said Dorothy, \"and we are surely\ngetting near the Emerald City.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the Scarecrow; \"everything is green here, while in\nthe country of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color. But the\npeople do not seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins and I'm afraid\nwe shall be unable to find a place to pass the night.\"\n\n\"I should like something to eat besides fruit,\" said the girl, \"and\nI'm sure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next house and\ntalk to the people.\"\n\nSo, when they came to a good sized farm house, Dorothy walked boldly\nup to the door and knocked. A woman opened it just far enough to look\nout, and said,\n\n\"What do you want, child, and why is that great Lion with you?\"\n\n\"We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us,\" answered\nDorothy; \"and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt\nyou for the world.\"\n\n\"Is he tame?\" asked the woman, opening the door a little wider.\n\n\"Oh, yes;\" said the girl, \"and he is a great coward, too; so that he\nwill be more afraid of you than you are of him.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another\npeep at the Lion, \"if that is the case you may come in, and I will\ngive you some supper and a place to sleep.\"\n\nSo they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman,\ntwo children and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the\ncouch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a\ncompany, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked,\n\n\"Where are you all going?\"\n\n\"To the Emerald City,\" said Dorothy, \"to see the Great Oz.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed!\" exclaimed the man. \"Are you sure that Oz will see you?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" she replied.\n\n\"Why, it is said that he never lets any one come into his presence. I\nhave been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and\nwonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz,\nnor do I know of any living person who has seen him.\"\n\n\"Does he never go out?\" asked the Scarecrow.\n\n\"Never. He sits day after day in the great throne room of his palace,\nand even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face.\"\n\n\"What is he like?\" asked the girl.\n\n\"That is hard to tell,\" said the man, thoughtfully. \"You see, Oz is a\ngreat Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that some say he\nlooks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some\nsay he looks like a cat. To others he appears as a beautiful fairy,\nor a brownie, or in any other form that pleases him. But who the real\nOz is, when he is in his own form, no living person can tell.\"\n\n\"That is very strange,\" said Dorothy; \"but we must try, in some way,\nto see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?\" asked the man.\n\n\"I want him to give me some brains,\" said the Scarecrow, eagerly.\n\n\"Oh, Oz could do that easily enough,\" declared the man. \"He has more\nbrains than he needs.\"\n\n\"And I want him to give me a heart,\" said the Tin Woodman.\n\n\"That will not trouble him,\" continued the man, \"for Oz has a large\ncollection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes.\"\n\n\"And I want him to give me courage,\" said the Cowardly Lion.\n\n\"Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his throne room,\" said the man,\n\"which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running\nover. He will be glad to give you some.\"\n\n\"And I want him to send me back to Kansas,\" said Dorothy.\n\n\"Where is Kansas?\" asked the man, in surprise.\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied Dorothy, sorrowfully; \"but it is my home, and\nI'm sure it's somewhere.\"\n\n\"Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will find\nKansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that will be\na hard task; for the great Wizard does not like to see anyone, and\nhe usually has his own way. But what do you want?\" he continued,\nspeaking to Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he\ncould not speak.\n\n[Illustration: \"_The Lion ate some of the porridge._\"]\n\nThe woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered\naround the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of\nscrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal.\nThe Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it\nwas made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions. The\nScarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate nothing at all. Toto ate a little of\neverything, and was glad to get a good supper again.\n\nThe woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay down beside\nher, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be\ndisturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood up in a corner and\nkept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep.\n\nThe next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their\nway, and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them.\n\n\"That must be the Emerald City,\" said Dorothy.\n\nAs they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it\nseemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels. Yet it\nwas afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the\nCity. It was high, and thick, and of a bright green color.\n\nIn front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big\ngate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even\nthe painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy.\n\nThere was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the button and\nheard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate swung slowly\nopen, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high\narched room, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds.\n\nBefore them stood a little man about the same size as the Munchkins.\nHe was clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his\nskin was of a greenish tint. At his side was a large green box.\n\nWhen he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked,\n\n\"What do you wish in the Emerald City?\"\n\n\"We came here to see the Great Oz,\" said Dorothy.\n\nThe man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it\nover.\n\n\"It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz,\" he said,\nshaking his head in perplexity. \"He is powerful and terrible, and if\nyou come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of\nthe Great Wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one,\" replied the\nScarecrow; \"it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a good\nWizard.\"\n\n\"So he is,\" said the green man; \"and he rules the Emerald City wisely\nand well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach him from\ncuriosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see\nhis face. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since you demand to see\nthe Great Oz I must take you to his palace. But first you must put on\nthe spectacles.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Dorothy.\n\n\"Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of\nthe Emerald City would blind you. Even those who live in the City\nmust wear spectacles night and day. They are all locked on, for Oz\nso ordered it when the City was first built, and I have the only key\nthat will unlock them.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHe opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with\nspectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses\nin them. The Guardian of the gates found a pair that would just fit\nDorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden bands\nfastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they\nwere locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the\nGuardian of the Gates wore around his neck. When they were on, Dorothy\ncould not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not want\nto be blinded by the glare of the Emerald City, so she said nothing.\n\nThen the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the Tin\nWoodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were locked\nfast with the key.\n\nThen the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told them\nhe was ready to show them to the palace. Taking a big golden key from\na peg on the wall he opened another gate, and they all followed him\nthrough the portal into the streets of the Emerald City.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "After a time, the Lion wakes up. The gang tells him about the crazy mouse chariot that pulled him out of the poppies. Renewed, they set off on their journey to Oz. Soon enough they find the yellow brick road. Back on track! The area around the road is starting to show signs of life again. There are farms and fences and people. They're all wearing green, which suggests the Emerald City isn't too far off. Hungry, Dorothy decides to stop at a farm. They're invited in for a nice supper and a good sleep. During their stay, the man of the house drops a few more hints about Oz's reputation. He's very reclusive, apparently. Also, he's a shape-shifter. Still, the man seems confident that the wizard will be able to help the travelers with all their needs. The next morning, on the road, the gang starts to notice a green glow. They know they're nearing their destination. They arrive before a fancy emerald gate. We're talking major bling. Dorothy rings the bell. A small man clothed in green answers the door. Dorothy explains they want to see the wizard. The man seems really surprised at this request. No one ever wants to see Oz. But...okay. First everyone has to put on protective glasses. Otherwise the brightness of the city will blind them. They set off into the city."}, {"": "74", "document": "Scene V.\nCapulet's orchard.\n\nEnter Juliet.\n\n\n  Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;\n    In half an hour she 'promis'd to return.\n    Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so.\n    O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts,\n    Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams\n    Driving back shadows over low'ring hills.\n    Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love,\n    And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.\n    Now is the sun upon the highmost hill\n    Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve\n    Is three long hours; yet she is not come.\n    Had she affections and warm youthful blood,\n    She would be as swift in motion as a ball;\n    My words would bandy her to my sweet love,\n    And his to me,\n    But old folks, many feign as they were dead-\n    Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.\n\n                      Enter Nurse [and Peter].\n\n    O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news?\n    Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.\n\n  Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate.\n                                                   [Exit Peter.]\n\n  Jul. Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad?\n    Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;\n    If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news\n    By playing it to me with so sour a face.\n\n  Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile.\n    Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had!\n\n  Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.\n    Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak.\n\n  Nurse. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile?\n    Do you not see that I am out of breath?\n\n  Jul. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath\n    To say to me that thou art out of breath?\n    The excuse that thou dost make in this delay\n    Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.\n    Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that.\n    Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance.\n    Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?\n\n  Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to\n    choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better\n    than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a\n    foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet\n    they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I'll\n    warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve\nGod.\n    What, have you din'd at home?\n\n  Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before.\n    What says he of our marriage? What of that?\n\n  Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I!\n    It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.\n    My back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back!\n    Beshrew your heart for sending me about\n    To catch my death with jauncing up and down!\n\n  Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.\n    Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?\n\n  Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous,\n    and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where\n    is your mother?\n\n  Jul. Where is my mother? Why, she is within.\n    Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!\n    'Your love says, like an honest gentleman,\n    \"Where is your mother?\"'\n\n  Nurse. O God's Lady dear!\n    Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow.\n    Is this the poultice for my aching bones?\n    Henceforward do your messages yourself.\n\n  Jul. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo?\n\n  Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?\n\n  Jul. I have.\n\n  Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell;\n    There stays a husband to make you a wife.\n    Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks:\n    They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.\n    Hie you to church; I must another way,\n    To fetch a ladder, by the which your love\n    Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark.\n    I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;\n    But you shall bear the burthen soon at night.\n    Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.\n\n  Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Three hours after sending the Nurse for news from Romeo, Juliet waits impatiently for her return. The Nurse, knowing of Juliet's eagerness, deliberately teases the young bride-to-be by withholding the word of the upcoming wedding. Instead, the Nurse complains about her aches and pains. The Nurse finally relents when Juliet is almost hysterical with frustration and tells her that she is to marry Romeo that afternoon at Friar Laurence's cell. The Nurse then leaves to collect the rope ladder that Romeo will use to climb into Juliet's bedroom that night."}, {"": "75", "document": "Scene VI.\nElsinore. Another room in the Castle.\n\nEnter Horatio with an Attendant.\n\n  Hor. What are they that would speak with me?\n  Servant. Seafaring men, sir. They say they have letters for\nyou.\n  Hor. Let them come in.\n                                               [Exit Attendant.]\n    I do not know from what part of the world\n    I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.\n\n                          Enter Sailors.\n\n  Sailor. God bless you, sir.\n  Hor. Let him bless thee too.\n  Sailor. 'A shall, sir, an't please him. There's a letter for\nyou,\n    sir,- it comes from th' ambassador that was bound for\nEngland- if\n    your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.\n  Hor. (reads the letter) 'Horatio, when thou shalt have\noverlook'd\n    this, give these fellows some means to the King. They have\n    letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of\n\n    very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too\n    slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the\ngrapple I\n    boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship; so I\n    alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like\nthieves\n    of mercy; but they knew what they did: I am to do a good turn\nfor\n    them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair\nthou\n    to me with as much speed as thou wouldst fly death. I have\nwords\n    to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much\ntoo\n    light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will\nbring\n    thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their\ncourse\n    for England. Of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell.\n                            'He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.'\n\n    Come, I will give you way for these your letters,\n    And do't the speedier that you may direct me\n    To him from whom you brought them.                   Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Inside the palace, Horatio runs into some sailors carrying a letter to him from Hamlet. Hamlet writes that his ship was attacked by friendly pirates, and after a bit of a squabble, he ended up being the only person \"taken prisoner\" by the pirates. Horatio should make sure that some letters get safely to the King and Queen, and then head out to meet Hamlet."}, {"": "76", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nMilan. The DUKE'S palace\n\nEnter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA as SEBASTIAN\n\n  THURIO. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit?\n  PROTEUS. O, sir, I find her milder than she was;\n    And yet she takes exceptions at your person.\n  THURIO. What, that my leg is too long?\n  PROTEUS. No; that it is too little.\n  THURIO. I'll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder.\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  But love will not be spurr'd to what it\nloathes.\n  THURIO. What says she to my face?\n  PROTEUS. She says it is a fair one.\n  THURIO. Nay, then, the wanton lies; my face is black.\n  PROTEUS. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is:\n    Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies'\neyes;\n    For I had rather wink than look on them.\n  THURIO. How likes she my discourse?\n  PROTEUS. Ill, when you talk of war.\n  THURIO. But well when I discourse of love and peace?\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.\n  THURIO. What says she to my valour?\n  PROTEUS. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.\n  THURIO. What says she to my birth?\n  PROTEUS. That you are well deriv'd.\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  True; from a gentleman to a fool.\n  THURIO. Considers she my possessions?\n  PROTEUS. O, ay; and pities them.\n  THURIO. Wherefore?\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  That such an ass should owe them.\n  PROTEUS. That they are out by lease.\n  JULIA. Here comes the Duke.\n\n                          Enter DUKE\n\n  DUKE. How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!\n    Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late?\n  THURIO. Not I.\n  PROTEUS. Nor I.\n  DUKE. Saw you my daughter?\n  PROTEUS. Neither.\n  DUKE. Why then,\n    She's fled unto that peasant Valentine;\n    And Eglamour is in her company.\n    'Tis true; for Friar Lawrence met them both\n    As he in penance wander'd through the forest;\n    Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she,\n    But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it;\n    Besides, she did intend confession\n    At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not.\n    These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence;\n    Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,\n    But mount you presently, and meet with me\n    Upon the rising of the mountain foot\n    That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled.\n    Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.               Exit\n  THURIO. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl\n    That flies her fortune when it follows her.\n    I'll after, more to be reveng'd on Eglamour\n    Than for the love of reckless Silvia.                   Exit\n  PROTEUS. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love\n    Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her.              Exit\n  JULIA. And I will follow, more to cross that love\n    Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love.            Exit\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At the Duke's court in Milan, Thurio asks Proteus to tell him what Silvia thinks of him. Proteus answers him with what sounds like praise, but could be interpreted in less than favorable terms. Which is what Julia, who is standing nearby as Sebastian does. For every compliment Proteus giveThurio, she offers an alternative interpretation. She does it in asides, muttering the insults so that the audience can hear her, but not the characters on stage with her. The Duke storms in and announces that Eglamour and Silvia have run off to find that loser Valentine. Everyone should grab their gear and horses so they can help track down the runaways. Thurio says he'll go along, but more to punish Eglamour than for any love of Silvia. Proteus plans to go for his love of Sylvia, not any anger with Eglamour. And Julia? She's going to mess up Proteus's plans."}, {"": "77", "document": "SCENE II.\n\n\n            _A Dining-room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.\n\n     SIR TOBY _and_ SIR ANDREW _discovered, drinking and smoking_.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be\nup betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know'st,----\n\n    _Sir And._ Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late,\nis to be up late.\n\n    _Sir To._ A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd can: To be up\nafter midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to\nbed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives\nconsist of the four elements?\n\n    _Sir And._ 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of\neating and drinking.\n\n    _Sir To._ Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and\ndrink.--Maria, I say!----a stoop of wine!\n\n                                           [_The_ CLOWN _sings without_.\n\n                                      [SIR ANDREW _and_ SIR TOBY _rise_.\n\n    _Sir And._ Here comes the fool, i'faith.\n\n                           _Enter_ CLOWN.\n\n    _Clo._ How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we\nthree?\n\n    _Sir To._ Welcome, ass.\n\n    _Sir And._ I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and\nso sweet a voice to sing, as the fool has.--In sooth, thou wast in very\ngracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the\nVapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I\nsent thee sixpence for thy leman: Hadst it?\n\n    _Clo._ I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no\nwhipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle\nale-houses.\n\n    _Sir And._ Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is\ndone. Now, a song.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come on: Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that\nwill draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?\n\n    _Sir And._ An you love me, let's do 't: I am dog at a catch.\n\n    _Clo._ By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.\n\n    _Sir And._ Begin, fool: it begins,--[_Sings._] _Hold thy peace._\n\n    _Clo._ Hold my peace!--I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.\n\n    _Sir And._ Good, i'faith!--Come, begin:--that, or something\nelse,--or what you will.\n\n                                                 [_They all three sing._\n\n        _Christmas comes but once a year,\n        And therefore we'll be merry._\n\n                             _Enter_ MARIA.\n\n    _Mar._ What a catterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not\ncalled up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors,\nnever trust me.\n\n    _Sir To._ My lady's a Cataian; we are politicians. Malvolio's a\nPeg-a-Ramsay:--[_Sings._]--_And three merry men be we._\n\n    _Sir And._ [_Sings._] _And three merry men be we._\n\n    _Sir To._ Am I not consanguineous? Am I not of her blood?\nTilly-valley, lady!--[_Sings._]--_There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady,\nlady!_\n\n    _Sir And._ [_Sings_] _Lady_,----\n\n    _Clo._ Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.\n\n    _Sir And._ Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I\ntoo; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.\n[_Sings_.] _Lady_,--\n\n    _Sir To._ Let us have another.\n\n                                       [_They all three sing and dance._\n\n        _Which is the properest day to drink?\n        Saturday,--Sunday,--Monday_,--\n\n    _Mar._ For the love of heaven, peace.\n\n          _Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in a Gown and Cap, with a Light_.\n\n    _Mal._ My masters, are you mad? or what are you?\n\n    _Sir And._ [_Sings._] _Monday_,--\n\n    _Mal._ Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like\ntinkers at this time of night?\n\n    _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Saturday_,--\n\n    _Mal._ Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?\n\n    _Sir To._ We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!\n\n    _Mal._ Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you,\nthat, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to\nyour disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you\nare welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave\nof her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.\n\n    _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be\ngone._\n\n    _Mar._ Nay, good Sir Toby.\n\n    _Clo._ [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._\n\n    _Mal._ Is't even so?\n\n    _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _But I will never die._  [_Falls on the floor._\n\n    _Clo._ [_Sings._] _Sir Toby,--O, Sir Toby,--there you lie._\n\n    _Mal._ This is much credit to you.         [CLOWN _raises_ SIR TOBY.\n\n    _Sir To._ [_Sings._] _You lie._--Art any more than a steward? Dost\nthou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes\nand ale?\n\n    _Clo._ Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.\n\n    _Sir To._ Thou'rt i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with\ncrums:--A stoop of wine, Maria!\n\n    _Mal._ Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing\nmore than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule:\nShe shall know of it, by this hand.\n\n               [_Exit_ MALVOLIO, _followed by the_ CLOWN, _mocking him_.\n\n    _Mar._ Go shake your ears.\n\n    _Sir And._ 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry,\nto challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and\nmake a fool of him.\n\n    _Sir To._ Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver\nthy indignation to him by word of mouth.\n\n    _Mar._ Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of\nthe Duke's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For\nMonsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a\nnayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit\nenough to lie straight in my bed: I know, I can do it.\n\n    _Sir To._ Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.\n\n    _Mar._ Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.\n\n    _Sir And._ O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.\n\n    _Sir To._ What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear\nknight?\n\n    _Sir And._ I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good\nenough.\n\n    _Mar._ The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a\ntime-pleaser; an affectioned ass; so crammed, as he thinks, with\nexcellencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on\nhim, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable\ncause to work.\n\n    _Sir To._ What wilt thou do?\n\n    _Mar._ I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love;\nwherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of\nhis gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most\nfeelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a\nforgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.\n\n    _Sir To._ Excellent! I smell a device.\n\n    _Sir And._ I have't in my nose too.\n\n    _Sir To._ He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that\nthey come from my niece, and that she is in love with him?\n\n    _Sir And._ O, 'twill be admirable.\n\n    _Mar._ Sport royal, I warrant you. I will plant you two, and let\nFabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his\nconstruction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event.\nFarewell.                                                 [_Exit_ MARIA.\n\n    _Sir To._ Good night, Penthesilea.\n\n    _Sir And._ Before me, she's a good wench.\n\n    _Sir To._ She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; What o'\nthat?\n\n    _Sir And._ I was adored once too.\n\n    _Sir To._ Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more\nmoney.\n\n    _Sir And._ If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.\n\n    _Sir To._ Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,\ncall me Cut.\n\n    _Sir And._ If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to\nbed now.\n\n    _Sir And._ I'll call you Cut.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come, knight,--come, knight.\n\n    _Sir And._ I'll call you Cut.                             [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Viola, still in disguise as Cesario, comes on stage and is followed by Malvolio, who catches up with the lad and asks him if he is indeed the young man who was with the Countess Olivia only a short time ago. Cesario admits that it was he, and Malvolio holds out a ring to him -- seemingly a ring that Duke Orsino sent to Olivia, one which Cesario left behind by mistake. Malvolio adds sarcastically that Cesario would have saved Malvolio the time and trouble of returning it if Cesario had not been so absent-minded. Scornfully, Malvolio tells Cesario to return to his master, Orsino, and tell him that Olivia \"will none of him,\" and furthermore he warns Cesario that he should \"never be so hardy to come again in his affairs.\" Cesario is dumbfounded by Malvolio's high-handed manner; then, matching Malvolio's insolence, he says, \"I'll none of it.\" Malvolio is incensed at Cesario's haughty manner and flings the ring to the ground; if Cesario wants it and \"if it be worth stooping for, there it lies.\" With that, he exits abruptly. Left alone, Viola ponders all that has happened; she is absolutely certain that she left no ring with Olivia, yet why does Olivia believe that she did and, moreover, why did she send Malvolio with such urgency to return it? Then she realizes what may have happened, and she is horrified: can it be possible that Olivia has fallen in love with Viola's boyish disguise? She is aghast: \"fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her!\" Thinking back on their interview, however, she clearly recalls that Olivia certainly \"made good view of me; indeed, so much / That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue.\" The evidence is clear. Olivia has indeed fallen in love with Cesario; when she spoke to the young man, she spoke in starts and spurts, and her manner was vague and distracted. Now \"the winning of her passion\" has sent Malvolio after the \"boy\" whom she believes to be the object of her love. Viola pities Olivia; it would be better for the poor Olivia to \"love a dream.\" Viola recognizes that \"disguise . . . art a wickedness.\" She aptly calls disguise a \"pregnant enemy,\" an enemy able to play havoc with \"women's waxen hearts.\" Like Olivia, Viola too is a woman. She knows the anguish of love: \"Our frailty is the cause, not we,\" she meditates, \"for such are we made of.\" This is a dreadfully complicated knot. Viola loves her master, Orsino, who loves the beautiful but disdainful Olivia, who loves the handsome Cesario . Viola calls on Time to untangle this knot, for she is incapable of doing so herself; \"it is too hard a knot for me to untie.\""}, {"": "78", "document": "Chapter IX. The Queen of the Field Mice.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now,\" remarked the\nScarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, \"for we have come nearly as\nfar as the river carried us away.\"\n\nThe Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and\nturning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a\nstrange beast come bounding over the grass towards them. It was,\nindeed, a great, yellow wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must be\nchasing something, for its ears were lying close to its head and its\nmouth was wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red\neyes glowed like balls of fire. As it came nearer the Tin Woodman\nsaw that running before the beast was a little gray field-mouse, and\nalthough he had no heart he knew it was wrong for the wildcat to try\nto kill such a pretty, harmless creature.\n\nSo the Woodman raised his axe, and as the wildcat ran by he gave it a\nquick blow that cut the beast's head clean off from its body, and it\nrolled over at his feet in two pieces.\n\nThe field-mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short;\nand coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice,\n\n\"Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life.\"\n\n\"Don't speak of it, I beg of you,\" replied the Woodman. \"I have no\nheart, you know, so I am careful to help all those who may need a\nfriend, even if it happens to be only a mouse.\"\n\n\"Only a mouse!\" cried the little animal, indignantly; \"why, I am a\nQueen--the Queen of all the field-mice!\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed,\" said the Woodman, making a bow.\n\n\"Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in\nsaving my life,\" added the Queen.\n\nAt that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their\nlittle legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen they\nexclaimed,\n\n[Illustration: \"_Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the\nQueen._\"]\n\n\"Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did you manage\nto escape the great Wildcat?\" and they all bowed so low to the\nlittle Queen that they almost stood upon their heads.\n\n\"This funny tin man,\" she answered, \"killed the Wildcat and saved my\nlife. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest wish.\"\n\n\"We will!\" cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they\nscampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep,\nand seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and\njumped right into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to\nchase mice when he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it.\n\nBut the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight,\nwhile he called to the mice: \"Come back! come back! Toto shall not\nhurt you.\"\n\nAt this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from a clump of\ngrass and asked, in a timid voice,\n\n\"Are you sure he will not bite us?\"\n\n\"I will not let him,\" said the Woodman; \"so do not be afraid.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOne by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again,\nalthough he tried to get out of the Woodman's arms, and would have\nbitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one\nof the biggest mice spoke.\n\n\"Is there anything we can do,\" it asked, \"to repay you for saving the\nlife of our Queen?\"\n\n\"Nothing that I know of,\" answered the Woodman; but the Scarecrow,\nwho had been trying to think, but could not because his head was\nstuffed with straw, said, quickly,\n\n\"Oh, yes; you can save our friend, the Cowardly Lion, who is asleep\nin the poppy bed.\"\n\n\"A Lion!\" cried the little Queen; \"why, he would eat us all up.\"\n\n\"Oh, no;\" declared the Scarecrow; \"this Lion is a coward.\"\n\n\"Really?\" asked the Mouse.\n\n\"He says so himself,\" answered the Scarecrow, \"and he would never\nhurt anyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save him I\npromise that he shall treat you all with kindness.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said the Queen, \"we will trust you. But what shall we do?\"\n\n\"Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing to\nobey you?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; there are thousands,\" she replied.\n\n\"Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let\neach one bring a long piece of string.\"\n\nThe Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at\nonce and get all her people. As soon as they heard her orders they\nran away in every direction as fast as possible.\n\n\"Now,\" said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman, \"you must go to those\ntrees by the river-side and make a truck that will carry the Lion.\"\n\nSo the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he\nsoon made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped\naway all the leaves and branches. He fastened it together with\nwooden pegs and made the four wheels out of short pieces of a big\ntree-trunk. So fast and so well did he work that by the time the mice\nbegan to arrive the truck was all ready for them.\n\nThey came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big\nmice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a\npiece of string in his mouth. It was about this time that Dorothy woke\nfrom her long sleep and opened her eyes. She was greatly astonished\nto find herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing\naround and looking at her timidly. But the Scarecrow told her about\neverything, and turning to the dignified little Mouse, he said,\n\n\"Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen.\"\n\nDorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a courtesy, after which she\nbecame quite friendly with the little girl.\n\nThe Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to the\ntruck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a string was\ntied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck.\nOf course the truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice\nwho were to draw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed they\nwere able to pull it quite easily. Even the Scarecrow and the Tin\nWoodman could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little\nhorses to the place where the Lion lay asleep.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAfter a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they managed\nto get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave her people\nthe order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the\npoppies too long they also would fall asleep.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAt first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir\nthe heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the Scarecrow both pushed\nfrom behind, and they got along better. Soon they rolled the Lion out\nof the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet,\nfresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers.\n\nDorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for\nsaving her companion from death. She had grown so fond of the big\nLion she was glad he had been rescued.\n\nThen the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away\nthrough the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was the last\nto leave.\n\n\"If ever you need us again,\" she said, \"come out into the field and\ncall, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance. Good bye!\"\n\n\"Good bye!\" they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while Dorothy\nheld Toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her.\n\nAfter this they sat down beside the Lion until he should awaken; and\nthe Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which\nshe ate for her dinner.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Wait. What's that sound? It's the growl of a wildcat chasing a mouse. The Tin Woodman, who think it's wrong for the cat to kill the mouse, kills the cat with his axe. Whoa, he's hardcore. The mouse, having avoided death, is super grateful. And as luck would have it, she's a queen. She orders her followers to do whatever the tin man wants. Uh-oh, Toto's up from his nap. And guess what? Little dogs love chasing mice. At least, this little dog does. The mice are afraid, but the tin man grabs Toto and assures them they will come to no harm. The mice wonder if there's anything they can do for their savior the tin man. He says nah, but the Scarecrow has an idea: they can help save the Lion! As per usual, the Scarecrow's plan involves the tin man making something. This time it's a truck. Here's how it will work: thousands of mouse helpers will each attach a single string to the truck. Then they'll drag it like an insane chariot to retrieve the Lion. The plan works, and the Lion is saved. Everyone's really grateful to the mouse queen. In parting, she tells them that they can call for her whenever they need help. Everyone sits around and chills while they wait for the Lion to wake up."}, {"": "79", "document": "\n\n\"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,\" said Mr.\nKnightley, \"of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I\nthink it a bad thing.\"\n\n\"A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?\"\n\n\"I think they will neither of them do the other any good.\"\n\n\"You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a\nnew object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been\nseeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently\nwe feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will\ncertainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.\nKnightley.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing\nWeston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle.\"\n\n\"Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks\nexactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday,\nand agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a\ngirl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not\nallow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live\nalone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no\nman can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of\none of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine\nyour objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman\nwhich Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants\nto see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more\nherself. They will read together. She means it, I know.\"\n\n\"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old.\nI have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of\nbooks that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists\nthey were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes\nalphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew\nup when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much\ncredit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made\nout a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of\nsteady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing\nrequiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the\nunderstanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely\naffirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her\nto read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not.\"\n\n\"I dare say,\" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, \"that I thought so\n_then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting\nto do any thing I wished.\"\n\n\"There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,\"--said\nMr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. \"But I,\"\nhe soon added, \"who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must\nstill see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest\nof her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to\nanswer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always\nquick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she\nwas twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her\nmother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her\nmother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her.\"\n\n\"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_\nrecommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another\nsituation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to\nany body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, smiling. \"You are better placed _here_; very fit for a\nwife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to\nbe an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might\nnot give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to\npromise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the\nvery material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing\nas you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I\nshould certainly have named Miss Taylor.\"\n\n\"Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to\nsuch a man as Mr. Weston.\"\n\n\"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that\nwith every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We\nwill not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of\ncomfort, or his son may plague him.\"\n\n\"I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not\nforetell vexation from that quarter.\"\n\n\"Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's\ngenius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the\nyoung man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But\nHarriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the\nvery worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows\nnothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a\nflatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.\nHer ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any\nthing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful\ninferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot\ngain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit\nwith all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined\nenough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances\nhave placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any\nstrength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally\nto the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little\npolish.\"\n\n\"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more\nanxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.\nHow well she looked last night!\"\n\n\"Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very\nwell; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty.\"\n\n\"Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect\nbeauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?\"\n\n\"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom\nseen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial\nold friend.\"\n\n\"Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features,\nopen countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,\nand such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!\nThere is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her\nglance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;'\nnow, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of\ngrown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?\"\n\n\"I have not a fault to find with her person,\" he replied. \"I think her\nall you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,\nthat I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome\nshe is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies\nanother way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of\nHarriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.\"\n\n\"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not\ndoing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an\nexcellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder\nsister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be\ntrusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no\nlasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred\ntimes.\"\n\n\"Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and\nI will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella.\nJohn loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection,\nand Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite\nfrightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions\nwith me.\"\n\n\"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;\nbut excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,\nyou know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's\nmother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any\npossible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a\nmatter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any\nlittle inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be\nexpected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly\napproves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a\nsource of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to\ngive advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little\nremains of office.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" cried he; \"I am much obliged to you for it. It is very\ngood advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often\nfound; for it shall be attended to.\"\n\n\"Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about\nher sister.\"\n\n\"Be satisfied,\" said he, \"I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my\nill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella\ndoes not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest;\nperhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one\nfeels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said Mrs. Weston gently, \"very much.\"\n\n\"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just\nnothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she\ncared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love\nwith a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some\ndoubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts\nto attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.\"\n\n\"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution\nat present,\" said Mrs. Weston, \"as can well be; and while she is so\nhappy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which\nwould be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I\ndo not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight\nto the state, I assure you.\"\n\nPart of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own\nand Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes\nat Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to\nhave them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon\nafterwards made to \"What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have\nrain?\" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about\nHartfield.\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Knightley and Mrs. Weston discuss Emma's new friendship with Harriet Smith. Mrs. Weston approves of the friendship, believing that it will be beneficial to both. Mr. Knightley, on the other hand, believes that Harriet will do nothing to stimulate Emma on an intellectual level. More over, Harriet will do nothing but flatter her, something with which Emma is already well-acquainted. Mrs. Weston's position as a governess was ideal preparation, Mr. Knightley argues, because it trained her to think of others and often submit her own will. Still, he praises Emma for her beauty when Mrs. Weston presses him."}, {"": "80", "document": "Chapter XVII. How the Balloon was Launched.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nFor three days Dorothy heard nothing from Oz. These were sad days\nfor the little girl, although her friends were all quite happy and\ncontented. The Scarecrow told them there were wonderful thoughts in\nhis head; but he would not say what they were because he knew no one\ncould understand them but himself. When the Tin Woodman walked about\nhe felt his heart rattling around in his breast; and he told Dorothy\nhe had discovered it to be a kinder and more tender heart than the\none he had owned when he was made of flesh. The Lion declared he was\nafraid of nothing on earth, and would gladly face an army of men or a\ndozen of the fierce Kalidahs.\n\nThus each of the little party was satisfied except Dorothy, who\nlonged more than ever to get back to Kansas.\n\nOn the fourth day, to her great joy, Oz sent for her, and when she\nentered the Throne Room he said, pleasantly:\n\n\"Sit down, my dear; I think I have found the way to get you out of\nthis country.\"\n\n\"And back to Kansas?\" she asked, eagerly.\n\n\"Well, I'm not sure about Kansas,\" said Oz; \"for I haven't the\nfaintest notion which way it lies. But the first thing to do is to\ncross the desert, and then it should be easy to find your way home.\"\n\n\"How can I cross the desert?\" she enquired.\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you what I think,\" said the little man. \"You see,\nwhen I came to this country it was in a balloon. You also came\nthrough the air, being carried by a cyclone. So I believe the best\nway to get across the desert will be through the air. Now, it is\nquite beyond my powers to make a cyclone; but I've been thinking the\nmatter over, and I believe I can make a balloon.\"\n\n\"How?\" asked Dorothy.\n\n\"A balloon,\" said Oz, \"is made of silk, which is coated with glue to\nkeep the gas in it. I have plenty of silk in the Palace, so it will\nbe no trouble for us to make the balloon. But in all this country\nthere is no gas to fill the balloon with, to make it float.\"\n\n\"If it won't float,\" remarked Dorothy, \"it will be of no use to us.\"\n\n\"True,\" answered Oz. \"But there is another way to make it float,\nwhich is to fill it with hot air. Hot air isn't as good as gas, for\nif the air should get cold the balloon would come down in the desert,\nand we should be lost.\"\n\n\"We!\" exclaimed the girl; \"are you going with me?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" replied Oz. \"I am tired of being such a humbug. If I\nshould go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not a\nWizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them.\nSo I have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome.\nI'd much rather go back to Kansas with you and be in a circus again.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"I shall be glad to have your company,\" said Dorothy.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he answered. \"Now, if you will help me sew the silk\ntogether, we will begin to work on our balloon.\"\n\nSo Dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as Oz cut the strips\nof silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together. First\nthere was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green and\nthen a strip of emerald green; for Oz had a fancy to make the balloon\nin different shades of the color about them. It took three days to\nsew all the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big\nbag of green silk more than twenty feet long.\n\nThen Oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make it\nair-tight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready.\n\n\"But we must have a basket to ride in,\" he said. So he sent the\nsoldier with the green whiskers for a big clothes basket, which he\nfastened with many ropes to the bottom of the balloon.\n\nWhen it was all ready, Oz sent word to his people that he was going\nto make a visit to a great brother Wizard who lived in the clouds.\nThe news spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see\nthe wonderful sight.\n\nOz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the Palace, and the\npeople gazed upon it with much curiosity. The Tin Woodman had chopped a\nbig pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it, and Oz held the bottom\nof the balloon over the fire so that the hot air that arose from it\nwould be caught in the silken bag. Gradually the balloon swelled out\nand rose into the air, until finally the basket just touched the ground.\n\nThen Oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a loud voice:\n\n\"I am now going away to make a visit. While I am gone the Scarecrow\nwill rule over you. I command you to obey him as you would me.\"\n\nThe balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that held it to\nthe ground, for the air within it was hot, and this made it so much\nlighter in weight than the air without that it pulled hard to rise\ninto the sky.\n\n\"Come, Dorothy!\" cried the Wizard; \"hurry up, or the balloon will fly\naway.\"\n\n\"I can't find Toto anywhere,\" replied Dorothy, who did not wish to\nleave her little dog behind. Toto had run into the crowd to bark at\na kitten, and Dorothy at last found him. She picked him up and ran\ntoward the balloon.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nShe was within a few steps of it, and Oz was holding out his hands\nto help her into the basket, when, crack! went the ropes, and the\nballoon rose into the air without her.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Come back!\" she screamed; \"I want to go, too!\"\n\n\"I can't come back, my dear,\" called Oz from the basket. \"Good-bye!\"\n\n\"Good-bye!\" shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward to\nwhere the Wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment\nfarther and farther into the sky.\n\nAnd that was the last any of them ever saw of Oz, the Wonderful Wizard,\nthough he may have reached Omaha safely, and be there now, for all we\nknow. But the people remembered him lovingly, and said to one another,\n\n\"Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us this\nbeautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the Wise\nScarecrow to rule over us.\"\n\nStill, for many days they grieved over the loss of the Wonderful\nWizard, and would not be comforted.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Dorothy doesn't hear anything for three days and she's getting discouraged. Hang in there, girl. Meanwhile, her friends are enjoying their new treasures. It's Day Four, and Oz finally sends for her. He tells her the plan: he's going to make a hot-air balloon, and they'll fly into the unknown, hoping to light upon the U.S. eventually. Dorothy's okay with the plan, so they set about making the balloon. Oz tells his kingdom that he's going to visit his brother, who lives in the clouds. They think that sounds legit. Also, he leaves the Scarecrow in charge. The balloon is about to leave, but Dorothy can't find Toto. He's off chasing a kitten in the crowd. Dorothy finds him and heads back, but she doesn't make it. The balloon takes off without her! The people are devastated because their leader is gone, and Dorothy is devastated because she missed her ride. Basically, everyone's bummed."}, {"": "81", "document": "\n\nIn addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's\npersonal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the\ndifficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be\nstated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following\npages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is\nmeant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful\nand open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just\nremoved from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing,\nand, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and\nuninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.\n\nWhen the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.\nMorland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand\nalarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this\nterrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her\nin tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of\nthe most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her\nwise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against\nthe violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young\nladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve\nthe fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew\nso little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their\ngeneral mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her\ndaughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the\nfollowing points. \"I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up\nvery warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and\nI wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will\ngive you this little book on purpose.\"\n\nSally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will\nreach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),\nmust from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante\nof her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted\non Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of\ntransmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail\nof every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything\nindeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the\nMorlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed\nrather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the\nrefined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation\nof a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead\nof giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an\nhundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and\npromised her more when she wanted it.\n\nUnder these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the\njourney began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful\nsafety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky\noverturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred\nthan a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind\nher at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.\n\nThey arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were\nhere, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking\nenvirons, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted\nthem to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.\n\nThey were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.\n\nIt is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the\nreader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter\ntend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,\nprobably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate\nwretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her\nimprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters,\nruining her character, or turning her out of doors.\n\nMrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can\nraise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world\nwho could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,\ngenius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great\ndeal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind\nwere all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,\nintelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted\nto introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere\nand seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was\nher passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our\nheroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four\ndays had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone\nwas provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made\nsome purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the\nimportant evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her\nhair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care,\nand both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should\ndo. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured\nthrough the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it\ncame, but she did not depend on it.\n\nMrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom\ntill late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies\nsqueezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired\ndirectly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.\nWith more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of\nher protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by\nthe door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,\nhowever, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within\nher friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling\nassembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the\nroom was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it\nseemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that\nwhen once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be\nable to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from\nbeing the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the\ntop of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing\nof the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they\nmoved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion\nof strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage\nbehind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than\nbelow; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the\ncompany beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through\nthem. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that\nevening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had\nnot an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do\nin such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, \"I wish you\ncould dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner.\" For some time\nher young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were\nrepeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine\ngrew tired at last, and would thank her no more.\n\nThey were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence\nthey had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for\ntea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel\nsomething of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed\nagainst by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to\ninterest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she\ncould not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a\nsyllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in\nthe tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to\njoin, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw\nnothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more\neligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at\nwhich a large party were already placed, without having anything to do\nthere, or anybody to speak to, except each other.\n\nMrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having\npreserved her gown from injury. \"It would have been very shocking to\nhave it torn,\" said she, \"would not it? It is such a delicate muslin.\nFor my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I\nassure you.\"\n\n\"How uncomfortable it is,\" whispered Catherine, \"not to have a single\nacquaintance here!\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, \"it is very\nuncomfortable indeed.\"\n\n\"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if\nthey wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their\nparty.\"\n\n\"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large\nacquaintance here.\"\n\n\"I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to.\"\n\n\"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly.\nThe Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now.\"\n\n\"Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you\nsee.\"\n\n\"No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had\nbetter sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my\nhead, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure\nthere is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you\nmust know somebody.\"\n\n\"I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance\nhere with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be\nso glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an\nodd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.\"\n\nAfter some time they received an offer of tea from one of their\nneighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light\nconversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time\nthat anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered\nand joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.\n\n\"Well, Miss Morland,\" said he, directly, \"I hope you have had an\nagreeable ball.\"\n\n\"Very agreeable indeed,\" she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a\ngreat yawn.\n\n\"I wish she had been able to dance,\" said his wife; \"I wish we could\nhave got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if\nthe Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had\ncome, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I\nam so sorry she has not had a partner!\"\n\n\"We shall do better another evening I hope,\" was Mr. Allen's\nconsolation.\n\nThe company began to disperse when the dancing was over--enough to leave\nspace for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the\ntime for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part\nin the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five\nminutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her\ncharms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her\nbefore. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding\nher, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once\ncalled a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and\nhad the company only seen her three years before, they would now have\nthought her exceedingly handsome.\n\nShe was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own\nhearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words\nhad their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter\nthan she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she\nfelt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a\ntrue-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration\nof her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and\nperfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The narrator reminds us that Catherine is a pretty average seventeen-year-old and is rather naive. Mrs. Morland isn't very savvy and gives Catherine some less than useful advice about her first trip to a big town, telling her to dress warm and stuff like that. Catherine's sister Sally does not care that Catherine is leaving - probably because she gets a room to herself for once. Mr. Morland gives Catherine a small amount of money and tells her to ask for more later if she wants it. So much for Catherine's unlimited shopping spree. The Allens and Catherine travel to Bath. It's pretty boring. They arrive in Bath and go to their lodgings. Mrs. Allen is obsessed with fashion, and is also a bit dimwitted, just FYI. She takes Catherine shopping for days. Catherine gets her hair cut and styled too. Finally, the Allens and Catherine attend their first ball in Bath and it's very crowded. Mr. Allen goes off to play cards. Catherine and Mrs. Allen struggle through the crowd till they find a bench where they can watch all the fashionable people dance. Mrs. Allen isn't much of a conversationalist and Catherine starts getting bored. They all go for tea, which is like party refreshments, but it's still really crowded and Catherine starts getting annoyed by all the people. She finds it uncomfortable since she doesn't know anyone there. Mrs. Allen and Catherine have to sit at a table with strangers during tea and it's really awkward. Mrs. Allen keeps wishing they knew someone there and commenting on the fashion. Finally Mr. Allen comes back from his card game and they all make their way to an exit. Catherine gets noticed by some guys on the way out and overhears two of them say she is pretty. Catherine is way excited."}, {"": "82", "document": "SCENE IV.\n\n\n                _A Gallery in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.\n\n        _Enter_ MARIA, _with a black Gown and Hood, and_ CLOWN.\n\n    _Mar._ Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and hood; make him believe,\nthou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call Sir Toby the\nwhilst.\n\n                                                          [_Exit_ MARIA.\n\n    _Clo._ Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and I\nwould I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown.\n\n                                           _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA.\n\n    _Sir To._ Jove bless thee, master parson.\n\n    _Clo._ _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that\nnever saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc,\n_That, that is, is_; so I, being master parson, am master parson: For\nwhat is that, but that? and is, but is?\n\n    _Sir To._ To him, Sir Topas.\n\n    _Clo._ [_Opens the door of an inner Room_] What, hoa, I say,--Peace\nin this prison!\n\n    _Sir To._ The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.\n\n    _Mal._ [_In the inner Room._] Who calls there?\n\n    _Clo._ Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the\nlunatic.\n\n    _Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.\n\n    _Clo._ Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest\nthou nothing but of ladies?\n\n    _Sir To._ Well said, master parson.\n\n    _Mal._ Sir Topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good Sir Topas, do not\nthink I am mad; they have bound me, hand and foot, and laid me here in\nhideous darkness.\n\n    _Clo._ Say'st thou, that house is dark?\n\n    _Mal._ As hell, Sir Topas.\n\n    _Clo._ Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness, but\nignorance; in which thou art more puzzled, than the Egyptians in their\nfog.\n\n    _Mal._ I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance\nwere as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused: I am\nno more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question.\n\n    _Clo._ What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?\n\n    _Mal._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.\n\n    _Clo._ What thinkest thou of his opinion?\n\n    _Mal._ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.\n\n    _Clo._ Fare thee well: Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt\nhold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear\nto kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare\nthee well.\n\n    _Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas,--\n\n    _Sir To._ My most exquisite Sir Topas,--\n\n    _Clo._ Nay, I am for all waters. [_Takes off the gown and hood, and\ngives them to_ MARIA.]\n\n    _Mar._ Thou might'st have done this without thy hood and gown; he\nsees thee not.\n\n    _Sir To._ To him in thine own voice, and bring us word how thou\nfind'st him: Come by and by to my chamber.\n                                         [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA.\n\n    _Clo._ [_Sings._] _Hey Robin, jolly Robin,\n                          Tell me how thy lady does._\n\n    _Mal._ Fool,--fool,--good fool,--\n\n    _Clo._ Who calls, ha?\n\n    _Mal._ As ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a\ncandle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be\nthankful to thee for't.\n\n    _Clo._ Master Malvolio!\n\n    _Mal_. Ay, good fool.\n\n    _Clo._ Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?\n\n    _Mal._ Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: I am as well\nin my wits, fool, as thou art.\n\n    _Clo._ But as well! then you are mad, indeed, if you be no better in\nyour wits than a fool.\n\n    _Mal._ Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will\nset down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing\nof letter did.\n\n    _Clo._ I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad,\nindeed? or do you but counterfeit?\n\n    _Mal._ Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true.\n\n    _Clo._ Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman, till I see his brains. I\nwill fetch you light, and paper, and ink.\n\n    _Mal._ Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree. I pr'ythee, be\ngone.\n\n    _Clo._ [_Shuts the door of the inner Room, and sings._]\n            _I am gone, sir,\n            And anon, sir,\n        I'll be with you again, &c._                           [_Exit._\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Olivia and Maria are in the garden, and Olivia is making plans to entertain Cesario; she sent him an invitation, and he has promised to come to visit her. She is very excited at the prospect and wonders how to treat him, how to \"feast him.\" She is afraid that he will think that she is trying to \"buy\" him. Where is Malvolio, she wonders; he is usually grave and polite and can be counted on to calm her nerves. Smiling foolishly, Malvolio enters. His whole appearance has changed since we last saw him; his dark clothes are gone, as is his dour appearance. Maria's forged love note has changed him from being \"sad and civil\" into being a merrily smiling fabrication of a courtier; he complains a bit about the cross-gartering causing \"some obstruction in the blood,\" but he suffers gladly -- if it will please Olivia. Smiling again and again, he kisses his hand and blows his kisses toward Olivia. She is dumbfounded by his unexplainable, incongruous dress and behavior, but Malvolio doesn't seem to notice. He prances before her, quoting various lines of the letter which he supposes that Olivia wrote to him, and in particular, he dwells on the \"greatness\" passage. Olivia tries to interrupt what he is saying, but to no avail; he rambles on and on until she is convinced that he must be suffering from \"midsummer madness.\" A servant announces the arrival of Cesario, and Olivia places the \"mad\" Malvolio in Maria's charge; in fact, she suggests that the whole household staff should look after him. Meanwhile, Malvolio, remembering the orders which Maria inserted into the letter, spurns Maria, is hostile to Sir Toby, and is insulting to Fabian. He finally drives them all to exasperation and fury, and when he leaves, they make plans to lock him up in a dark room, a common solution for handling a lunatic in Elizabethan days. Olivia won't mind, says Sir Toby: \"My niece is already in the belief that he's mad.\" Sir Andrew enters, and he carries a copy of his challenge to Cesario. He is exceedingly proud of the language, which, we discover as Sir Toby reads it aloud, is exceedingly stilted and obtuse and, in short, is exceedingly ridiculous. Sir Andrew's spirits are high, and Maria decides that the time is ripe for more fun: she tells him that Cesario is inside with Olivia. Sir Toby adds that now is the time to corner the lad and as soon as he sees him, he should draw his sword and \"swear horrible.\" According to Sir Toby, \"a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood.\" Offering his services, Sir Toby says that he will deliver Sir Andrew's challenge \"by word of mouth.\" He is sure that Cesario, clever young man that he is, will instantly see the harmless humor in the absurdly worded challenge; it couldn't possibly \"breed . . . terror in the youth.\" And thus the practical jokers exit -- just as Olivia and Cesario enter. This scene-within-a-scene is very much like ones we have already witnessed: Cesario pleads that his master, Duke Orsino, should be considered a serious suitor, and Olivia changes the subject to Cesario himself, as she gives him a diamond brooch containing a miniature portrait of herself. Cesario accepts it politely and courteously, and Olivia exits. Sir Toby and Fabian enter and stop Cesario before he can leave for Orsino's palace. Sir Toby tells Cesario that Sir Andrew, his \"interceptor,\" is waiting for him and is ready to challenge him to a sword fight. Cesario panics . Sir Toby continues: Sir Andrew is a \"devil in a private brawl,\" for he has killed three men already . Cesario, says Sir Toby, can do only one thing to defend himself against Sir Andrew: \"strip your sword stark naked.\" Such advice is alarming. Cesario begs Sir Toby to seek out this knight and find out what offense he has committed, and so Sir Toby exits, ostensibly to go on his assigned errand, leaving Cesario in the company of Signior, a title Sir Toby impromptly bestowed on Fabian, all in the spirit of their practical joking. These two exit then, just as Sir Toby and Sir Andrew enter. Sir Toby describes in vivid, violent language Cesario's fierceness. Sir Andrew quakes: \"I'll not meddle with him\"; he is even willing to give Cesario his horse, \"grey Capilet,\" to avoid the duel. Fabian and Cesario return, and Sir Toby taunts both Cesario and Sir Andrew into drawing their swords, all the while assuring them that no real harm will come to either of them. At this point, a true swordsman enters. It is Antonio, and mistaking young Cesario for Sebastian, he tells Sir Andrew to put up his sword unless he wants to fight Antonio. Sir Toby draws his sword and is ready to take on Antonio when a troop of officers enters. Antonio has been recognized on the streets, and Orsino has sent out his men to arrest him. Dejectedly, Antonio turns to Cesario . He asks him for his purse back, and when Cesario naturally denies having ever received it, the sea captain is both saddened and enraged by this apparent ingratitude. He denounces this youth, \"this god,\" whom he \"snatched . . . out of the jaws of death . . . sanctity of love.\" \"Sebastian,\" he tells Cesario, \"thou . . . virtue is beauty, but the beauteous-evil / Are empty trunks o'erflourished by the devil.\" As the officers lead Antonio away, Viola is almost ready to believe what may be possible: Sebastian may be alive! It is possible that this man saved her twin brother, Sebastian, and Antonio may have just now confused her with Sebastian because of her disguise. Breathlessly, she prays that \"imagination prove true / That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you.\" Viola exits, and unwilling to miss their fun, Sir Toby and Fabian easily convince old Sir Andrew that Cesario is a coward, and the three of them set out after Orsino's page."}, {"": "83", "document": "\nIN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR\nAROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS\n\n\nYes; Phileas Fogg in person.\n\nThe reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the\nevening--about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the\ntravellers in London--Passepartout had been sent by his master to\nengage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage\nceremony, which was to take place the next day.\n\nPassepartout went on his errand enchanted.  He soon reached the\nclergyman's house, but found him not at home.  Passepartout waited a\ngood twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was\nthirty-five minutes past eight.  But in what a state he was!  With his\nhair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never\nman was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the\nsidewalk like a waterspout.\n\nIn three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into\nMr. Fogg's room.\n\nHe could not speak.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"My master!\" gasped Passepartout--\"marriage--impossible--\"\n\n\"Impossible?\"\n\n\"Impossible--for to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Why so?\"\n\n\"Because to-morrow--is Sunday!\"\n\n\"Monday,\" replied Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"No--to-day is Saturday.\"\n\n\"Saturday?  Impossible!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes, yes!\" cried Passepartout.  \"You have made a mistake of\none day!  We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are\nonly ten minutes left!\"\n\nPassepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him\nalong with irresistible force.\n\nPhileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his\nhouse, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and,\nhaving run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the\nReform Club.\n\nThe clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great\nsaloon.\n\nPhileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty\ndays!\n\nPhileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds!\n\nHow was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this\nerror of a day?  How came he to think that he had arrived in London on\nSaturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday,\nthe twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure?\n\nThe cause of the error is very simple.\n\nPhileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey,\nand this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would,\non the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction,\nthat is, westward.\n\nIn journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days\ntherefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed\ndegrees in this direction.  There are three hundred and sixty degrees\non the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty\ndegrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four\nhours--that is, the day unconsciously gained.  In other words, while\nPhileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty\ntimes, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine\ntimes.  This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday,\nand not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought.\n\nAnd Passepartout's famous family watch, which had always kept London\ntime, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well\nas the hours and the minutes!\n\nPhileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had\nspent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was\nsmall.  His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win\nmoney.  He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between\nPassepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no\ngrudge.  He deducted, however, from Passepartout's share the cost of\nthe gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty\nhours, for the sake of regularity.\n\nThat evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to\nAouda: \"Is our marriage still agreeable to you?\"\n\n\"Mr. Fogg,\" replied she, \"it is for me to ask that question.  You were\nruined, but now you are rich again.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you.  If you had not suggested\nour marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel\nWilson's, I should not have been apprised of my error, and--\"\n\n\"Dear Mr. Fogg!\" said the young woman.\n\n\"Dear Aouda!\" replied Phileas Fogg.\n\nIt need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours\nafter, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride\naway.  Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour?\n\nThe next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously\nat his master's door.  Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, \"What's the\nmatter, Passepartout?\"\n\n\"What is it, sir?  Why, I've just this instant found out--\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight\ndays.\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" returned Mr. Fogg, \"by not crossing India.  But if I had\nnot crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have\nbeen my wife, and--\"\n\nMr. Fogg quietly shut the door.\n\nPhileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the\nworld in eighty days.  To do this he had employed every means of\nconveyance--steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels,\nsledges, elephants.  The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed\nall his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude.  But what\nthen?  What had he really gained by all this trouble?  What had he\nbrought back from this long and weary journey?\n\nNothing, say you?  Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who,\nstrange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men!\n\nTruly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world?\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "While running to grab the nearest preacher , Passepartout finds out that it's actually Sunday, not Monday like the group's been thinking. By traveling eastward around the world, Phileas Fogg, master calculator and obsessive organizer, has forgotten the time he's gained by journeying through all those time zones. The group actually arrived two days early. Passepartout races home, grabs Phileas by the collar, shoves him into a cab, and deposits him at the club. Phileas presents himself with minutes to spare and effectively wins the bet. He's rich once more, but more important , he has won the heart of a \"charming\" woman."}, {"": "84", "document": "\n\nThe following conversation, which took place between the two friends in\nthe pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine\ndays, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the\ndelicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which\nmarked the reasonableness of that attachment.\n\nThey met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five\nminutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, \"My dearest\ncreature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at\nleast this age!\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in\nvery good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?\"\n\n\"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.\nBut now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy\nourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place,\nI was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off;\nit looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do\nyou know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in\nMilsom Street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons\ninstead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what\nhave you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on\nwith Udolpho?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the\nblack veil.\"\n\n\"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is\nbehind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me--I would not be\ntold upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is\nLaurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like\nto spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been\nto meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.\"\n\n\"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished\nUdolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list\nof ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.\"\n\n\"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?\"\n\n\"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.\nCastle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the\nBlack Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries.\nThose will last us some time.\"\n\n\"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all\nhorrid?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a\nsweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every\none of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with\nher. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think\nher as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not\nadmiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.\"\n\n\"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?\"\n\n\"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are\nreally my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is\nnot my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told\nCaptain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to\ntease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow\nMiss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable\nof real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the\ndifference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I\nshould fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are\njust the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" cried Catherine, colouring. \"How can you say so?\"\n\n\"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly\nwhat Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly\ninsipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted\nyesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly--I am sure he\nis in love with you.\" Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella\nlaughed. \"It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are\nindifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman,\nwho shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you\"--speaking more\nseriously--\"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is\nreally attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the\nattention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting,\nthat does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend\nyour feelings.\"\n\n\"But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr.\nTilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.\"\n\n\"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure\nyou would be miserable if you thought so!\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very\nmuch pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if\nnobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear\nIsabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it.\"\n\n\"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but\nI suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels.\"\n\n\"No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;\nbut new books do not fall in our way.\"\n\n\"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I\nremember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.\"\n\n\"It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very\nentertaining.\"\n\n\"Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable.\nBut, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head\ntonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.\nThe men take notice of that sometimes, you know.\"\n\n\"But it does not signify if they do,\" said Catherine, very innocently.\n\n\"Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.\nThey are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with\nspirit, and make them keep their distance.\"\n\n\"Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to\nme.\"\n\n\"Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited\ncreatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance!\nBy the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always\nforgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you\nlike them best dark or fair?\"\n\n\"I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I\nthink. Brown--not fair, and--and not very dark.\"\n\n\"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your\ndescription of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather\ndark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to\ncomplexion--do you know--I like a sallow better than any other. You must\nnot betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance\nanswering that description.\"\n\n\"Betray you! What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop\nthe subject.\"\n\nCatherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few\nmoments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her\nat that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's\nskeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, \"For heaven's sake!\nLet us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two\nodious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really\nput me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals.\nThey will hardly follow us there.\"\n\nAway they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it\nwas Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming\nyoung men.\n\n\"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so\nimpertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am\ndetermined I will not look up.\"\n\nIn a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her\nthat she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the\npump-room.\n\n\"And which way are they gone?\" said Isabella, turning hastily round.\n\"One was a very good-looking young man.\"\n\n\"They went towards the church-yard.\"\n\n\"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you\nto going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You\nsaid you should like to see it.\"\n\nCatherine readily agreed. \"Only,\" she added, \"perhaps we may overtake\nthe two young men.\"\n\n\"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently,\nand I am dying to show you my hat.\"\n\n\"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our\nseeing them at all.\"\n\n\"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no\nnotion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil\nthem.\"\n\nCatherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore,\nto show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling\nthe sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit\nof the two young men.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Catherine and Isabella have known each other around ten days. They meet in the Pump-room, Bath's best hot-spot, for some gossip. Isabella gripes that Catherine kept her waiting forever. Catherine thought she made good time. The two discuss reading Anne Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho. Catherine is reading it for the first time and is spoiler-free, so Isabella won't tell her plot points. Catherine says that she would spend her entire life reading Udolpho, except she wanted to see Isabella, so she tore herself away. Isabella gives Catherine a list of some of her favorite Gothic novels, thus ensuring that Catherine won't read anything particularly educational for at least a few months. Isabella switches topics and gossips about her friend Miss Andrews, who is not admired by men. Isabella is upset by this. Isabella refused to dance with some man unless he would admit Miss Andrews was beautiful. Isabella assures Catherine that she will defend her if anyone bashes her and tells Catherine that she must be popular with boys. Catherine is embarrassed by this. Isabella switches gears again and now calls Miss Andrews insipid, or dumb. Good to see she sticks to her opinions and her friends. Isabella will not stop talking. She now hints at Catherine's crush on Henry and tells her she understands her feelings - she won't dish on the name of her crush though. Catherine points out that she may never see Henry again and starts talking about Udolpho. If they had the internet Catherine would probably be cooped up at her house on a Udolpho message board. She and Isabella discuss what Mrs. Morland reads. Mrs. Morland does read novels, but not the Gothic ones that Isabella and Catherine enjoy. Isabella insists that she and Catherine dress the same for tonight's ball. She claims that men notice such things. After ragging on men in general for a bit, Isabella asks what type of guy Catherine finds attractive. Catherine flounders a bit and then settles on a guy with a bit of a tan. Isabella latches onto that and notes how that describes Henry Tilney. She then says that she herself likes fair complexions and then stops, saying she's giving too much away. Catherine is confused. Isabella says some men are bothering her and insists that she and Catherine move. The men depart soon after and Isabella now insists that she has to show Catherine a hat in a shop, so they take off in the direction the men walked. Conveniently."}, {"": "85", "document": "ACT II. SCENE I.\n\nMilan. The DUKE'S palace\n\nEnter VALENTINE and SPEED\n\n  SPEED. Sir, your glove.\n  VALENTINE. Not mine: my gloves are on.\n  SPEED. Why, then, this may be yours; for this is but one.\n  VALENTINE. Ha! let me see; ay, give it me, it's mine;\n    Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!\n    Ah, Silvia! Silvia!\n  SPEED.  [Calling]  Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!\n  VALENTINE. How now, sirrah?\n  SPEED. She is not within hearing, sir.\n  VALENTINE. Why, sir, who bade you call her?\n  SPEED. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.\n  VALENTINE. Well, you'll still be too forward.\n  SPEED. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.\n  VALENTINE. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?\n  SPEED. She that your worship loves?\n  VALENTINE. Why, how know you that I am in love?\n  SPEED. Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learn'd,\nlike\n    Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a malcontent; to relish\na\n    love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one\nthat\n    had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost\nhis\n    A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her\ngrandam;\n    to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that\nfears\n    robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You\nwere\n    wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walk'd,\nto\n    walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently\n    after dinner; when you look'd sadly, it was for want of\nmoney.\n    And now you are metamorphis'd with a mistress, that, when I\nlook\n    on you, I can hardly think you my master.\n  VALENTINE. Are all these things perceiv'd in me?\n  SPEED. They are all perceiv'd without ye.\n  VALENTINE. Without me? They cannot.\n  SPEED. Without you! Nay, that's certain; for, without you were\nso\n    simple, none else would; but you are so without these follies\n    that these follies are within you, and shine through you like\nthe\n    water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a\n    physician to comment on your malady.\n  VALENTINE. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?\n  SPEED. She that you gaze on so, as she sits at supper?\n  VALENTINE. Hast thou observ'd that? Even she, I mean.\n  SPEED. Why, sir, I know her not.\n  VALENTINE. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet\nknow'st\n    her not?\n  SPEED. Is she not hard-favour'd, sir?\n  VALENTINE. Not so fair, boy, as well-favour'd.\n  SPEED. Sir, I know that well enough.\n  VALENTINE. What dost thou know?\n  SPEED. That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favour'd.\n  VALENTINE. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour\n    infinite.\n  SPEED. That's because the one is painted, and the other out of\nall\n    count.\n  VALENTINE. How painted? and how out of count?\n  SPEED. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man\ncounts\n    of her beauty.\n  VALENTINE. How esteem'st thou me? I account of her beauty.\n  SPEED. You never saw her since she was deform'd.\n  VALENTINE. How long hath she been deform'd?\n  SPEED. Ever since you lov'd her.\n  VALENTINE. I have lov'd her ever since I saw her, and still\n    I see her beautiful.\n  SPEED. If you love her, you cannot see her.\n  VALENTINE. Why?\n  SPEED. Because Love is blind. O that you had mine eyes; or your\nown\n    eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at\nSir\n    Proteus for going ungarter'd!\n  VALENTINE. What should I see then?\n  SPEED. Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for\nhe,\n    being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you,\nbeing\n    in love, cannot see to put on your hose.\n  VALENTINE. Belike, boy, then you are in love; for last morning\nyou\n    could not see to wipe my shoes.\n  SPEED. True, sir; I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you\n    swing'd me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide\nyou\n    for yours.\n  VALENTINE. In conclusion, I stand affected to her.\n  SPEED. I would you were set, so your affection would cease.\n  VALENTINE. Last night she enjoin'd me to write some lines to\none\n    she loves.\n  SPEED. And have you?\n  VALENTINE. I have.\n  SPEED. Are they not lamely writ?\n  VALENTINE. No, boy, but as well as I can do them.\n\n                           Enter SILVIA\n\n    Peace! here she comes.\n  SPEED.  [Aside]  O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet!\n    Now will he interpret to her.\n  VALENTINE. Madam and mistress, a thousand good morrows.\n  SPEED.  [Aside]  O, give ye good ev'n!\n    Here's a million of manners.\n  SILVIA. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.\n  SPEED.  [Aside]  He should give her interest, and she gives it\nhim.\n  VALENTINE. As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter\n    Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;\n    Which I was much unwilling to proceed in,\n    But for my duty to your ladyship.\n  SILVIA. I thank you, gentle servant. 'Tis very clerkly done.\n  VALENTINE. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;\n    For, being ignorant to whom it goes,\n    I writ at random, very doubtfully.\n  SILVIA. Perchance you think too much of so much pains?\n  VALENTINE. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write,\n    Please you command, a thousand times as much;\n    And yet-\n  SILVIA. A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;\n    And yet I will not name it- and yet I care not.\n    And yet take this again- and yet I thank you-\n    Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.\n  SPEED.  [Aside]  And yet you will; and yet another' yet.'\n  VALENTINE. What means your ladyship? Do you not like it?\n  SILVIA. Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;\n    But, since unwillingly, take them again.\n    Nay, take them.                      [Gives hack the letter]\n  VALENTINE. Madam, they are for you.\n  SILVIA. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request;\n    But I will none of them; they are for you:\n    I would have had them writ more movingly.\n  VALENTINE. Please you, I'll write your ladyship another.\n  SILVIA. And when it's writ, for my sake read it over;\n    And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.\n  VALENTINE. If it please me, madam, what then?\n  SILVIA. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour.\n    And so good morrow, servant.                     Exit SILVIA\n  SPEED. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,\n    As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple!\n    My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor,\n    He being her pupil, to become her tutor.\n    O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better,\n    That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the\nletter?\n  VALENTINE. How now, sir! What are you reasoning with yourself?\n  SPEED. Nay, I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason.\n  VALENTINE. To do what?\n  SPEED. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia?\n  VALENTINE. To whom?\n  SPEED. To yourself; why, she woos you by a figure.\n  VALENTINE. What figure?\n  SPEED. By a letter, I should say.\n  VALENTINE. Why, she hath not writ to me.\n  SPEED. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself?\n    Why, do you not perceive the jest?\n  VALENTINE. No, believe me.\n  SPEED. No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her\n    earnest?\n  VALENTINE. She gave me none except an angry word.\n  SPEED. Why, she hath given you a letter.\n  VALENTINE. That's the letter I writ to her friend.\n  SPEED. And that letter hath she deliver'd, and there an end.\n  VALENTINE. I would it were no worse.\n  SPEED. I'll warrant you 'tis as well.\n    'For often have you writ to her; and she, in modesty,\n    Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;\n    Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,\n    Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her\nlover.'\n    All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse\nyou,\n    sir? 'Tis dinner time.\n  VALENTINE. I have din'd.\n  SPEED. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed\non\n    the air, I am one that am nourish'd by my victuals, and would\n    fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be\nmoved.\n                                                          Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Back in Milan, Speed helps Valentine put on his gloves and finds a third glove that belongs to Silvia--the girl with whom Valentine has recently fallen head over heels in love. Speed teases Valentine about his crush and says that Valentine's been moping around like a lovesick puppy: sighing, folding his arms, singing love songs, refusing to eat, and crying like a girl weeping over her dead grandmother . Then Speed proceeds to insult Valentine and Silvia by implying that Silvia is ugly but Valentine thinks she's beautiful because he's wearing love goggles. Valentine says that regardless of what Speed says or thinks, he likes Sylvia. Although last night she asked him to write a love letter to someone for her. Speed asks if he did it, and Valentine says he did the best he could. Silvia enters and lovelorn Valentine proceeds to shower her with compliments. She returns the affection, which Speed notices, though it seems to go over Valentine's head. Valentine says he wrote the love letter for her, but he didn't like writing to someone he doesn't know on her behalf. In fact, he wouldn't have done it, but because she asked, he couldn't say no. Silvia reads the letter and is disappointed with how unemotional it is. Valentine, the goofball, didn't get that she was flirting and asking him to write the letter to himself. From her. With lots of gooey love. She shoves the letter back at Valentine, telling him to try again--this time, the letter should be more passionate. When he's done writing, he should read it over and make sure it pleases him. Valentine still doesn't get it. Why should the letter please him when it's being written for some anonymous bloke? Poor Valentine continues to be baffled by Sylvia's behavior until Speed explains why Sylvia is so upset. He says that Valentine has written to Sylvia, sure, but she may not be able to write back--either because she doesn't have time, because she's too modest, or because she's worried that a messenger would read her letter and her reputation would be ruined. So...she's been very clever in getting Valentine to write to himself . Speed announces it's dinner time, but Valentine isn't hungry. He's full of love. Speed says that's great, buddy, but I need real food. So they go."}, {"": "86", "document": "ACT III. SCENE I.\nBefore the castle.\n\nEnter Cassio and some Musicians.\n\n  CASSIO. Masters, play here, I will content your pains;\nSomething\n    that's brief; and bid \"Good morrow, general.\"\n    Music.\n\n                             Enter Clown.\n\n  CLOWN. Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that\n    they speak i' the nose thus?\n  FIRST MUSICIAN. How, sir, how?\n  CLOWN. Are these, I pray you, wind instruments?\n  FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, marry, are they, sir.\n  CLOWN. O, thereby hangs a tail.\n  FIRST MUSICIAN. Whereby hangs a tale, sir?\n  CLOWN. Marry, sir, by many a wind instrument that I know. But,\n    masters, here's money for you; and the general so likes your\n    music, that he desires you, for love's sake, to make no more\n    noise with it.\n  FIRST MUSICIAN. Well, sir, we will not.\n  CLOWN. If you have any music that may not be heard, to't again;\n    but, as they say, to hear music the general does not greatly\n    care.\n  FIRST MUSICIAN. We have none such, sir.\n  CLOWN. Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I'll away.\n    Go, vanish into air, away!                      Exeunt\nMusicians.\n  CASSIO. Dost thou hear, my honest friend?\n  CLOWN. No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear you.\n  CASSIO. Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There's a poor piece of\ngold\n    for thee. If the gentlewoman that attends the general's wife\nbe\n    stirring, tell her there's one Cassio entreats her a little\nfavor\n    of speech. Wilt thou do this?\n  CLOWN. She is stirring, sir. If she will stir hither, I shall\nseem\n    to notify unto her.\n  CASSIO. Do, good my friend.                             Exit\nClown.\n\n                             Enter Iago.\n\n                              In happy time, Iago.\n  IAGO. You have not been abed, then?\n  CASSIO. Why, no; the day had broke\n    Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago,\n    To send in to your wife. My suit to her\n    Is that she will to virtuous Desdemona\n    Procure me some access.\n  IAGO.                     I'll send her to you presently;\n    And I'll devise a mean to draw the Moor\n    Out of the way, that your converse and business\n    May be more free.\n  CASSIO. I humbly thank you for't. [Exit Iago.] I never knew\n    A Florentine more kind and honest.\n\n                            Enter Emilia.\n\n  EMILIA. Good morrow, good lieutenant. I am sorry\n    For your displeasure, but all will sure be well.\n    The general and his wife are talking of it,\n    And she speaks for you stoutly. The Moor replies\n    That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus\n    And great affinity and that in wholesome wisdom\n    He might not but refuse you; but he protests he loves you\n    And needs no other suitor but his likings\n    To take the safest occasion by the front\n    To bring you in again.\n  CASSIO.                  Yet, I beseech you,\n    If you think fit, or that it may be done,\n    Give me advantage of some brief discourse\n    With Desdemona alone.\n  EMILIA.                 Pray you, come in.\n    I will bestow you where you shall have time\n    To speak your bosom freely.\n  CASSIO.                       I am much bound to you.\n   Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "It is early morning after the night of the quarrel. According to custom, Cassio has arranged a number of musicians to play sweet music outside the bedroom window of Othello and Desdemona. Othello does not like the music and sends the clown to send them off. Cassio bribes the clown to inform Emilia that he wants to see her on some important matter. Just then Iago arrives on the scene. He promises Cassio that he will send his wife Emilia to him. He also assures him that she will try to persuade Desdemona on his behalf. An appreciative Cassio ironically calls him \"honest Iago\". Emilia enters and assures Cassio that her mistress, Desdemona, has already spoken to Othello on his behalf. She tells him that Othellos anger is temporary, and he will soon restore Cassio to his former position, for the general still loves him. Cassio, however, is not fully convinced and wishes to meet Desdemona personally. Emilia immediately takes him to her mistress. As Cassio presents himself to Desdemona, to again ask her to persuade her husband to reinstate him, Iago and Othello are seen at a distance."}, {"": "87", "document": "SCENE III.\n\nVerona. ANTONIO'S house\n\nEnter ANTONIO and PANTHINO\n\n  ANTONIO. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that\n    Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?\n  PANTHINO. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.\n  ANTONIO. Why, what of him?\n  PANTHINO. He wond'red that your lordship\n    Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,\n    While other men, of slender reputation,\n    Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:\n    Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;\n    Some to discover islands far away;\n    Some to the studious universities.\n    For any, or for all these exercises,\n    He said that Proteus, your son, was meet;\n    And did request me to importune you\n    To let him spend his time no more at home,\n    Which would be great impeachment to his age,\n    In having known no travel in his youth.\n  ANTONIO. Nor need'st thou much importune me to that\n    Whereon this month I have been hammering.\n    I have consider'd well his loss of time,\n    And how he cannot be a perfect man,\n    Not being tried and tutor'd in the world:\n    Experience is by industry achiev'd,\n    And perfected by the swift course of time.\n    Then tell me whither were I best to send him.\n  PANTHINO. I think your lordship is not ignorant\n    How his companion, youthful Valentine,\n    Attends the Emperor in his royal court.\n  ANTONIO. I know it well.\n  PANTHINO. 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:\n    There shall he practise tilts and tournaments,\n    Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,\n    And be in eye of every exercise\n    Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.\n  ANTONIO. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advis'd;\n    And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it,\n    The execution of it shall make known:\n    Even with the speediest expedition\n    I will dispatch him to the Emperor's court.\n  PANTHINO. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso\n    With other gentlemen of good esteem\n    Are journeying to salute the Emperor,\n    And to commend their service to his will.\n  ANTONIO. Good company; with them shall Proteus go.\n\n                        Enter PROTEUS\n\n    And- in good time!- now will we break with him.\n  PROTEUS. Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!\n    Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;\n    Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.\n    O that our fathers would applaud our loves,\n    To seal our happiness with their consents!\n    O heavenly Julia!\n  ANTONIO. How now! What letter are you reading there?\n  PROTEUS. May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two\n    Of commendations sent from Valentine,\n    Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.\n  ANTONIO. Lend me the letter; let me see what news.\n  PROTEUS. There is no news, my lord; but that he writes\n    How happily he lives, how well-belov'd\n    And daily graced by the Emperor;\n    Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.\n  ANTONIO. And how stand you affected to his wish?\n  PROTEUS. As one relying on your lordship's will,\n    And not depending on his friendly wish.\n  ANTONIO. My will is something sorted with his wish.\n    Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;\n    For what I will, I will, and there an end.\n    I am resolv'd that thou shalt spend some time\n    With Valentinus in the Emperor's court;\n    What maintenance he from his friends receives,\n    Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.\n    To-morrow be in readiness to go-\n    Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.\n  PROTEUS. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided;\n    Please you, deliberate a day or two.\n  ANTONIO. Look what thou want'st shall be sent after thee.\n    No more of stay; to-morrow thou must go.\n    Come on, Panthino; you shall be employ'd\n    To hasten on his expedition.\n                                     Exeunt ANTONIO and PANTHINO\n  PROTEUS. Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning,\n    And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.\n    I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter,\n    Lest he should take exceptions to my love;\n    And with the vantage of mine own excuse\n    Hath he excepted most against my love.\n    O, how this spring of love resembleth\n    The uncertain glory of an April day,\n    Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,\n    And by an by a cloud takes all away!\n\n                       Re-enter PANTHINO\n\n  PANTHINO. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you;\n    He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go.\n  PROTEUS. Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto;\n    And yet a thousand times it answers 'No.'             Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Proteus' servant Launce, dragging his dog, Crab, and dilly-dallying en route to his master's departing ship, complains that Crab is the surliest dog that ever lived. He laments that his family cried bitterly when he bade them farewell upon his departure for the emperor's court, while the dog has continued neither to speak a word of sorrow nor to shed a tear of sympathy. Launce enacts the entire farewell scene with his shoes and apparel: the shoe with the hole in the toe stands in for his mother, and the shoe without the hole for his father; his staff stands in for his sister, and his hat for the family's maid. Confusion ensues as Launce debates whether he or Crab should play Launce. Panthino arrives to fetch Launce, interrupting his production. Valentine and Thurio, a boorish admirer of Silvia's, show off in front of Silvia. Speed stands by, trying to start a fight between the rivals by encouraging Valentine to punch Thurio. Silvia commends the men for their witty dialogue as the Duke enters. The Duke marvels at the number of admirers clustering around Silvia, and asks Valentine about his friend Proteus. Valentine praises Proteus, calling him a perfect gentleman. The Duke announces that Proteus will arrive momentarily. When Proteus arrives, Valentine introduces him to Silvia. Silvia and Thurio exit promptly. Valentine admits to Proteus that he has fallen in love, despite his past criticism of Proteus for succumbing to a woman's sweet ways. Valentine presses his friend to admit that Silvia's beauty is divine and exceeds that of any living woman, but Proteus refuses to concede. Valentine confesses that he and Silvia are betrothed and that they plan to elope that night; he has a ladder made of cords and plans to climb to Silvia's window and ferry her away. Valentine asks Proteus to advise him about the plan, but Proteus weakly invents some pressing business. After Valentine exits, Proteus admits that he, too, has fallen in love with Silvia, having all but forgotten Julia in the face of this more beautiful competitor. Proteus ominously says that because he loves Silvia so much, he cannot love Valentine at all."}, {"": "88", "document": "\nWhile these events were passing at the opium-house, Mr. Fogg,\nunconscious of the danger he was in of losing the steamer, was quietly\nescorting Aouda about the streets of the English quarter, making the\nnecessary purchases for the long voyage before them.  It was all very\nwell for an Englishman like Mr. Fogg to make the tour of the world with\na carpet-bag; a lady could not be expected to travel comfortably under\nsuch conditions.  He acquitted his task with characteristic serenity,\nand invariably replied to the remonstrances of his fair companion, who\nwas confused by his patience and generosity:\n\n\"It is in the interest of my journey--a part of my programme.\"\n\nThe purchases made, they returned to the hotel, where they dined at a\nsumptuously served table-d'hote; after which Aouda, shaking hands with\nher protector after the English fashion, retired to her room for rest.\nMr. Fogg absorbed himself throughout the evening in the perusal of The\nTimes and Illustrated London News.\n\nHad he been capable of being astonished at anything, it would have been\nnot to see his servant return at bedtime.  But, knowing that the\nsteamer was not to leave for Yokohama until the next morning, he did\nnot disturb himself about the matter.  When Passepartout did not appear\nthe next morning to answer his master's bell, Mr. Fogg, not betraying\nthe least vexation, contented himself with taking his carpet-bag,\ncalling Aouda, and sending for a palanquin.\n\nIt was then eight o'clock; at half-past nine, it being then high tide,\nthe Carnatic would leave the harbour.  Mr. Fogg and Aouda got into the\npalanquin, their luggage being brought after on a wheelbarrow, and half\nan hour later stepped upon the quay whence they were to embark.  Mr.\nFogg then learned that the Carnatic had sailed the evening before.  He\nhad expected to find not only the steamer, but his domestic, and was\nforced to give up both; but no sign of disappointment appeared on his\nface, and he merely remarked to Aouda, \"It is an accident, madam;\nnothing more.\"\n\nAt this moment a man who had been observing him attentively approached.\nIt was Fix, who, bowing, addressed Mr. Fogg:  \"Were you not, like me,\nsir, a passenger by the Rangoon, which arrived yesterday?\"\n\n\"I was, sir,\" replied Mr. Fogg coldly.  \"But I have not the honour--\"\n\n\"Pardon me; I thought I should find your servant here.\"\n\n\"Do you know where he is, sir?\" asked Aouda anxiously.\n\n\"What!\" responded Fix, feigning surprise.  \"Is he not with you?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Aouda.  \"He has not made his appearance since yesterday.\nCould he have gone on board the Carnatic without us?\"\n\n\"Without you, madam?\" answered the detective.  \"Excuse me, did you\nintend to sail in the Carnatic?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"So did I, madam, and I am excessively disappointed.  The Carnatic, its\nrepairs being completed, left Hong Kong twelve hours before the stated\ntime, without any notice being given; and we must now wait a week for\nanother steamer.\"\n\nAs he said \"a week\" Fix felt his heart leap for joy.  Fogg detained at\nHong Kong for a week!  There would be time for the warrant to arrive,\nand fortune at last favoured the representative of the law.  His horror\nmay be imagined when he heard Mr. Fogg say, in his placid voice, \"But\nthere are other vessels besides the Carnatic, it seems to me, in the\nharbour of Hong Kong.\"\n\nAnd, offering his arm to Aouda, he directed his steps toward the docks\nin search of some craft about to start.  Fix, stupefied, followed; it\nseemed as if he were attached to Mr. Fogg by an invisible thread.\nChance, however, appeared really to have abandoned the man it had\nhitherto served so well.  For three hours Phileas Fogg wandered about\nthe docks, with the determination, if necessary, to charter a vessel to\ncarry him to Yokohama; but he could only find vessels which were\nloading or unloading, and which could not therefore set sail.  Fix\nbegan to hope again.\n\nBut Mr. Fogg, far from being discouraged, was continuing his search,\nresolved not to stop if he had to resort to Macao, when he was accosted\nby a sailor on one of the wharves.\n\n\"Is your honour looking for a boat?\"\n\n\"Have you a boat ready to sail?\"\n\n\"Yes, your honour; a pilot-boat--No. 43--the best in the harbour.\"\n\n\"Does she go fast?\"\n\n\"Between eight and nine knots the hour.  Will you look at her?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Your honour will be satisfied with her.  Is it for a sea excursion?\"\n\n\"No; for a voyage.\"\n\n\"A voyage?\"\n\n\"Yes, will you agree to take me to Yokohama?\"\n\nThe sailor leaned on the railing, opened his eyes wide, and said, \"Is\nyour honour joking?\"\n\n\"No.  I have missed the Carnatic, and I must get to Yokohama by the\n14th at the latest, to take the boat for San Francisco.\"\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said the sailor; \"but it is impossible.\"\n\n\"I offer you a hundred pounds per day, and an additional reward of two\nhundred pounds if I reach Yokohama in time.\"\n\n\"Are you in earnest?\"\n\n\"Very much so.\"\n\nThe pilot walked away a little distance, and gazed out to sea,\nevidently struggling between the anxiety to gain a large sum and the\nfear of venturing so far.  Fix was in mortal suspense.\n\nMr. Fogg turned to Aouda and asked her, \"You would not be afraid, would\nyou, madam?\"\n\n\"Not with you, Mr. Fogg,\" was her answer.\n\nThe pilot now returned, shuffling his hat in his hands.\n\n\"Well, pilot?\" said Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"Well, your honour,\" replied he, \"I could not risk myself, my men, or\nmy little boat of scarcely twenty tons on so long a voyage at this time\nof year.  Besides, we could not reach Yokohama in time, for it is\nsixteen hundred and sixty miles from Hong Kong.\"\n\n\"Only sixteen hundred,\" said Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"It's the same thing.\"\n\nFix breathed more freely.\n\n\"But,\" added the pilot, \"it might be arranged another way.\"\n\nFix ceased to breathe at all.\n\n\"How?\" asked Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"By going to Nagasaki, at the extreme south of Japan, or even to\nShanghai, which is only eight hundred miles from here.  In going to\nShanghai we should not be forced to sail wide of the Chinese coast,\nwhich would be a great advantage, as the currents run northward, and\nwould aid us.\"\n\n\"Pilot,\" said Mr. Fogg, \"I must take the American steamer at Yokohama,\nand not at Shanghai or Nagasaki.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" returned the pilot.  \"The San Francisco steamer does not\nstart from Yokohama.  It puts in at Yokohama and Nagasaki, but it\nstarts from Shanghai.\"\n\n\"You are sure of that?\"\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\n\"And when does the boat leave Shanghai?\"\n\n\"On the 11th, at seven in the evening.  We have, therefore, four days\nbefore us, that is ninety-six hours; and in that time, if we had good\nluck and a south-west wind, and the sea was calm, we could make those\neight hundred miles to Shanghai.\"\n\n\"And you could go--\"\n\n\"In an hour; as soon as provisions could be got aboard and the sails\nput up.\"\n\n\"It is a bargain.  Are you the master of the boat?\"\n\n\"Yes; John Bunsby, master of the Tankadere.\"\n\n\"Would you like some earnest-money?\"\n\n\"If it would not put your honour out--\"\n\n\"Here are two hundred pounds on account sir,\" added Phileas Fogg,\nturning to Fix, \"if you would like to take advantage--\"\n\n\"Thanks, sir; I was about to ask the favour.\"\n\n\"Very well.  In half an hour we shall go on board.\"\n\n\"But poor Passepartout?\" urged Aouda, who was much disturbed by the\nservant's disappearance.\n\n\"I shall do all I can to find him,\" replied Phileas Fogg.\n\nWhile Fix, in a feverish, nervous state, repaired to the pilot-boat,\nthe others directed their course to the police-station at Hong Kong.\nPhileas Fogg there gave Passepartout's description, and left a sum of\nmoney to be spent in the search for him.  The same formalities having\nbeen gone through at the French consulate, and the palanquin having\nstopped at the hotel for the luggage, which had been sent back there,\nthey returned to the wharf.\n\nIt was now three o'clock; and pilot-boat No. 43, with its crew on\nboard, and its provisions stored away, was ready for departure.\n\nThe Tankadere was a neat little craft of twenty tons, as gracefully\nbuilt as if she were a racing yacht.  Her shining copper sheathing, her\ngalvanised iron-work, her deck, white as ivory, betrayed the pride\ntaken by John Bunsby in making her presentable.  Her two masts leaned a\ntrifle backward; she carried brigantine, foresail, storm-jib, and\nstanding-jib, and was well rigged for running before the wind; and she\nseemed capable of brisk speed, which, indeed, she had already proved by\ngaining several prizes in pilot-boat races.  The crew of the Tankadere\nwas composed of John Bunsby, the master, and four hardy mariners, who\nwere familiar with the Chinese seas.  John Bunsby, himself, a man of\nforty-five or thereabouts, vigorous, sunburnt, with a sprightly\nexpression of the eye, and energetic and self-reliant countenance,\nwould have inspired confidence in the most timid.\n\nPhileas Fogg and Aouda went on board, where they found Fix already\ninstalled.  Below deck was a square cabin, of which the walls bulged\nout in the form of cots, above a circular divan; in the centre was a\ntable provided with a swinging lamp.  The accommodation was confined,\nbut neat.\n\n\"I am sorry to have nothing better to offer you,\" said Mr. Fogg to Fix,\nwho bowed without responding.\n\nThe detective had a feeling akin to humiliation in profiting by the\nkindness of Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"It's certain,\" thought he, \"though rascal as he is, he is a polite\none!\"\n\nThe sails and the English flag were hoisted at ten minutes past three.\nMr. Fogg and Aouda, who were seated on deck, cast a last glance at the\nquay, in the hope of espying Passepartout.  Fix was not without his\nfears lest chance should direct the steps of the unfortunate servant,\nwhom he had so badly treated, in this direction; in which case an\nexplanation the reverse of satisfactory to the detective must have\nensued.  But the Frenchman did not appear, and, without doubt, was\nstill lying under the stupefying influence of the opium.\n\nJohn Bunsby, master, at length gave the order to start, and the\nTankadere, taking the wind under her brigantine, foresail, and\nstanding-jib, bounded briskly forward over the waves.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "After describing Passepartout's activities in Hong Kong, in this chapter, the fate of Fogg and Aouda is delineated. As Aouda was to travel with Fogg to Europe, many purchases had to be made for her. Fogg accompanies her for shopping at Hong Kong and Aouda is grateful. Then they retire comfortably to their hotel rooms and the next day they reach the dockyard in order to board the Carnatic. But, to their disappointment they learn that the ship has already left. Fix meets them and inquires about their servant as well as about the fact that they have missed the ship. He is happy that Fogg is delayed but Fogg being the determined man he is, he manages to find a ship called Tankadere that can take them to Shanghai. The trustworthy John Bunsby pilots the ship and Fogg is kind enough to ask detective Fix to take a seat in this hired ship as well. Fix agrees and the group leaves Hong Kong on the ship, with the destination of Shanghai in mind."}, {"": "89", "document": "\n\nThe discomposure of spirits, which this extraordinary visit threw\nElizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many\nhours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine it\nappeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,\nfor the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.\nDarcy. It was a rational scheme to be sure! but from what the report of\ntheir engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;\ntill she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,\nand _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the\nexpectation of one wedding, made every body eager for another, to supply\nthe idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her\nsister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at\nLucas lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the\nCollinses, the report she concluded had reached lady Catherine) had only\nset _that_ down, as almost certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked\nforward to as possible, at some future time.\n\nIn revolving lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help\nfeeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting\nin this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to\nprevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate\nan application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar\nrepresentation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared\nnot pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his\naunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose\nthat he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it\nwas certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,\nwhose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would\naddress him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would\nprobably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak\nand ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.\n\nIf he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often\nseemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation might\nsettle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy, as dignity\nunblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady\nCatherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to\nBingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.\n\n\"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise, should come to\nhis friend within a few days,\" she added, \"I shall know how to\nunderstand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of\nhis constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might\nhave obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him\nat all.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had\nbeen, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same\nkind of supposition, which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and\nElizabeth was spared from much teazing on the subject.\n\nThe next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her\nfather, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.\n\n\"Lizzy,\" said he, \"I was going to look for you; come into my room.\"\n\nShe followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell\nher, was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner\nconnected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might\nbe from lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the\nconsequent explanations.\n\nShe followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He\nthen said,\n\n\"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me\nexceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its\ncontents. I did not know before, that I had _two_ daughters on the brink\nof matrimony. Let me congratulate you, on a very important conquest.\"\n\nThe colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous\nconviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;\nand she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained\nhimself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to\nherself; when her father continued,\n\n\"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters\nas these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the\nname of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.\"\n\n\"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?\"\n\n\"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with\ncongratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of\nwhich it seems he has been told, by some of the good-natured, gossiping\nLucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says\non that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows. \"Having thus\noffered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on\nthis happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another:\nof which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter\nElizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after\nher elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate,\nmay be reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious\npersonages in this land.\"\n\n\"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?\" \"This young\ngentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of\nmortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive\npatronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin\nElizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate\nclosure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be\ninclined to take immediate advantage of.\"\n\n\"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out.\"\n\n\"My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine\nthat his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with\na friendly eye.\"\n\n\"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_\nsurprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within\nthe circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more\neffectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any\nwoman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in\nhis life! It is admirable!\"\n\nElizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force\none most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so\nlittle agreeable to her.\n\n\"Are you not diverted?\"\n\n\"Oh! yes. Pray read on.\"\n\n\"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last\nnight, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she\nfelt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some\nfamily objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her\nconsent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty\nto give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and\nher noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run\nhastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.\" \"Mr.\nCollins moreover adds,\" \"I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad\nbusiness has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their\nliving together before the marriage took place, should be so generally\nknown. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain\nfrom declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young\ncouple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an\nencouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should\nvery strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as\na christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names\nto be mentioned in your hearing.\" \"_That_ is his notion of christian\nforgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's\nsituation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you\nlook as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I\nhope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we\nlive, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our\nturn?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Elizabeth, \"I am excessively diverted. But it is so\nstrange!\"\n\n\"Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man\nit would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_\npointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate\nwriting, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any\nconsideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving\nhim the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and\nhypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine\nabout this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?\"\n\nTo this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had\nbeen asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his\nrepeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her\nfeelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she\nwould rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by\nwhat he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but\nwonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of\nhis seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "A letter arrives from Mr. Collins congratulating Mr. Bennet on Janes betrothal and also hinting at the rumors which are floating in and out of Hertfordshire that Darcy and Elizabeth are soon to be engaged. Mr. Collins also conveys that Lady Catherine views the Darcy-Elizabeth match with an unfriendly eye. Mr. Bennet reads the letter to Elizabeth and voices his thorough amusement, for he believes that Darcy has no interest in his daughter. Elizabeth pretends to be equally surprised at the rumors."}, {"": "90", "document": "SCENE 6.\n\nThe same.\n\n[Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued.]\n\nGRATIANO.\nThis is the pent-house under which Lorenzo\nDesir'd us to make stand.\n\nSALARINO.\nHis hour is almost past.\n\nGRATIANO.\nAnd it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,\nFor lovers ever run before the clock.\n\nSALARINO.\nO! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly\nTo seal love's bonds new made than they are wont\nTo keep obliged faith unforfeited!\n\nGRATIANO.\nThat ever holds: who riseth from a feast\nWith that keen appetite that he sits down?\nWhere is the horse that doth untread again\nHis tedious measures with the unbated fire\nThat he did pace them first? All things that are\nAre with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.\nHow like a younker or a prodigal\nThe scarfed bark puts from her native bay,\nHugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!\nHow like the prodigal doth she return,\nWith over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails,\nLean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!\n\nSALARINO.\nHere comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter.\n\n[Enter LORENZO.]\n\nLORENZO.\nSweet friends, your patience for my long abode;\nNot I, but my affairs, have made you wait:\nWhen you shall please to play the thieves for wives,\nI'll watch as long for you then. Approach;\nHere dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?\n\n[Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes.]\n\nJESSICA.\nWho are you? Tell me, for more certainty,\nAlbeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.\n\nLORENZO.\nLorenzo, and thy love.\n\nJESSICA.\nLorenzo, certain; and my love indeed,\nFor who love I so much? And now who knows\nBut you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?\n\nLORENZO.\nHeaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.\n\nJESSICA.\nHere, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.\nI am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,\nFor I am much asham'd of my exchange;\nBut love is blind, and lovers cannot see\nThe pretty follies that themselves commit,\nFor, if they could, Cupid himself would blush\nTo see me thus transformed to a boy.\n\nLORENZO.\nDescend, for you must be my torch-bearer.\n\nJESSICA.\nWhat! must I hold a candle to my shames?\nThey in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light.\nWhy, 'tis an office of discovery, love,\nAnd I should be obscur'd.\n\nLORENZO.\nSo are you, sweet,\nEven in the lovely garnish of a boy.\nBut come at once;\nFor the close night doth play the runaway,\nAnd we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.\n\nJESSICA.\nI will make fast the doors, and gild myself\nWith some moe ducats, and be with you straight.\n\n[Exit above.]\n\nGRATIANO.\nNow, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew.\n\nLORENZO.\nBeshrew me, but I love her heartily;\nFor she is wise, if I can judge of her,\nAnd fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,\nAnd true she is, as she hath prov'd herself;\nAnd therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,\nShall she be placed in my constant soul.\n\n[Enter JESSICA.]\n\nWhat, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away!\nOur masquing mates by this time for us stay.\n\n[Exit with JESSICA and SALARINO.]\n\n[Enter ANTONIO]\n\nANTONIO.\nWho's there?\n\nGRATIANO.\nSignior Antonio!\n\nANTONIO.\nFie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?\n'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you.\nNo masque to-night: the wind is come about;\nBassanio presently will go aboard:\nI have sent twenty out to seek for you.\n\nGRATIANO.\nI am glad on't: I desire no more delight\nThan to be under sail and gone to-night.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "As planned, Gratiano and Salarino meet in front of Shylock's house. They are especially anxious because Lorenzo is late, and they think that lovers tend always to be early. The garrulous Gratiano expounds on Salarino's theory that love is at its best when the lover chases the object of his affection, and that once the lover captures his lady and consummates the relationship, he tends to tire and lose interest. Lorenzo joins them, apologizes for his tardiness, and calls up to Jessica, who appears on the balcony dressed as a page. Jessica tosses him a casket of gold and jewels. Jessica descends and exits with Lorenzo and Salarino. Just then, Antonio enters to report that Bassanio is sailing for Belmont immediately. Gratiano is obliged to leave the festivities and join Bassanio at once"}, {"": "91", "document": "PART II. OF COMMON-WEALTH. CHAPTER XVII. OF THE CAUSES, GENERATION, AND DEFINITION OF A COMMON-WEALTH\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe End Of Common-wealth, Particular Security\n\nThe finall Cause, End, or Designe of men, (who naturally love Liberty,\nand Dominion over others,) in the introduction of that restraint upon\nthemselves, (in which wee see them live in Common-wealths,) is the\nforesight of their own preservation, and of a more contented life\nthereby; that is to say, of getting themselves out from that miserable\ncondition of Warre, which is necessarily consequent (as hath been shewn)\nto the naturall Passions of men, when there is no visible Power to keep\nthem in awe, and tye them by feare of punishment to the performance of\ntheir Covenants, and observation of these Lawes of Nature set down in\nthe fourteenth and fifteenth Chapters.\n\n\n\n\nWhich Is Not To Be Had From The Law Of Nature:\n\nFor the Lawes of Nature (as Justice, Equity, Modesty, Mercy, and (in\nsumme) Doing To Others, As Wee Would Be Done To,) if themselves, without\nthe terrour of some Power, to cause them to be observed, are contrary to\nour naturall Passions, that carry us to Partiality, Pride, Revenge, and\nthe like. And Covenants, without the Sword, are but Words, and of no\nstrength to secure a man at all. Therefore notwithstanding the Lawes of\nNature, (which every one hath then kept, when he has the will to keep\nthem, when he can do it safely,) if there be no Power erected, or not\ngreat enough for our security; every man will and may lawfully rely on\nhis own strength and art, for caution against all other men. And in all\nplaces, where men have lived by small Families, to robbe and spoyle one\nanother, has been a Trade, and so farre from being reputed against the\nLaw of Nature, that the greater spoyles they gained, the greater was\ntheir honour; and men observed no other Lawes therein, but the Lawes of\nHonour; that is, to abstain from cruelty, leaving to men their lives,\nand instruments of husbandry. And as small Familyes did then; so now\ndo Cities and Kingdomes which are but greater Families (for their own\nsecurity) enlarge their Dominions, upon all pretences of danger, and\nfear of Invasion, or assistance that may be given to Invaders, endeavour\nas much as they can, to subdue, or weaken their neighbours, by open\nforce, and secret arts, for want of other Caution, justly; and are\nrememdbred for it in after ages with honour.\n\n\n\n\nNor From The Conjunction Of A Few Men Or Familyes\n\nNor is it the joyning together of a small number of men, that gives them\nthis security; because in small numbers, small additions on the one side\nor the other, make the advantage of strength so great, as is sufficient\nto carry the Victory; and therefore gives encouragement to an Invasion.\nThe Multitude sufficient to confide in for our Security, is not\ndetermined by any certain number, but by comparison with the Enemy we\nfeare; and is then sufficient, when the odds of the Enemy is not of so\nvisible and conspicuous moment, to determine the event of warre, as to\nmove him to attempt.\n\n\n\n\nNor From A Great Multitude, Unlesse Directed By One Judgement\n\nAnd be there never so great a Multitude; yet if their actions be\ndirected according to their particular judgements, and particular\nappetites, they can expect thereby no defence, nor protection, neither\nagainst a Common enemy, nor against the injuries of one another. For\nbeing distracted in opinions concerning the best use and application\nof their strength, they do not help, but hinder one another; and reduce\ntheir strength by mutuall opposition to nothing: whereby they are\neasily, not onely subdued by a very few that agree together; but also\nwhen there is no common enemy, they make warre upon each other, for\ntheir particular interests. For if we could suppose a great Multitude of\nmen to consent in the observation of Justice, and other Lawes of Nature,\nwithout a common Power to keep them all in awe; we might as well suppose\nall Man-kind to do the same; and then there neither would be nor need to\nbe any Civill Government, or Common-wealth at all; because there would\nbe Peace without subjection.\n\n\n\n\nAnd That Continually\n\nNor is it enough for the security, which men desire should last all\nthe time of their life, that they be governed, and directed by one\njudgement, for a limited time; as in one Battell, or one Warre. For\nthough they obtain a Victory by their unanimous endeavour against a\nforraign enemy; yet afterwards, when either they have no common enemy,\nor he that by one part is held for an enemy, is by another part held for\na friend, they must needs by the difference of their interests dissolve,\nand fall again into a Warre amongst themselves.\n\n\n\n\nWhy Certain Creatures Without Reason, Or Speech,\n\n\n\n\nDo Neverthelesse Live In Society, Without Any Coercive Power\n\nIt is true, that certain living creatures, as Bees, and Ants, live\nsociably one with another, (which are therefore by Aristotle numbred\namongst Politicall creatures;) and yet have no other direction, than\ntheir particular judgements and appetites; nor speech, whereby one of\nthem can signifie to another, what he thinks expedient for the common\nbenefit: and therefore some man may perhaps desire to know, why Man-kind\ncannot do the same. To which I answer,\n\nFirst, that men are continually in competition for Honour and Dignity,\nwhich these creatures are not; and consequently amongst men there\nariseth on that ground, Envy and Hatred, and finally Warre; but amongst\nthese not so.\n\nSecondly, that amongst these creatures, the Common good differeth not\nfrom the Private; and being by nature enclined to their private, they\nprocure thereby the common benefit. But man, whose Joy consisteth\nin comparing himselfe with other men, can relish nothing but what is\neminent.\n\nThirdly, that these creatures, having not (as man) the use of reason,\ndo not see, nor think they see any fault, in the administration of their\ncommon businesse: whereas amongst men, there are very many, that thinke\nthemselves wiser, and abler to govern the Publique, better than the\nrest; and these strive to reforme and innovate, one this way, another\nthat way; and thereby bring it into Distraction and Civill warre.\n\nFourthly, that these creatures, though they have some use of voice, in\nmaking knowne to one another their desires, and other affections; yet\nthey want that art of words, by which some men can represent to others,\nthat which is Good, in the likenesse of Evill; and Evill, in the\nlikenesse of Good; and augment, or diminish the apparent greatnesse of\nGood and Evill; discontenting men, and troubling their Peace at their\npleasure.\n\nFiftly, irrationall creatures cannot distinguish betweene Injury, and\nDammage; and therefore as long as they be at ease, they are not offended\nwith their fellowes: whereas Man is then most troublesome, when he is\nmost at ease: for then it is that he loves to shew his Wisdome, and\ncontroule the Actions of them that governe the Common-wealth.\n\nLastly, the agreement of these creatures is Naturall; that of men, is\nby Covenant only, which is Artificiall: and therefore it is no wonder\nif there be somewhat else required (besides Covenant) to make their\nAgreement constant and lasting; which is a Common Power, to keep them in\nawe, and to direct their actions to the Common Benefit.\n\n\n\n\nThe Generation Of A Common-wealth\n\nThe only way to erect such a Common Power, as may be able to defend them\nfrom the invasion of Forraigners, and the injuries of one another, and\nthereby to secure them in such sort, as that by their owne industrie,\nand by the fruites of the Earth, they may nourish themselves and live\ncontentedly; is, to conferre all their power and strength upon one\nMan, or upon one Assembly of men, that may reduce all their Wills,\nby plurality of voices, unto one Will: which is as much as to say, to\nappoint one man, or Assembly of men, to beare their Person; and every\none to owne, and acknowledge himselfe to be Author of whatsoever he\nthat so beareth their Person, shall Act, or cause to be Acted, in those\nthings which concerne the Common Peace and Safetie; and therein to\nsubmit their Wills, every one to his Will, and their Judgements, to his\nJudgment. This is more than Consent, or Concord; it is a reall Unitie of\nthem all, in one and the same Person, made by Covenant of every man with\nevery man, in such manner, as if every man should say to every man, \"I\nAuthorise and give up my Right of Governing my selfe, to this Man, or to\nthis Assembly of men, on this condition, that thou give up thy Right\nto him, and Authorise all his Actions in like manner.\" This done, the\nMultitude so united in one Person, is called a COMMON-WEALTH, in latine\nCIVITAS. This is the Generation of that great LEVIATHAN, or rather (to\nspeake more reverently) of that Mortall God, to which wee owe under the\nImmortall God, our peace and defence. For by this Authoritie, given him\nby every particular man in the Common-Wealth, he hath the use of so\nmuch Power and Strength conferred on him, that by terror thereof, he is\ninabled to forme the wills of them all, to Peace at home, and mutuall\nayd against their enemies abroad.\n\n\n\n\nThe Definition Of A Common-wealth\n\nAnd in him consisteth the Essence of the Common-wealth; which (to\ndefine it,) is \"One Person, of whose Acts a great Multitude, by mutuall\nCovenants one with another, have made themselves every one the Author,\nto the end he may use the strength and means of them all, as he shall\nthink expedient, for their Peace and Common Defence.\"\n\n\n\n\nSoveraigne, And Subject, What\n\nAnd he that carryeth this Person, as called SOVERAIGNE, and said to have\nSoveraigne Power; and every one besides, his SUBJECT.\n\nThe attaining to this Soveraigne Power, is by two wayes. One, by\nNaturall force; as when a man maketh his children, to submit themselves,\nand their children to his government, as being able to destroy them if\nthey refuse, or by Warre subdueth his enemies to his will, giving them\ntheir lives on that condition. The other, is when men agree amongst\nthemselves, to submit to some Man, or Assembly of men, voluntarily, on\nconfidence to be protected by him against all others. This later, may be\ncalled a Politicall Common-wealth, or Common-wealth by Institution; and\nthe former, a Common-wealth by Acquisition. And first, I shall speak of\na Common-wealth by Institution.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Alek and his companions are at the Swiss border in their walker, but a German land frigate is waiting for them. Uh-oh... They decide the only way to get past it is to try to sneak by at night--because everyone thinks piloting a walker at night is too dangerous. The land frigate sends out searchlights at random intervals, which they have to sneak by. They try disguising the walker's noise by walking in a loud streambed. Pretty smart thinking. They run right into some German soldiers on foot, but the walker manages to plow through them. Alek speeds up, taking the walker into a run--at night."}, {"": "92", "document": "CHAPTER IX. OF THE SEVERALL SUBJECTS OF KNOWLEDGE\n\n\n\nThere are of KNOWLEDGE two kinds; whereof one is Knowledge Of Fact: the\nother Knowledge Of The Consequence Of One Affirmation To Another. The\nformer is nothing else, but Sense and Memory, and is Absolute Knowledge;\nas when we see a Fact doing, or remember it done: And this is the\nKnowledge required in a Witnesse. The later is called Science; and is\nConditionall; as when we know, that, If The Figure Showne Be A Circle,\nThen Any Straight Line Through The Centre Shall Divide It Into Two\nEquall Parts. And this is the Knowledge required in a Philosopher; that\nis to say, of him that pretends to Reasoning.\n\nThe Register of Knowledge Of Fact is called History. Whereof there be\ntwo sorts: one called Naturall History; which is the History of such\nFacts, or Effects of Nature, as have no Dependance on Mans Will; Such as\nare the Histories of Metals, Plants, Animals, Regions, and the like. The\nother, is Civill History; which is the History of the Voluntary Actions\nof men in Common-wealths.\n\nThe Registers of Science, are such Books as contain the Demonstrations\nof Consequences of one Affirmation, to another; and are commonly called\nBooks of Philosophy; whereof the sorts are many, according to the\ndiversity of the Matter; And may be divided in such manner as I have\ndivided them in the following Table.\n\n  I. Science, that is, Knowledge of Consequences; which is called\n     also PHILOSOPHY\n\n     A.  Consequences from Accidents of Bodies Naturall; which is\n        called NATURALL PHILOSOPHY\n\n        1.  Consequences from the Accidents common to all Bodies Naturall;\n           which are Quantity, and Motion.\n\n           a.  Consequences from Quantity, and Motion Indeterminate;\n              which, being the Principles or first foundation of\n              Philosophy, is called Philosophia Prima\n\n              PHILOSOPHIA PRIMA\n\n           b.  Consequences from Motion, and Quantity Determined\n\n              1) Consequences from Quantity, and Motion Determined\n\n                 a) By Figure, By Number\n\n                   1] Mathematiques,\n\n                      GEOMETRY\n                      ARITHMETIQUE\n\n              2) Consequences from the Motion, and Quantity of Bodies in\n                 Speciall\n\n                 a) Consequences from the Motion, and Quantity of the\n                    great parts of the World, as the Earth and Stars,\n\n                    1] Cosmography\n\n                       ASTRONOMY\n                       GEOGRAPHY\n\n                 b) Consequences from the Motion of Speciall kinds, and\n                    Figures of Body,\n\n                    1] Mechaniques, Doctrine of Weight\n\n                       Science of\n                       ENGINEERS\n                       ARCHITECTURE\n                       NAVIGATION\n\n        2.  PHYSIQUES, or Consequences from Qualities\n\n           a.  Consequences from the Qualities of Bodies Transient, such\n              as sometimes appear, sometimes vanish\n\n              METEOROLOGY\n\n           b.  Consequences from the Qualities of Bodies Permanent\n\n              1) Consequences from the Qualities of the Starres\n\n                 a) Consequences from the Light of the Starres.  Out of\n                    this, and the Motion of the Sunne, is made the\n                    Science of\n\n                    SCIOGRAPHY\n\n                 b) Consequences from the Influence of the Starres,\n\n                    ASTROLOGY\n\n              2) Consequences of the Qualities from Liquid Bodies that\n                 fill the space between the Starres; such as are the\n                 Ayre, or substance aetherial.\n\n\n              3) Consequences from Qualities of Bodies Terrestrial\n\n                 a) Consequences from parts of the Earth that are\n                    without Sense,\n\n                    1] Consequences from Qualities of Minerals, as\n                       Stones, Metals, &c\n.                    2] Consequences from the Qualities of Vegetables\n\n                 b) Consequences from Qualities of Animals\n\n                    1] Consequences from Qualities of Animals in\n                       Generall\n\n                       a] Consequences from Vision,\n\n                          OPTIQUES\n\n                       b] Consequences from Sounds,\n\n                          MUSIQUE\n\n                       c] Consequences from the rest of the senses\n\n                    2] Consequences from Qualities of Men in Speciall\n\n                       a] Consequences from Passions of Men,\n\n                          ETHIQUES\n\n                       b] Consequences from Speech,\n\n                          i) In Magnifying, Vilifying, etc.\n\n                             POETRY\n\n                          ii) In Persuading,\n\n                              RHETORIQUE\n\n                          iii) In Reasoning,\n\n                               LOGIQUE\n\n                          iv) In Contracting,\n\n                              The Science of\n                              JUST and UNJUST\n\n\n     B.  Consequences from the Accidents of Politique Bodies; which is\n        called POLITIQUES, and CIVILL PHILOSOPHY\n\n        1.  Of Consequences from the Institution of COMMON-WEALTHS, to\n           the Rights, and Duties of the Body Politique, or Soveraign.\n\n        2.  Of Consequences from the same, to the Duty and Right of\n           the Subjects.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Two weeks after he fled the palace in the night, Alek wakes up in a barn. So that's a bit of a comedown. Alek tries to sneak up on Volger, who is listening to Morse code over the wireless. Nobody sneaks up on Volger, though. Volger tells Alek that the army is preparing for war--or so he thinks, due to increased traffic on the wireless. Alek hopes this means everyone has forgotten about him. Volger says not a chance: Alek is super duper important, and no one would forget about wanting him dead. Comforting guy, that Volger. And then Volger stops spilling information and goes back to being Count Mysterious. Because they're both a bit annoyed at each other, Volger suggests a fencing lesson--nothing says relaxation quite like pointing a sharp object at someone who is getting on your nerves, after all. During the fencing lesson, Volger and Alek discuss international politics, outlining the way the great powers of Europe will ally with each other in the coming war. They conclude by figuring out that the Darwinist powers will fight the Clanker powers. Alek feels that the war is in some way his fault because no one wanted his parents' marriage or his birth, and now his parents' deaths are leading to war. Volger tells Alek he may still have a chance to influence the war, though of course he's very enigmatic about how."}, {"": "93", "document": "SCENE 2.\n\nVenice. A street\n\n[Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.]\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nCertainly my conscience will serve me to run from this\nJew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying\nto me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot' or 'good Gobbo' or\n'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.'\nMy conscience says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed,\nhonest Gobbo' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo, do not\nrun; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous\nfiend bids me pack. 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the\nfiend. 'For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend\n'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my\nheart, says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being\nan honest man's son'--or rather 'an honest woman's son';--for\nindeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a\nkind of taste;--well, my conscience says 'Launcelot, budge not.'\n'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience.\n'Conscience,' say I, (you counsel well.' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you\ncounsel well.' To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with\nthe Jew my master, who, God bless the mark! is a kind of devil;\nand, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend,\nwho, saving your reverence! is the devil himself. Certainly the\nJew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my\nconscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel\nme to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly\ncounsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I\nwill run.\n\n[Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket]\n\nGOBBO.\nMaster young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master\nJew's?\n\nLAUNCELOT.\n[Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being\nmore\nthan sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try\nconfusions with him.\n\nGOBBO.\nMaster young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master\nJew's?\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nTurn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at\nthe next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next\nturning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's\nhouse.\n\nGOBBO.\nBe God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell\nme whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or\nno?\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nTalk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me\nnow; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master\nLauncelot?\n\nGOBBO.\nNo master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I\nsay't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well\nto live.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nWell, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young\nMaster Launcelot.\n\nGOBBO.\nYour worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nBut I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk\nyou of young Master Launcelot?\n\nGOBBO.\nOf Launcelot, an't please your mastership.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nErgo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot,\nfather; for the young gentleman,--according to Fates and\nDestinies\nand such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of\nlearning,--is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain\nterms, gone to heaven.\n\nGOBBO.\nMarry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my\nvery prop.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nDo I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop?  Do\nyou know me, father?\n\nGOBBO.\nAlack the day! I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray\nyou tell me, is my boy--God rest his soul!--alive or dead?\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nDo you not know me, father?\n\nGOBBO.\nAlack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nNay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the\nknowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well,\nold man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing;\ntruth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son\nmay, but in the end truth will out.\n\nGOBBO.\nPray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nPray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give\nme your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son\nthat is, your child that shall be.\n\nGOBBO.\nI cannot think you are my son.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nI know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the\nJew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.\n\nGOBBO.\nHer name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be\nLauncelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped\nmight he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair\non thy chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nIt should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward;\nI am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face\nwhen I last saw him.\n\nGOBBO.\nLord! how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master\nagree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now?\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nWell, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my\nrest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground.\nMy master's a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I\nam famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with\nmy ribs. Father, I am glad you are come; give me your present to\none Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I\nserve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare\nfortune! Here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I\nserve the Jew any longer.\n\n[Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with and other Followers.]\n\nBASSANIO.\nYou may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be\nready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters\ndelivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to\ncome anon to my lodging.\n\n[Exit a SERVANT]\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nTo him, father.\n\nGOBBO.\nGod bless your worship!\n\nBASSANIO.\nGramercy; wouldst thou aught with me?\n\nGOBBO.\nHere's my son, sir, a poor boy--\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nNot a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would,\nsir,--as my father shall specify--\n\nGOBBO.\nHe hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nIndeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and\nhave a desire, as my father shall specify--\n\nGOBBO.\nHis master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are\nscarce cater-cousins--\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nTo be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done\nme wrong, doth cause me,--as my father, being I hope an old man,\nshall frutify unto you--\n\nGOBBO.\nI have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your\nworship; and my suit is--\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nIn very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as\nyour worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say\nit, though old man, yet poor man, my father.\n\nBASSANIO.\nOne speak for both. What would you?\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nServe you, sir.\n\nGOBBO.\nThat is the very defect of the matter, sir.\n\nBASSANIO.\nI know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit.\nShylock thy master spoke with me this day,\nAnd hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment\nTo leave a rich Jew's service to become\nThe follower of so poor a gentleman.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nThe old proverb is very well parted between my master\nShylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath\nenough.\n\nBASSANIO.\nThou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son.\nTake leave of thy old master, and inquire\nMy lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery\nMore guarded than his fellows'; see it done.\n\nLAUNCELOT.\nFather, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a\ntongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in\nItaly have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book,\nI\nshall have good fortune. Go to; here's a simple line of life:\nhere's a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is nothing;\na'leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man.\nAnd then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life\nwith the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes. Well, if\nFortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father,\ncome; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.\n\n[Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO.]\n\nBASSANIO.\nI pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:\nThese things being bought and orderly bestow'd,\nReturn in haste, for I do feast to-night\nMy best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go.\n\nLEONARDO.\nMy best endeavours shall be done herein.\n\n[Enter GRATIANO.]\n\nGRATIANO.\nWhere's your master?\n\nLEONARDO.\nYonder, sir, he walks.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nGRATIANO.\nSignior Bassanio!--\n\nBASSANIO.\nGratiano!\n\nGRATIANO.\nI have suit to you.\n\nBASSANIO.\nYou have obtain'd it.\n\nGRATIANO.\nYou must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.\n\nBASSANIO.\nWhy, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;\nThou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice;\nParts that become thee happily enough,\nAnd in such eyes as ours appear not faults;\nBut where thou art not known, why there they show\nSomething too liberal. Pray thee, take pain\nTo allay with some cold drops of modesty\nThy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour\nI be misconstrued in the place I go to,\nAnd lose my hopes.\n\nGRATIANO.\nSignior Bassanio, hear me:\nIf I do not put on a sober habit,\nTalk with respect, and swear but now and then,\nWear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,\nNay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes\nThus with my hat, and sigh, and say 'amen';\nUse all the observance of civility,\nLike one well studied in a sad ostent\nTo please his grandam, never trust me more.\n\nBASSANIO.\nWell, we shall see your bearing.\n\nGRATIANO.\nNay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me\nBy what we do to-night.\n\nBASSANIO.\nNo, that were pity;\nI would entreat you rather to put on\nYour boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends\nThat purpose merriment. But fare you well;\nI have some business.\n\nGRATIANO.\nAnd I must to Lorenzo and the rest;\nBut we will visit you at supper-time.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Lancelot Gobbo, Shylock's servant, stands before Shylock's house, having a very serious and hilariously muddled conversation with himself about his desire to quit his job. He says his conscience tells him to stay with Shylock out of loyalty, but some fiend in his brain is telling him he should run away. He reasons crookedly: since his conscience tells him to stay with the devil incarnate, clearly the thing to do is run away, loyalty be damned. Just then Old Gobbo--Lancelot's dad, who is mostly blind--shows up looking for his son. He can't tell that he's actually talking to him. Lancelot decides to have some fun with his father before he reveals his identity. He teases that the old man should speak of \"Master\" Lancelot, not just Lancelot. Old Gobbo is quick to point out that young Gobbo is no Master Lancelot, but just plain old Lancelot, the son of a poor man. Lancelot continues to mess with the poor old blind man, telling him the \"funny\" joke that his son is dead. Lancelot finally reveals himself to be Old Gobbo's son, and there's much ado about how much he's grown. Old Gobbo has brought Shylock a present, and Lancelot suggests his dad give the present to Bassanio instead, as Bassanio is Lancelot's new chosen master. Being Shylock's servant has left him in such a state that you can count each of his ribs . Bassanio enters the scene and hears a convoluted attempt on the part of both Lancelot and his father to get the younger man employed by Bassanio. Bassanio cuts off all the idiocy by announcing that Shylock's already given over Lancelot's service to him, though Lancelot will be leaving a rich Jew to serve a poor gentleman. Lancelot insists he's okay with this, and Bassanio sends Old Gobbo off with young Gobbo to buy some fancy new threads. Bassanio is then left to talk with the newly arrived Graziano. Graziano insists that Bassanio must take him along to Belmont when he goes to woo Portia. Bassanio is hesitant. Graziano promises he'll be on his very best behavior and won't do anything to ruin Bassanio's chance of winning Portia. Then they agree to put off all good behavior until tomorrow, as tonight is a night for celebration."}, {"": "94", "document": "Scene V.\nJuliet's chamber.\n\n[Enter Nurse.]\n\n\n  Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she.\n    Why, lamb! why, lady! Fie, you slug-abed!\n    Why, love, I say! madam! sweetheart! Why, bride!\n    What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now!\n    Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,\n    The County Paris hath set up his rest\n    That you shall rest but little. God forgive me!\n    Marry, and amen. How sound is she asleep!\n    I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!\n    Ay, let the County take you in your bed!\n    He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be?\n                                     [Draws aside the curtains.]\n    What, dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again?\n    I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady!\n    Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady's dead!\n    O weraday that ever I was born!\n    Some aqua-vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!\n\n                           Enter Mother.\n\n\n  Mother. What noise is here?\n\n  Nurse. O lamentable day!\n\n  Mother. What is the matter?\n\n  Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day!\n\n  Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life!\n    Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!\n    Help, help! Call help.\n\n                            Enter Father.\n\n\n  Father. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.\n\n  Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd; she's dead! Alack the day!\n\n  Mother. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!\n\n  Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out alas! she's cold,\n    Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;\n    Life and these lips have long been separated.\n    Death lies on her like an untimely frost\n    Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.\n\n  Nurse. O lamentable day!\n\n  Mother. O woful time!\n\n  Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail,\n    Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.\n\n\n  Enter Friar [Laurence] and the County [Paris], with Musicians.\n\n\n  Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?\n\n  Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.\n    O son, the night before thy wedding day\n    Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies,\n    Flower as she was, deflowered by him.\n    Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;\n    My daughter he hath wedded. I will die\n    And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's.\n\n  Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's face,\n    And doth it give me such a sight as this?\n\n  Mother. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!\n    Most miserable hour that e'er time saw\n    In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!\n    But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,\n    But one thing to rejoice and solace in,\n    And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight!\n\n  Nurse. O woe? O woful, woful, woful day!\n    Most lamentable day, most woful day\n    That ever ever I did yet behold!\n    O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!\n    Never was seen so black a day as this.\n    O woful day! O woful day!\n\n  Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!\n    Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd,\n    By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!\n    O love! O life! not life, but love in death\n\n  Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!\n    Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now\n    To murther, murther our solemnity?\n    O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!\n    Dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead,\n    And with my child my joys are buried!\n\n  Friar. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not\n    In these confusions. Heaven and yourself\n    Had part in this fair maid! now heaven hath all,\n    And all the better is it for the maid.\n    Your part in her you could not keep from death,\n    But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.\n    The most you sought was her promotion,\n    For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd;\n    And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd\n    Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?\n    O, in this love, you love your child so ill\n    That you run mad, seeing that she is well.\n    She's not well married that lives married long,\n    But she's best married that dies married young.\n    Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary\n    On this fair corse, and, as the custom is,\n    In all her best array bear her to church;\n    For though fond nature bids us all lament,\n    Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.\n\n  Cap. All things that we ordained festival\n    Turn from their office to black funeral-\n    Our instruments to melancholy bells,\n    Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;\n    Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;\n    Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse;\n    And all things change them to the contrary.\n\n  Friar. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;\n    And go, Sir Paris. Every one prepare\n    To follow this fair corse unto her grave.\n    The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill;\n    Move them no more by crossing their high will.\n                           Exeunt. Manent Musicians [and Nurse].\n  1. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.\n\n  Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up!\n    For well you know this is a pitiful case.            [Exit.]\n  1. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.\n\n                         Enter Peter.\n\n\n  Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'!\n    O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.'\n  1. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'',\n\n  Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is\n    full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump to comfort me.\n  1. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now.\n\n  Pet. You will not then?\n  1. Mus. No.\n\n  Pet. I will then give it you soundly.\n  1. Mus. What will you give us?\n\n  Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the\n     minstrel.\n  1. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature.\n\n  Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate.\n    I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you\n    note me?\n  1. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us.\n  2. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\n  Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an\n    iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n\n           'When griping grief the heart doth wound,\n             And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n           Then music with her silver sound'-\n\n    Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'?\n    What say you, Simon Catling?\n  1. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\n  Pet. Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck?\n  2. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver.\n\n  Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n  3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say.\n\n  Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer. I will say for you. It\n    is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no\n    gold for sounding.\n\n           'Then music with her silver sound\n             With speedy help doth lend redress.'         [Exit.\n\n  1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same?\n  2. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the\n    mourners, and stay dinner.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "When the Nurse comes to wake Juliet up in the morning, she discovers the girl dead. Oh, bummer. Wonder if they'll get the photographer's deposit back? Then the Friar shows up and takes action, telling them to take Juliet to the tomb, stat."}, {"": "95", "document": "SCENE IV\n\n  VALERE, MARIANE, DORINE\n\n\n  VALERE\n  Madam, a piece of news--quite new to me--\n  Has just come out, and very fine it is.\n\n  MARIANE\n  What piece of news?\n\n  VALERE\n  Your marriage with Tartuffe.\n\n  MARIANE\n  'Tis true my father has this plan in mind.\n\n  VALERE\n  Your father, madam ...\n\n  MARIANE\n  Yes, he's changed his plans,\n  And did but now propose it to me.\n\n  VALERE\n  What!\n  Seriously?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Yes, he was serious,\n  And openly insisted on the match.\n\n  VALERE\n  And what's your resolution in the matter,\n  Madam?\n\n  MARIANE\n  I don't know.\n\n  VALERE\n  That's a pretty answer.\n  You don't know?\n\n  MARIANE\n  No.\n\n  VALERE\n  No?\n\n  MARIANE\n  What do you advise?\n\n  VALERE\n  I? My advice is, marry him, by all means.\n\n  MARIANE\n  That's your advice?\n\n  VALERE\n  Yes.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Do you mean it?\n\n  VALERE\n  Surely.\n  A splendid choice, and worthy of your acceptance.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh, very well, sir! I shall take your counsel.\n\n  VALERE\n  You'll find no trouble taking it, I warrant.\n\n  MARIANE\n  No more than you did giving it, be sure.\n\n  VALERE\n  I gave it, truly, to oblige you, madam.\n\n  MARIANE\n  And I shall take it to oblige you, sir.\n\n  Dorine (withdrawing to the back of the stage)\n  Let's see what this affair will come to.\n\n  VALERE\n  So,\n  That is your love? And it was all deceit\n  When you ...\n\n  MARIANE\n  I beg you, say no more of that.\n  You told me, squarely, sir, I should accept\n  The husband that is offered me; and I\n  Will tell you squarely that I mean to do so,\n  Since you have given me this good advice.\n\n  VALERE\n  Don't shield yourself with talk of my advice.\n  You had your mind made up, that's evident;\n  And now you're snatching at a trifling pretext\n  To justify the breaking of your word.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Exactly so.\n\n  VALERE\n  Of course it is; your heart\n  Has never known true love for me.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Alas!\n  You're free to think so, if you please.\n\n  VALERE\n  Yes, yes,\n  I'm free to think so; and my outraged love\n  May yet forestall you in your perfidy,\n  And offer elsewhere both my heart and hand.\n\n  MARIANE\n  No doubt of it; the love your high deserts\n  May win ...\n\n  VALERE\n  Good Lord, have done with my deserts!\n  I know I have but few, and you have proved it.\n  But I may find more kindness in another;\n  I know of someone, who'll not be ashamed\n  To take your leavings, and make up my loss.\n\n  MARIANE\n  The loss is not so great; you'll easily\n  Console yourself completely for this change.\n\n  VALERE\n  I'll try my best, that you may well believe.\n  When we're forgotten by a woman's heart,\n  Our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget;\n  Or if we cannot, must at least pretend to.\n  No other way can man such baseness prove,\n  As be a lover scorned, and still in love.\n\n  MARIANE\n  In faith, a high and noble sentiment.\n\n  VALERE\n  Yes; and it's one that all men must approve.\n  What! Would you have me keep my love alive,\n  And see you fly into another's arms\n  Before my very eyes; and never offer\n  To someone else the heart that you had scorned?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh, no, indeed! For my part, I could wish\n  That it were done already.\n\n  VALERE\n  What! You wish it?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Yes.\n\n  VALERE\n  This is insult heaped on injury;\n  I'll go at once and do as you desire.\n\n  (He takes a step or two as if to go away.)\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh, very well then.\n\n  VALERE (turning back)\n  But remember this.\n  'Twas you that drove me to this desperate pass.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Of course.\n\n  VALERE (turning back again)\n  And in the plan that I have formed\n  I only follow your example.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Yes.\n\n  VALERE (at the door)\n  Enough; you shall be punctually obeyed.\n\n  MARIANE\n  So much the better.\n\n  VALERE (coming back again)\n  This is once for all.\n\n  MARIANE\n  So be it, then.\n\n  VALERE (He goes toward the door, but just as he reaches it, turns\n  around)\n  Eh?\n\n  MARIANE\n  What?\n\n  VALERE\n  You didn't call me?\n\n  MARIANE\n  I? You are dreaming.\n\n  VALERE\n  Very well, I'm gone. Madam, farewell.\n\n  (He walks slowly away.)\n\n  MARIANE\n  Farewell, sir.\n\n  DORINE\n  I must say\n  You've lost your senses and both gone clean daft!\n  I've let you fight it out to the end o' the chapter\n  To see how far the thing could go. Oho, there,\n  Mister Valere!\n\n  (She goes and seizes him by the arm, to stop him. He makes a great\n  show of resistance.)\n\n  VALERE\n  What do you want, Dorine?\n\n  DORINE\n  Come here.\n\n  VALERE\n  No, no, I'm quite beside myself.\n  Don't hinder me from doing as she wishes.\n\n  DORINE\n  Stop!\n\n  VALERE\n  No. You see, I'm fixed, resolved, determined.\n\n  DORINE\n  So!\n\n  MARIANE (aside)\n  Since my presence pains him, makes him go,\n  I'd better go myself, and leave him free.\n\n  DORINE (leaving Valere, and running after Mariane)\n  Now t'other! Where are you going?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Let me be.\n\n  DORINE.\n  Come back.\n\n  MARIANE\n  No, no, it isn't any use.\n\n  VALERE (aside)\n  'Tis clear the sight of me is torture to her;\n  No doubt, t'were better I should free her from it.\n\n  DORINE (leaving Mariane and running after Valere)\n  Same thing again! Deuce take you both, I say.\n  Now stop your fooling; come here, you; and you.\n\n  (She pulls first one, then the other, toward the middle of the stage.)\n\n  VALERE (to Dorine)\n  What's your idea?\n\n  MARIANE (to Dorine)\n  What can you mean to do?\n\n  DORINE\n  Set you to rights, and pull you out o' the scrape.\n\n  (To Valere)\n  Are you quite mad, to quarrel with her now?\n\n  VALERE\n  Didn't you hear the things she said to me?\n\n  DORINE (to Mariane)\n  Are you quite mad, to get in such a passion?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Didn't you see the way he treated me?\n\n  DORINE\n  Fools, both of you.\n\n  (To Valere)\n  She thinks of nothing else\n  But to keep faith with you, I vouch for it.\n\n  (To Mariane)\n  And he loves none but you, and longs for nothing\n  But just to marry you, I stake my life on't.\n\n  MARIANE (to Valere)\n  Why did you give me such advice then, pray?\n\n  VALERE (to Mariane)\n  Why ask for my advice on such a matter?\n\n  DORINE\n  You both are daft, I tell you. Here, your hands.\n\n  (To Valere)\n  Come, yours.\n\n  VALERE (giving Dorine his hand)\n  What for?\n\n  DORINE (to Mariane)\n  Now, yours.\n\n  MARIANE (giving Dorine her hand)\n  But what's the use?\n\n  DORINE\n  Oh, quick now, come along. There, both of you--\n  You love each other better than you think.\n\n  (Valere and Mariane hold each other's hands some time without looking\n  at each other.)\n\n  VALERE (at last turning toward Mariane)\n  Come, don't be so ungracious now about it;\n  Look at a man as if you didn't hate him.\n\n  (Mariane looks sideways toward Valere, with just a bit of a smile.)\n\n  DORINE\n  My faith and troth, what fools these lovers be!\n\n  VALERE (to Mariane)\n  But come now, have I not a just complaint?\n  And truly, are you not a wicked creature\n  To take delight in saying what would pain me?\n\n  MARIANE\n  And are you not yourself the most ungrateful ... ?\n\n  DORINE\n  Leave this discussion till another time;\n  Now, think how you'll stave off this plaguy marriage.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Then tell us how to go about it.\n\n  DORINE\n  Well,\n  We'll try all sorts of ways.\n\n  (To Mariane)\n  Your father's daft;\n\n  (To Valere)\n  This plan is nonsense.\n\n  (To Mariane)\n  You had better humour\n  His notions by a semblance of consent,\n  So that in case of danger, you can still\n  Find means to block the marriage by delay.\n  If you gain time, the rest is easy, trust me.\n  One day you'll fool them with a sudden illness,\n  Causing delay; another day, ill omens:\n  You've met a funeral, or broke a mirror,\n  Or dreamed of muddy water. Best of all,\n  They cannot marry you to anyone\n  Without your saying yes. But now, methinks,\n  They mustn't find you chattering together.\n\n  (To Valere)\n  You, go at once and set your friends at work\n  To make him keep his word to you; while we\n  Will bring the brother's influence to bear,\n  And get the step-mother on our side, too.\n  Good-bye.\n\n  VALERE (to Mariane)\n  Whatever efforts we may make,\n  My greatest hope, be sure, must rest on you.\n\n  MARIANE (to Valere)\n  I cannot answer for my father's whims;\n  But no one save Valere shall ever have me.\n\n  VALERE\n  You thrill me through with joy! Whatever comes ...\n\n  DORINE\n  Oho! These lovers! Never done with prattling!\n  Now go.\n\n  VALERE (starting to go, and coming back again)\n  One last word ...\n\n  DORINE\n  What a gabble and pother!\n  Be off! By this door, you. And you, by t'other.\n\n  (She pushes them off, by the shoulders, in opposite directions.)\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Valere comes in, looking concerned. He's heard that Mariane is supposed to marry Tartuffe now, and he wants some answers. Mariane gets him up to speed. When Valere asks Mariane what she's going to do, she's reluctant to tell him. Eventually, she says, she doesn't know what she's going to do. Valere, clearly annoyed, tells her to go ahead and marry Tartuffe. Mariane tells him that of course she'll follow his advice. The two continue fighting - for no reason in particular - while Dorine watches. Valere says he knows that Mariane never really loved him, and that, like, whatever, he doesn't need her. He can get some loving just like that, Mariane'll see soon enough. Turns out there's some kind of \"mystery woman\" waiting in the wings for him. Of course, when Mariane calls his bluff and tells him to get lost, Valere pretends not to hear her. At this point, Dorine has had enough, and she tells the both of them to get their acts together. She gets them to put aside their silly, totally made-up problems, at least long enough to discuss the whole Orgon-Tartuffe problem. Dorine tells Mariane to pretend to play along with her father's plan, but to find anyway possible to delay the proceedings-- faking sick, seeing bad omens etc. Valere, on the other hand, has to go tell his friends what's up and try to get them to pressure Orgon. Oh, and they'll get Damis and Elmire on their side too. With everything settled, Mariane and Valere finally kiss and make up. Dorine has to forcibly separate them before things get out of control."}, {"": "96", "document": "\n\nMr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,\nwhich for the last two or three generations had been rising into\ngentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on\nsucceeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed\nfor any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,\nand had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering\ninto the militia of his county, then embodied.\n\nCaptain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his\nmilitary life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire\nfamily, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized,\nexcept her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were\nfull of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.\n\nMiss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her\nfortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was\nnot to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the\ninfinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with\ndue decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much\nhappiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a\nhusband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due\nto her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;\nbut though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had\nresolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother,\nbut not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's\nunreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.\nThey lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison\nof Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at\nonce to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.\n\nCaptain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,\nas making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of\nthe bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he\nwas rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.\nFrom the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy\nhad, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his\nmother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.\nChurchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature\nof equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the\nlittle Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance\nthe widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were\novercome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and\nthe wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek,\nand his own situation to improve as he could.\n\nA complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and\nengaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in\nLondon, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which\nbrought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,\nwhere most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation\nand the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his\nlife passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy\ncompetence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining\nHighbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as\nportionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of\nhis own friendly and social disposition.\n\nIt was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his\nschemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth,\nit had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could\npurchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;\nbut he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were\naccomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained\nhis wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every\nprobability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had\nnever been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,\neven in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful\na well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the\npleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be\nchosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.\n\nHe had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;\nfor as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his\nuncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume\nthe name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore,\nthat he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no\napprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her\nhusband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that\nany caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he\nbelieved, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and\nwas proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man\nhad made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as\nsufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a\nkind of common concern.\n\nMr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively\ncuriosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little\nreturned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit\nhis father had been often talked of but never achieved.\n\nNow, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a\nmost proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a\ndissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with\nMrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now\nwas the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope\nstrengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new\nmother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury\nincluded some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received.\n\"I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill\nhas written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,\nindeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and\nhe says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life.\"\n\nIt was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,\nformed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing\nattention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most\nwelcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation\nwhich her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most\nfortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate\nshe might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial\nseparation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and\nwho could ill bear to part with her.\n\nShe knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without\npain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui,\nfrom the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble\ncharacter; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would\nhave been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped\nwould bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and\nprivations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of\nRandalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking,\nand in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the\napproaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in\nthe week together.\n\nHer situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.\nWeston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more\nthan satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,\nthat Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize\nat his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her\nat Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away\nin the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her\nown. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh,\nand saying, \"Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.\"\n\nThere was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to\npity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.\nThe compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by\nbeing wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which\nhad been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach\ncould bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be\ndifferent from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit\nfor any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them\nfrom having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as\nearnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the\npains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry\nwas an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one\nof the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he\ncould not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias\nof inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with\nmany--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an\nopinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence\nevery visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;\nand there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.\n\nThere was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being\nseen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.\nWoodhouse would never believe it.\n\n\n", "summary": "This chapter begins with the background of Mr. Weston, who was first married to a Miss Churchill during his youth. Miss Churchill was of a higher social status and lived a life beyond what the couple could afford, a fact that contributed to their unhappy marriage. She died only a few years after their marriage but left a child to be raised by Mr. Weston. Lacking the financial stability to care for a child, Mr. Weston sent the boy to be raised by his late wife's relative. The child, now grown and having adopted the name of those who raised him , keeps in contact with Mr. Weston and is considered a curiosity to those in Highbury."}, {"": "97", "document": "SCENE III. Another part of the field.\n\n[Alarum. Enter Cassius and Titinius.]\n\nCASSIUS.\nO, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly!\nMyself have to mine own turn'd enemy:\nThis ensign here of mine was turning back;\nI slew the coward, and did take it from him.\n\nTITINIUS.\nO Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early;\nWho, having some advantage on Octavius,\nTook it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil,\nWhilst we by Antony are all enclosed.\n\n[Enter Pindarus.]\n\nPINDARUS.\nFly further off, my lord, fly further off;\nMark Antony is in your tents, my lord:\nFly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far' off.\n\nCASSIUS.\nThis hill is far enough.--Look, look, Titinius;\nAre those my tents where I perceive the fire?\n\nTITINIUS.\nThey are, my lord.\n\nCASSIUS.\nTitinius, if thou lovest me,\nMount thou my horse and hide thy spurs in him,\nTill he have brought thee up to yonder troops\nAnd here again; that I may rest assured\nWhether yond troops are friend or enemy.\n\nTITINIUS.\nI will be here again, even with a thought.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nCASSIUS.\nGo, Pindarus, get higher on that hill:\nMy sight was ever thick: regard Titinius,\nAnd tell me what thou notest about the field.--\n\n[Pindarus goes up.]\n\nThis day I breathed first: time is come round,\nAnd where I did begin, there shall I end;\nMy life is run his compass.--Sirrah, what news?\n\nPINDARUS.\n[Above.] O my lord!\n\nCASSIUS.\nWhat news?\n\nPINDARUS.\n[Above.] Titinius is enclosed round about\nWith horsemen, that make to him on the spur:\nYet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him.--\nNow, Titinius!--Now some 'light. O, he 'lights too:\nHe's ta'en; [Shout.] and, hark! they shout for joy.\n\nCASSIUS.\nCome down; behold no more.--\nO, coward that I am, to live so long,\nTo see my best friend ta'en before my face!\n\n[Pindarus descends.]\n\nCome hither, sirrah:\nIn Parthia did I take thee prisoner;\nAnd then I swore thee, saving of thy life,\nThat whatsoever I did bid thee do,\nThou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath;\nNow be a freeman; and with this good sword,\nThat ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom.\nStand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts;\nAnd when my face is cover'd, as 'tis now,\nGuide thou the sword.--Caesar, thou art revenged,\nEven with the sword that kill'd thee.\n\n[Dies.]\n\nPINDARUS.\nSo, I am free, yet would not so have been,\nDurst I have done my will.--O Cassius!\nFar from this country Pindarus shall run,\nWhere never Roman shall take note of him.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n[Re-enter Titinius with Messala.]\n\nMESSALA.\nIt is but change, Titinius; for Octavius\nIs overthrown by noble Brutus' power,\nAs Cassius' legions are by Antony.\n\nTITINIUS.\nThese tidings would well comfort Cassius.\n\nMESSALA.\nWhere did you leave him?\n\nTITINIUS.\nAll disconsolate,\nWith Pindarus his bondman, on this hill.\n\nMESSALA.\nIs not that he that lies upon the ground?\n\nTITINIUS.\nHe lies not like the living. O my heart!\n\nMESSALA.\nIs not that he?\n\nTITINIUS.\nNo, this was he, Messala,\nBut Cassius is no more.--O setting Sun,\nAs in thy red rays thou dost sink to night,\nSo in his red blood Cassius' day is set,\nThe sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone;\nClouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done!\nMistrust of my success hath done this deed.\n\nMESSALA.\nMistrust of good success hath done this deed.\nO hateful Error, Melancholy's child!\nWhy dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men\nThe things that are not? O Error, soon conceived,\nThou never comest unto a happy birth,\nBut kill'st the mother that engender'd thee!\n\nTITINIUS.\nWhat, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus?\n\nMESSALA.\nSeek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet\nThe noble Brutus, thrusting this report\nInto his ears: I may say, thrusting it;\nFor piercing steel and darts envenomed\nShall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus\nAs tidings of this sight.\n\nTITINIUS.\nHie you, Messala,\nAnd I will seek for Pindarus the while.--\n\n[Exit Messala.]\nWhy didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius?\nDid I not meet thy friends? And did not they\nPut on my brows this wreath of victory,\nAnd bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts?\nAlas, thou hast misconstrued every thing!\nBut, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow;\nThy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I\nWill do his bidding.--Brutus, come apace,\nAnd see how I regarded Caius Cassius.--\nBy your leave, gods: this is a Roman's part:\nCome, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' heart.\n\n[Dies.]\n\n[Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, young Cato,\nStrato, Volumnius, and Lucilius.]\n\nBRUTUS.\nWhere, where, Messala, doth his body lie?\n\nMESSALA.\nLo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.\n\nBRUTUS.\nTitinius' face is upward.\n\nCATO.\nHe is slain.\n\nBRUTUS.\nO Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!\nThy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords\nIn our own proper entrails.\n\n[Low alarums.]\n\nCATO.\nBrave Titinius!\nLook whether he have not crown'd dead Cassius!\n\nBRUTUS.\nAre yet two Romans living such as these?--\nThe last of all the Romans, fare thee well!\nIt is impossible that ever Rome\nShould breed thy fellow.--Friends, I owe more tears\nTo this dead man than you shall see me pay.--\nI shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.--\nCome therefore, and to Thassos send his body:\nHis funerals shall not be in our camp,\nLest it discomfort us.--Lucilius, come;--\nAnd come, young Cato;--let us to the field.--\nLabeo and Flavius, set our battles on:--\n'Tis three o'clock; and Romans, yet ere night\nWe shall try fortune in a second fight.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n", "summary": "The battle goes badly for Cassius's troops. Cassius angrily reports that his own soldiers have run from the enemy. Brutus appears to be having some success, but his soldiers have fallen to looting. . Pindarus tells Cassius to flee because Antony's troops are upon them. Cassius refuses. He sends Titinius to investigate whether there really are enemy soldiers at their tents, as Pindarus told him. He sends Pindarus higher up the hill to gather information. But Cassius knows in his heart that he is defeated. Pindarus reports that Titinius has been captured. This is the final blow for Cassius, who instructs Pindarus to kill him with his sword, the same sword that killed Caesar. Cassius dies. . Titanius and Messala enter, reporting that Brutus has triumphed over Octavius even as Cassius's army has fallen to Antony. They discover the dead Cassius. Titanius laments that Cassius killed himself because he misunderstood the situation. Titanius had in fact been welcomed and treated like a friend; he had not been captured at all. Filled with grief, he kills himself. . Brutus enters with Messala, who has brought him the news of Cassius's death. Brutus exclaims that Caesar is mighty yet, and it is his spirit that has caused their defeat. He laments the death of two great Romans, and then tells his generals to prepare for another round of battle. ."}, {"": "98", "document": "\nHong Kong is an island which came into the possession of the English by\nthe Treaty of Nankin, after the war of 1842; and the colonising genius\nof the English has created upon it an important city and an excellent\nport.  The island is situated at the mouth of the Canton River, and is\nseparated by about sixty miles from the Portuguese town of Macao, on\nthe opposite coast.  Hong Kong has beaten Macao in the struggle for the\nChinese trade, and now the greater part of the transportation of\nChinese goods finds its depot at the former place.  Docks, hospitals,\nwharves, a Gothic cathedral, a government house, macadamised streets,\ngive to Hong Kong the appearance of a town in Kent or Surrey\ntransferred by some strange magic to the antipodes.\n\nPassepartout wandered, with his hands in his pockets, towards the\nVictoria port, gazing as he went at the curious palanquins and other\nmodes of conveyance, and the groups of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans\nwho passed to and fro in the streets.  Hong Kong seemed to him not\nunlike Bombay, Calcutta, and Singapore, since, like them, it betrayed\neverywhere the evidence of English supremacy.  At the Victoria port he\nfound a confused mass of ships of all nations: English, French,\nAmerican, and Dutch, men-of-war and trading vessels, Japanese and\nChinese junks, sempas, tankas, and flower-boats, which formed so many\nfloating parterres.  Passepartout noticed in the crowd a number of the\nnatives who seemed very old and were dressed in yellow.  On going into\na barber's to get shaved he learned that these ancient men were all at\nleast eighty years old, at which age they are permitted to wear yellow,\nwhich is the Imperial colour.  Passepartout, without exactly knowing\nwhy, thought this very funny.\n\nOn reaching the quay where they were to embark on the Carnatic, he was\nnot astonished to find Fix walking up and down.  The detective seemed\nvery much disturbed and disappointed.\n\n\"This is bad,\" muttered Passepartout, \"for the gentlemen of the Reform\nClub!\"  He accosted Fix with a merry smile, as if he had not perceived\nthat gentleman's chagrin.  The detective had, indeed, good reasons to\ninveigh against the bad luck which pursued him.  The warrant had not\ncome!  It was certainly on the way, but as certainly it could not now\nreach Hong Kong for several days; and, this being the last English\nterritory on Mr. Fogg's route, the robber would escape, unless he could\nmanage to detain him.\n\n\"Well, Monsieur Fix,\" said Passepartout, \"have you decided to go with\nus so far as America?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Fix, through his set teeth.\n\n\"Good!\" exclaimed Passepartout, laughing heartily.  \"I knew you could\nnot persuade yourself to separate from us.  Come and engage your berth.\"\n\nThey entered the steamer office and secured cabins for four persons.\nThe clerk, as he gave them the tickets, informed them that, the repairs\non the Carnatic having been completed, the steamer would leave that\nvery evening, and not next morning, as had been announced.\n\n\"That will suit my master all the better,\" said Passepartout.  \"I will\ngo and let him know.\"\n\nFix now decided to make a bold move; he resolved to tell Passepartout\nall.  It seemed to be the only possible means of keeping Phileas Fogg\nseveral days longer at Hong Kong.  He accordingly invited his companion\ninto a tavern which caught his eye on the quay.  On entering, they\nfound themselves in a large room handsomely decorated, at the end of\nwhich was a large camp-bed furnished with cushions.  Several persons\nlay upon this bed in a deep sleep.  At the small tables which were\narranged about the room some thirty customers were drinking English\nbeer, porter, gin, and brandy; smoking, the while, long red clay pipes\nstuffed with little balls of opium mingled with essence of rose.  From\ntime to time one of the smokers, overcome with the narcotic, would slip\nunder the table, whereupon the waiters, taking him by the head and\nfeet, carried and laid him upon the bed.  The bed already supported\ntwenty of these stupefied sots.\n\nFix and Passepartout saw that they were in a smoking-house haunted by\nthose wretched, cadaverous, idiotic creatures to whom the English\nmerchants sell every year the miserable drug called opium, to the\namount of one million four hundred thousand pounds--thousands devoted\nto one of the most despicable vices which afflict humanity!  The\nChinese government has in vain attempted to deal with the evil by\nstringent laws.  It passed gradually from the rich, to whom it was at\nfirst exclusively reserved, to the lower classes, and then its ravages\ncould not be arrested.  Opium is smoked everywhere, at all times, by\nmen and women, in the Celestial Empire; and, once accustomed to it, the\nvictims cannot dispense with it, except by suffering horrible bodily\ncontortions and agonies.  A great smoker can smoke as many as eight\npipes a day; but he dies in five years.  It was in one of these dens\nthat Fix and Passepartout, in search of a friendly glass, found\nthemselves.  Passepartout had no money, but willingly accepted Fix's\ninvitation in the hope of returning the obligation at some future time.\n\nThey ordered two bottles of port, to which the Frenchman did ample\njustice, whilst Fix observed him with close attention.  They chatted\nabout the journey, and Passepartout was especially merry at the idea\nthat Fix was going to continue it with them.  When the bottles were\nempty, however, he rose to go and tell his master of the change in the\ntime of the sailing of the Carnatic.\n\nFix caught him by the arm, and said, \"Wait a moment.\"\n\n\"What for, Mr. Fix?\"\n\n\"I want to have a serious talk with you.\"\n\n\"A serious talk!\" cried Passepartout, drinking up the little wine that\nwas left in the bottom of his glass.  \"Well, we'll talk about it\nto-morrow; I haven't time now.\"\n\n\"Stay!  What I have to say concerns your master.\"\n\nPassepartout, at this, looked attentively at his companion.  Fix's face\nseemed to have a singular expression.  He resumed his seat.\n\n\"What is it that you have to say?\"\n\nFix placed his hand upon Passepartout's arm, and, lowering his voice,\nsaid, \"You have guessed who I am?\"\n\n\"Parbleu!\" said Passepartout, smiling.\n\n\"Then I'm going to tell you everything--\"\n\n\"Now that I know everything, my friend!  Ah! that's very good.  But go\non, go on.  First, though, let me tell you that those gentlemen have\nput themselves to a useless expense.\"\n\n\"Useless!\" said Fix.  \"You speak confidently.  It's clear that you\ndon't know how large the sum is.\"\n\n\"Of course I do,\" returned Passepartout.  \"Twenty thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"Fifty-five thousand!\" answered Fix, pressing his companion's hand.\n\n\"What!\" cried the Frenchman.  \"Has Monsieur Fogg dared--fifty-five\nthousand pounds!  Well, there's all the more reason for not losing an\ninstant,\" he continued, getting up hastily.\n\nFix pushed Passepartout back in his chair, and resumed: \"Fifty-five\nthousand pounds; and if I succeed, I get two thousand pounds.  If\nyou'll help me, I'll let you have five hundred of them.\"\n\n\"Help you?\" cried Passepartout, whose eyes were standing wide open.\n\n\"Yes; help me keep Mr. Fogg here for two or three days.\"\n\n\"Why, what are you saying?  Those gentlemen are not satisfied with\nfollowing my master and suspecting his honour, but they must try to put\nobstacles in his way!  I blush for them!\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean that it is a piece of shameful trickery.  They might as well\nwaylay Mr. Fogg and put his money in their pockets!\"\n\n\"That's just what we count on doing.\"\n\n\"It's a conspiracy, then,\" cried Passepartout, who became more and more\nexcited as the liquor mounted in his head, for he drank without\nperceiving it.  \"A real conspiracy!  And gentlemen, too. Bah!\"\n\nFix began to be puzzled.\n\n\"Members of the Reform Club!\" continued Passepartout.  \"You must know,\nMonsieur Fix, that my master is an honest man, and that, when he makes\na wager, he tries to win it fairly!\"\n\n\"But who do you think I am?\" asked Fix, looking at him intently.\n\n\"Parbleu!  An agent of the members of the Reform Club, sent out here to\ninterrupt my master's journey.  But, though I found you out some time\nago, I've taken good care to say nothing about it to Mr. Fogg.\"\n\n\"He knows nothing, then?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" replied Passepartout, again emptying his glass.\n\nThe detective passed his hand across his forehead, hesitating before he\nspoke again.  What should he do?  Passepartout's mistake seemed\nsincere, but it made his design more difficult.  It was evident that\nthe servant was not the master's accomplice, as Fix had been inclined\nto suspect.\n\n\"Well,\" said the detective to himself, \"as he is not an accomplice, he\nwill help me.\"\n\nHe had no time to lose: Fogg must be detained at Hong Kong, so he\nresolved to make a clean breast of it.\n\n\"Listen to me,\" said Fix abruptly.  \"I am not, as you think, an agent\nof the members of the Reform Club--\"\n\n\"Bah!\" retorted Passepartout, with an air of raillery.\n\n\"I am a police detective, sent out here by the London office.\"\n\n\"You, a detective?\"\n\n\"I will prove it.  Here is my commission.\"\n\nPassepartout was speechless with astonishment when Fix displayed this\ndocument, the genuineness of which could not be doubted.\n\n\"Mr. Fogg's wager,\" resumed Fix, \"is only a pretext, of which you and\nthe gentlemen of the Reform are dupes.  He had a motive for securing\nyour innocent complicity.\"\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"Listen.  On the 28th of last September a robbery of fifty-five\nthousand pounds was committed at the Bank of England by a person whose\ndescription was fortunately secured.  Here is his description; it\nanswers exactly to that of Mr. Phileas Fogg.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" cried Passepartout, striking the table with his fist.\n\"My master is the most honourable of men!\"\n\n\"How can you tell?  You know scarcely anything about him.  You went\ninto his service the day he came away; and he came away on a foolish\npretext, without trunks, and carrying a large amount in banknotes.  And\nyet you are bold enough to assert that he is an honest man!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" repeated the poor fellow, mechanically.\n\n\"Would you like to be arrested as his accomplice?\"\n\nPassepartout, overcome by what he had heard, held his head between his\nhands, and did not dare to look at the detective.  Phileas Fogg, the\nsaviour of Aouda, that brave and generous man, a robber!  And yet how\nmany presumptions there were against him!  Passepartout essayed to\nreject the suspicions which forced themselves upon his mind; he did not\nwish to believe that his master was guilty.\n\n\"Well, what do you want of me?\" said he, at last, with an effort.\n\n\"See here,\" replied Fix; \"I have tracked Mr. Fogg to this place, but as\nyet I have failed to receive the warrant of arrest for which I sent to\nLondon.  You must help me to keep him here in Hong Kong--\"\n\n\"I!  But I--\"\n\n\"I will share with you the two thousand pounds reward offered by the\nBank of England.\"\n\n\"Never!\" replied Passepartout, who tried to rise, but fell back,\nexhausted in mind and body.\n\n\"Mr. Fix,\" he stammered, \"even should what you say be true--if my\nmaster is really the robber you are seeking for--which I deny--I have\nbeen, am, in his service; I have seen his generosity and goodness; and\nI will never betray him--not for all the gold in the world.  I come\nfrom a village where they don't eat that kind of bread!\"\n\n\"You refuse?\"\n\n\"I refuse.\"\n\n\"Consider that I've said nothing,\" said Fix; \"and let us drink.\"\n\n\"Yes; let us drink!\"\n\nPassepartout felt himself yielding more and more to the effects of the\nliquor.  Fix, seeing that he must, at all hazards, be separated from\nhis master, wished to entirely overcome him.  Some pipes full of opium\nlay upon the table.  Fix slipped one into Passepartout's hand.  He took\nit, put it between his lips, lit it, drew several puffs, and his head,\nbecoming heavy under the influence of the narcotic, fell upon the table.\n\n\"At last!\" said Fix, seeing Passepartout unconscious.  \"Mr. Fogg will\nnot be informed of the Carnatic's departure; and, if he is, he will\nhave to go without this cursed Frenchman!\"\n\nAnd, after paying his bill, Fix left the tavern.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Passepartout goes roaming about Hong Kong and spies Detective Fix. Fix is disappointed because the arrest warrant for Fogg has not yet arrived; he offers Passepartout a drink and tells him the secret mission to arrest Fogg. Poor Passepartout doesn't understand what Fix is really saying, though. They are talking from two ends of the same story: While Fix is talking about the robbery, Passepartout is referring to Fix being an agent of the Reform club. When all the circle talking is finally over, Passepartout finally understands Fix's real purpose . He gets super ticked-off and keeps drinking, swearing he doesn't believe an inch of the detective's story. Then Fix slips Passepartout some opium so he won't be able to let the cat out of the bag to Fogg."}, {"": "99", "document": "\nThe China, in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg's last\nhope.  None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects.  The\nPereire, of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable steamers\nare equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the 14th;\nthe Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but to\nHavre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would render\nPhileas Fogg's last efforts of no avail.  The Inman steamer did not\ndepart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time to\nsave the wager.\n\nMr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his Bradshaw, which gave him\nthe daily movements of the trans-Atlantic steamers.\n\nPassepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by\nthree-quarters of an hour.  It was his fault, for, instead of helping\nhis master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path!  And when\nhe recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums\nexpended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the\nimmense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey,\nwould completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter\nself-accusations.  Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on\nleaving the Cunard pier, only said: \"We will consult about what is best\nto-morrow.  Come.\"\n\nThe party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in\na carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway.  Rooms were engaged,\nand the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly,\nbut very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit\nthem to rest.\n\nThe next day was the 12th of December.  From seven in the morning of\nthe 12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were\nnine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes.  If Phileas Fogg had\nleft in the China, one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he\nwould have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed\nupon.\n\nMr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions\nto await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant's\nnotice.  He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about\namong the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were\nabout to depart.  Several had departure signals, and were preparing to\nput to sea at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port\nthere is not one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every\nquarter of the globe.  But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which,\nof course, Phileas Fogg could make no use.\n\nHe seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the\nBattery, a cable's length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw,\nwell-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she\nwas getting ready for departure.\n\nPhileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on\nboard the Henrietta, iron-hulled, wood-built above.  He ascended to the\ndeck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself.  He\nwas a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion of\noxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice.\n\n\"The captain?\" asked Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"I am the captain.\"\n\n\"I am Phileas Fogg, of London.\"\n\n\"And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff.\"\n\n\"You are going to put to sea?\"\n\n\"In an hour.\"\n\n\"You are bound for--\"\n\n\"Bordeaux.\"\n\n\"And your cargo?\"\n\n\"No freight.  Going in ballast.\"\n\n\"Have you any passengers?\"\n\n\"No passengers.  Never have passengers.  Too much in the way.\"\n\n\"Is your vessel a swift one?\"\n\n\"Between eleven and twelve knots.  The Henrietta, well known.\"\n\n\"Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?\"\n\n\"To Liverpool?  Why not to China?\"\n\n\"I said Liverpool.\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"No.  I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux.\"\n\n\"Money is no object?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\nThe captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply.\n\n\"But the owners of the Henrietta--\" resumed Phileas Fogg.\n\n\"The owners are myself,\" replied the captain.  \"The vessel belongs to\nme.\"\n\n\"I will freight it for you.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I will buy it of you.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nPhileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation\nwas a grave one.  It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the\ncaptain of the Henrietta as with the captain of the Tankadere.  Up to\nthis time money had smoothed away every obstacle.  Now money failed.\n\nStill, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless\nby balloon--which would have been venturesome, besides not being\ncapable of being put in practice.  It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an\nidea, for he said to the captain, \"Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?\"\n\n\"No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars.\"\n\n\"I offer you two thousand.\"\n\n\"Apiece?\"\n\n\"Apiece.\"\n\n\"And there are four of you?\"\n\n\"Four.\"\n\nCaptain Speedy began to scratch his head.  There were eight thousand\ndollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well\nworth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers.\nBesides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers,\nbut valuable merchandise.  \"I start at nine o'clock,\" said Captain\nSpeedy, simply.  \"Are you and your party ready?\"\n\n\"We will be on board at nine o'clock,\" replied, no less simply, Mr.\nFogg.\n\nIt was half-past eight.  To disembark from the Henrietta, jump into a\nhack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout,\nand even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was\nperformed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him.\nThey were on board when the Henrietta made ready to weigh anchor.\n\nWhen Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he\nuttered a prolonged \"Oh!\" which extended throughout his vocal gamut.\n\nAs for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly\nnot come out of this affair well indemnified.  When they reached\nEngland, even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills\ninto the sea, more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent!\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Passepartout and Aouda lose hope of ever making it back to England in time, but Phileas, being his resourceful self, lodges the group in a hotel in order to think and rest. No one is able to sleep because of severe anxiety . In the morning, Phileas scours the docks looking for a ship. He finds a trading vessel, and the captain agrees to take them as far as Bordeaux for a very large sum of money."}, {"": "100", "document": "SCENE III. \n\n_A monastery._\n\n  _Enter _Duke_ and FRIAR THOMAS._\n\n_Duke._ No, holy father; throw away that thought;\nBelieve not that the dribbling dart of love\nCan pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee\nTo give me secret harbour, hath a purpose\nMore grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends                       5\nOf burning youth.\n\n_Fri. T._    May your grace speak of it?\n\n_Duke._ My holy sir, none better knows than you\nHow I have ever loved the life removed,\nAnd held in idle price to haunt assemblies\nWhere youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps.                   10\nI have deliver'd to Lord Angelo,\nA man of stricture and firm abstinence,\nMy absolute power and place here in Vienna,\nAnd he supposes me travell'd to Poland;\nFor so I have strew'd it in the common ear,                         15\nAnd so it is received. Now, pious sir,\nYou will demand of me why I do this?\n\n_Fri. T._ Gladly, my lord.\n\n_Duke._ We have strict statutes and most biting laws,\nThe needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds,                     20\nWhich for this fourteen years we have let slip;\nEven like an o'ergrown lion in a cave,\nThat goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,\nHaving bound up the threatening twigs of birch,\nOnly to stick it in their children's sight                          25\nFor terror, not to use, in time the rod\nBecomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees.\nDead to infliction, to themselves are dead;\nAnd liberty plucks justice by the nose;\nThe baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart                         30\nGoes all decorum.\n\n_Fri. T._    It rested in your Grace\nTo unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased:\nAnd it in you more dreadful would have seem'd\nThan in Lord Angelo.\n\n_Duke._            I do fear, too dreadful:\nSith 'twas my fault to give the people scope,                       35\n'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them\nFor what I bid them do: for we bid this be done,\nWhen evil deeds have their permissive pass,\nAnd not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,\nI have on Angelo imposed the office;                                40\nWho may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,\nAnd yet my nature never in the fight\nTo do in slander. And to behold his sway,\nI will, as 'twere a brother of your order,\nVisit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee,                 45\nSupply me with the habit, and instruct me\nHow I may formally in person bear me\nLike a true friar. More reasons for this action\nAt our more leisure shall I render you;\nOnly, this one: Lord Angelo is precise;                             50\nStands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses\nThat his blood flows, or that his appetite\nIs more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,\nIf power change purpose, what our seemers be.    [_Exeunt._\n\n\n  NOTES: I, 3.\n\n  SCENE III.] SCENA QUARTA Ff. SCENE VII. Pope.\n  3: _bosom_] _breast_ Pope.\n  10: _and witless_] F2 F3 F4. _witless_ F1. _with witless_ Edd. conj.\n  _keeps_] _keep_ Hammer.\n  12: _stricture_] _strictness_ Davenant's version. _strict ure_\n    Warburton.\n  15: _For_] _Far_ F2.\n  20: _to_] F1. _for_ F2 F3 F4.\n  _weeds_] Ff. _steeds_ Theobald. _wills_ S. Walker conj.\n  21: _this_] _these_ Theobald.\n  _fourteen_] _nineteen_ Theobald.\n  _slip_] Ff. _sleep_ Theobald (after Davenant).\n  25: _to_] _do_ Dent. MS.\n  26: _terror_] F1. _errour_ F2 F3 F4.\n  26, 27: _the rod Becomes more ... decrees_] Pope (after Davenant).\n    _the rod More ... decrees_ Ff. _the rod's More ... most just\n    decrees_ Collier MS.\n  27: _mock'd_] _markt_ Davenant's version.\n  34: _do_] om. Pope.\n  37: _be done_] om. Pope.\n  39: _the_] _their_ Dyce conj.\n  _indeed_] om. Pope.\n  42, 43: _fight To do in slander_] _sight To do in slander_ Pope.\n    _fight So do in slander_ Theobald. _sight To do it slander_ Hanmer.\n    _sight, So doing slander'd_ Johnson conj.\n    _sight To draw on slander_ Collier MS.\n    _right To do him slander_ Singer conj.\n    _light To do it slander_ Dyce conj.\n    _fight To do me slander_ Halliwell.\n    _win the fight To die in slander_ Staunton conj.\n  _never ... slander_] _ever in the fight To dole in slander_\n    Jackson conj.\n  43: _And_] om. Pope.\n  45: _I_] om. Pope.\n  47: _in person bear me_] Capell. _in person beare_ Ff.\n    _my person bear_ Pope.\n  49: _our_] F1. _your_ F2 F3 F4.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Meanwhile, the Duke has gone to visit a Friar in his cell in Vienna. We catch the two men in mid-conversation. The Duke explains that he wants to hide out at the local monastery because he wants to spy on Angelo, who thinks the Duke has travelled to Poland. The Duke is adamant that he's NOT seeking refuge at the monastery as a heartbroken lover because love is for wimps. The Duke says something weird like \"I order you to ask me why I want to spy on Angelo.\" The Friar complies and says something like \"OK, explain yourself.\" Duke Vincentio admits that for the past fourteen years, he's been pretty lax about enforcing Vienna's laws. Naturally, the people are out of control, like \"headstrong horses\" that are never curbed. \"They're also like naughty children,\" says the Duke, who compares himself to a wimpy parent who only ever threatens to beat his kids with \"twigs of birch\" but never gives anyone a spanking. The Friar points out that the Duke has the authority to start enforcing Vienna's laws and would probably be a lot better at it than Angelo. But, the Duke doesn't want to be the bad guy--he'd rather let Angelo do the dirty work than look like a tyrant in the eyes of his people. Plus, reasons the Duke, he would look like a total hypocrite if he started enforcing rules out of the clear blue sky. Duke Vincentio admits that he's a little nervous about Angelo, who is pretty strict and also claims not to have any sexual desire, which makes the Duke suspicious enough to want to keep an eye on things."}, {"": "101", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\nThe same.\n\n[Alarums, Excursions, Retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR,\nthe BASTARD, HUBERT, and LORDS.]\n\nKING JOHN.\n[To ELINOR] So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind,\nSo strongly guarded.--\n[To ARTHUR] Cousin, look not sad;\nThy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will\nAs dear be to thee as thy father was.\n\nARTHUR.\nO, this will make my mother die with grief!\n\nKING JOHN.\nCousin [To the BASTARD], away for England; haste before:\nAnd, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags\nOf hoarding abbots; imprison'd angels\nSet at liberty: the fat ribs of peace\nMust by the hungry now be fed upon:\nUse our commission in his utmost force.\n\nBASTARD.\nBell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,\nWhen gold and silver becks me to come on.\nI leave your highness.--Grandam, I will pray,--\nIf ever I remember to be holy,--\nFor your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.\n\nELINOR.\nFarewell, gentle cousin.\n\nKING JOHN.\nCoz, farewell.\n\n[Exit BASTARD.]\n\nELINOR.\nCome hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.\n\n[She takes Arthur aside.]\n\nKING JOHN.\nCome hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,\nWe owe thee much! within this wall of flesh\nThere is a soul counts thee her creditor,\nAnd with advantage means to pay thy love:\nAnd, my good friend, thy voluntary oath\nLives in this bosom, dearly cherished.\nGive me thy hand. I had a thing to say,--\nBut I will fit it with some better time.\nBy heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd\nTo say what good respect I have of thee.\n\nHUBERT.\nI am much bounden to your majesty.\n\nKING JOHN.\nGood friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet:\nBut thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,\nYet it shall come for me to do thee good.\nI had a thing to say,--but let it go:\nThe sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,\nAttended with the pleasures of the world,\nIs all too wanton and too full of gawds\nTo give me audience:--if the midnight bell\nDid, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,\nSound on into the drowsy race of night;\nIf this same were a churchyard where we stand,\nAnd thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;\nOr if that surly spirit, melancholy,\nHad bak'd thy blood and made it heavy-thick,\nWhich else runs tickling up and down the veins,\nMaking that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,\nAnd strain their cheeks to idle merriment--\nA passion hateful to my purposes;--\nOr if that thou couldst see me without eyes,\nHear me without thine ears, and make reply\nWithout a tongue, using conceit alone,\nWithout eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words,--\nThen, in despite of brooded watchful day,\nI would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:\nBut, ah, I will not!--yet I love thee well;\nAnd, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.\n\nHUBERT.\nSo well that what you bid me undertake,\nThough that my death were adjunct to my act,\nBy heaven, I would do it.\n\nKING JOHN.\nDo not I know thou wouldst?\nGood Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye\nOn yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,\nHe is a very serpent in my way;\nAnd wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,\nHe lies before me: dost thou understand me?\nThou art his keeper.\n\nHUBERT.\nAnd I'll keep him so\nThat he shall not offend your majesty.\n\nKING JOHN.\nDeath.\n\nHUBERT.\nMy lord?\n\nKING JOHN.\nA grave.\n\nHUBERT.\nHe shall not live.\n\nKING JOHN.\nEnough!--\nI could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;\nWell, I'll not say what I intend for thee:\nRemember.--Madam, fare you well:\nI'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.\n\nELINOR.\nMy blessing go with thee!\n\nKING JOHN.\nFor England, cousin, go:\nHubert shall be your man, attend on you\nWith all true duty.--On toward Calais, ho!\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "King John and his posse come back on stage. Now Eleanor is with them. Arthur is still being held prisoner by King John's men. King John tells Arthur not to worry: he'll take good care of him. Next, King John tells the Bastard to go to England and plunder the riches of all the monasteries. The Bastard leaves to do his job. At this point, Eleanor calls Arthur over to her side to have a chat with him. This leaves King John free to have a private chat with Hubert. King John starts off by telling Hubert that he owes him one. Hubert says, \"Hey, no problem.\" Then King John starts acting weird. He says he wants to say something to Hubert, but he can't, because the time isn't right. If it were a dark, gloomy night, and they were standing in a graveyard, then the atmosphere would be right. Hubert is all, \"You can trust me, King John. I'm your loyal subject.\" King John says something like \"You see that little brat over there? He's like a little snake that's always in my way. You know what I'm sayin', Hubert? I sure wish someone would take care of him for me.\" Hubert gets the hint, but then King John can't resist stating the obvious: he tells Hubert that he wants the kid dead and buried ASAP. Hubert says, \"No problem.\" With that out of the way, King John announces that now he can be \"merry,\" and he gets ready to leave. King John says goodbye to his mom and tells Arthur not to worry: Uncle Hubert's going to take really good care of him. Then they all leave the stage. History Snack: Shakespeare's Queen Elizabeth I signed the death warrant of her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots in 1587, just a few short years before Shakespeare wrote King John. Mary was involved in a plot to kill Elizabeth, who was standing between her and the English throne."}, {"": "102", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\nThe same. Before the castle.\n\n[Enter ARTHUR, on the Walls.]\n\nARTHUR.\nThe wall is high, and yet will I leap down:--\nGood ground, be pitiful and hurt me not!--\nThere's few or none do know me: if they did,\nThis ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite.\nI am afraid; and yet I'll venture it.\nIf I get down, and do not break my limbs,\nI'll find a thousand shifts to get away:\nAs good to die and go, as die and stay.\n\n[Leaps down.]\n\nO me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:--\nHeaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!\n\n[Dies.]\n\n[Enter PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.]\n\nSALISBURY.\nLords, I will meet him at Saint Edmunds-Bury;\nIt is our safety, and we must embrace\nThis gentle offer of the perilous time.\n\nPEMBROKE.\nWho brought that letter from the cardinal?\n\nSALISBURY.\nThe Count Melun, a noble lord of France,\nWhose private with me of the Dauphin's love\nIs much more general than these lines import.\n\nBIGOT.\nTo-morrow morning let us meet him then.\n\nSALISBURY.\nOr rather then set forward; for 'twill be\nTwo long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet.\n\n[Enter the BASTARD.]\n\nBASTARD.\nOnce more to-day well met, distemper'd lords!\nThe king by me requests your presence straight.\n\nSALISBURY.\nThe King hath dispossess'd himself of us.\nWe will not line his thin bestained cloak\nWith our pure honours, nor attend the foot\nThat leaves the print of blood where'er it walks.\nReturn and tell him so: we know the worst.\n\nBASTARD.\nWhate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.\n\nSALISBURY.\nOur griefs, and not our manners, reason now.\n\nBASTARD.\nBut there is little reason in your grief;\nTherefore 'twere reason you had manners now.\n\nPEMBROKE.\nSir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.\n\nBASTARD.\n 'Tis true,--to hurt his master, no man else.\n\nSALISBURY.\nThis is the prison:--what is he lies here?\n\n[Seeing Arthur.]\n\nPEMBROKE.\nO death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!\nThe earth had not a hole to hide this deed.\n\nSALISBURY.\nMurder, as hating what himself hath done,\nDoth lay it open to urge on revenge.\n\nBIGOT.\nOr, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave,\nFound it too precious-princely for a grave.\n\nSALISBURY.\nSir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,\nOr have you read or heard, or could you think?\nOr do you almost think, although you see,\nThat you do see? could thought, without this object,\nForm such another? This is the very top,\nThe height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,\nOf murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame,\nThe wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,\nThat ever wall-ey'd wrath or staring rage\nPresented to the tears of soft remorse.\n\nPEMBROKE.\nAll murders past do stand excus'd in this;\nAnd this, so sole and so unmatchable,\nShall give a holiness, a purity,\nTo the yet unbegotten sin of times;\nAnd prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,\nExampled by this heinous spectacle.\n\nBASTARD.\nIt is a damned and a bloody work;\nThe graceless action of a heavy hand,--\nIf that it be the work of any hand.\n\nSALISBURY.\nIf that it be the work of any hand?--\nWe had a kind of light what would ensue.\nIt is the shameful work of Hubert's hand;\nThe practice and the purpose of the king:--\nFrom whose obedience I forbid my soul,\nKneeling before this ruin of sweet life,\nAnd breathing to his breathless excellence\nThe incense of a vow, a holy vow,\nNever to taste the pleasures of the world,\nNever to be infected with delight,\nNor conversant with ease and idleness,\nTill I have set a glory to this hand,\nBy giving it the worship of revenge.\n\nPEMBROKE. and BIGOT.\nOur souls religiously confirm thy words.\n\n[Enter HUBERT.]\n\nHUBERT.\nLords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:\nArthur doth live; the king hath sent for you.\n\nSALISBURY.\nO, he is bold, and blushes not at death:--\nAvaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!\n\nHUBERT.\nI am no villain.\n\nSALISBURY.\nMust I rob the law?\n\n[Drawing his sword.]\n\nBASTARD.\nYour sword is bright, sir; put it up again.\n\nSALISBURY.\nNot till I sheathe it in a murderer's skin.\n\nHUBERT.\nStand back, Lord Salisbury,--stand back, I say;\nBy heaven, I think my sword's as sharp as yours:\nI would not have you, lord, forget yourself,\nNor tempt the danger of my true defence;\nLest I, by marking of your rage, forget\nYour worth, your greatness, and nobility.\n\nBIGOT.\nOut, dunghill! dar'st thou brave a nobleman?\n\nHUBERT.\nNot for my life: but yet I dare defend\nMy innocent life against an emperor.\n\nSALISBURY.\nThou art a murderer.\n\nHUBERT.\nDo not prove me so;\nYet I am none: whose tongue soe'er speaks false,\nNot truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.\n\nPEMBROKE.\nCut him to pieces.\n\nBASTARD.\nKeep the peace, I say.\n\nSALISBURY.\nStand by, or I shall gall you, Falconbridge.\n\nBASTARD.\nThou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:\nIf thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,\nOr teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,\nI'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime:\nOr I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron\nThat you shall think the devil is come from hell.\n\nBIGOT.\nWhat wilt thou do, renowned Falconbridge?\nSecond a villain and a murderer?\n\nHUBERT.\nLord Bigot, I am none.\n\nBIGOT.\nWho kill'd this prince?\n\nHUBERT.\n 'Tis not an hour since I left him well:\nI honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep\nMy date of life out for his sweet life's loss.\n\nSALISBURY.\nTrust not those cunning waters of his eyes,\nFor villainy is not without such rheum;\nAnd he, long traded in it, makes it seem\nLike rivers of remorse and innocency.\nAway with me, all you whose souls abhor\nTh' uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house;\nFor I am stifled with this smell of sin.\n\nBIGOT.\nAway toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!\n\nPEMBROKE.\nThere tell the king he may inquire us out.\n\n[Exeunt LORDS.]\n\nBASTARD.\nHere's a good world!--Knew you of this fair work?\nBeyond the infinite and boundless reach\nOf mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,\nArt thou damn'd, Hubert.\n\nHUBERT.\nDo but hear me, sir.\n\nBASTARD.\nHa! I'll tell thee what;\nThou'rt damn'd as black--nay, nothing is so black;\nThou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer:\nThere is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell\nAs thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.\n\nHUBERT.\nUpon my soul,--\n\nBASTARD.\nIf thou didst but consent\nTo this most cruel act, do but despair;\nAnd if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread\nThat ever spider twisted from her womb\nWill serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam\nTo hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself,\nPut but a little water in a spoon\nAnd it shall be as all the ocean,\nEnough to stifle such a villain up.\nI do suspect thee very grievously.\n\nHUBERT.\nIf I in act, consent, or sin of thought,\nBe guilty of the stealing that sweet breath\nWhich was embounded in this beauteous clay,\nLet hell want pains enough to torture me!\nI left him well.\n\nBASTARD.\nGo, bear him in thine arms.--\nI am amaz'd, methinks, and lose my way\nAmong the thorns and dangers of this world.--\nHow easy dost thou take all England up!\nFrom forth this morsel of dead royalty,\nThe life, the right, and truth of all this realm\nIs fled to heaven; and England now is left\nTo tug and scamble, and to part by the teeth\nThe unow'd interest of proud-swelling state.\nNow for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty\nDoth dogged war bristle his angry crest,\nAnd snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:\nNow powers from home and discontents at home\nMeet in one line; and vast confusion waits,\nAs doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,\nThe imminent decay of wrested pomp.\nNow happy he whose cloak and cincture can\nHold out this tempest.--Bear away that child,\nAnd follow me with speed: I'll to the king;\nA thousand businesses are brief in hand,\nAnd heaven itself doth frown upon the land.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Arthur stands on the walls of the castle in disguise. He decides he will jump off the wall in order to escape. No one will recognize the body if he dies, he decides, and it is as good to die in England as to escape. He jumps and dies. Salisbury and Pembroke enter with Lord Bigot. The lords discuss their imminent meeting with Louis. The Bastard enters to speak on behalf of King John. Salisbury tells him to return to the king with news that they no longer honor him. They exchange barbed comments, until Salisbury sees Arthur's body. Each of the lords is horrified to see what they believe John has ordered and have a hard time imagining the vile nature of one who would order a young man killed in such a manner. Hubert enters and announces his message from the king: Arthur is alive! Salisbury angrily accuses him of being a murderer and draws his sword. The Bastard tries to keep the peace, and Bigot demands to know who killed Arthur. Hubert says he had last seen him alive but a short while ago. The lords don't believe him and depart to join the Dauphin's forces. The Bastard tells Hubert that he will certainly be damned if he knew of the plan to kill Arthur thus. Hubert insists Arthur was alive when he left him. The Bastard tells Hubert to carry the body away and ruminates that he can't tell what is the truth. How easily Hubert can lift and carry the hopes of England! Much confusion awaits, now that the king must do battle with the foreign army and with his own turned lords. They rush off to the king."}, {"": "103", "document": "CHAPTER IV.\n\n     THE COUNTRY DESCRIBED. A PROPOSAL FOR CORRECTING MODERN MAPS. THE\n     KING'S PALACE, AND SOME ACCOUNT OF THE METROPOLIS. THE AUTHOR'S WAY\n     OF TRAVELLING. THE CHIEF TEMPLE DESCRIBED.\n\n\nI now intend to give the reader a short description of this country, as\nfar as I travelled in it, which was not above two thousand miles round\nLorbrulgrud, the metropolis. For the queen, whom I always attended,\nnever went farther when she accompanied the king in his progresses, and\nthere staid till his majesty returned from viewing his frontiers. The\nwhole extent of this prince's dominions reacheth about six thousand\nmiles in length, and from three to five in breadth. From whence I cannot\nbut conclude, that our geographers of Europe are in a great error, by\nsupposing nothing but sea between Japan and California; for it was ever\nmy opinion, that there must be a balance of earth to counterpoise the\ngreat continent of Tartary; and therefore they ought to correct their\nmaps and charts, by joining this vast tract of land to the northwest\nparts of America, wherein I shall be ready to lend them my assistance.\n\nThe kingdom is a peninsula, terminated to the northeast by a ridge of\nmountains, thirty miles high, which are altogether impassable, by reason\nof the volcanoes upon the tops: neither do the most learned know what\nsort of mortals inhabit beyond those mountains, or whether they be\ninhabited at all. On the three other sides it is bounded by the ocean.\nThere is not one sea-port in the whole kingdom, and those parts of the\ncoasts into which the rivers issue, are so full of pointed rocks, and\nthe sea generally so rough, that there is no venturing with the smallest\nof their boats; so that these people are wholly excluded from any\ncommerce with the rest of the world.\n\nBut the large rivers are full of vessels, and abound with excellent\nfish, for they seldom get any from the sea, because the sea-fish are of\nthe same size with those in Europe, and consequently not worth catching,\nwhereby it is manifest, that nature, in the production of plants and\nanimals of so extraordinary a bulk, is wholly confined to this\ncontinent, of which I leave the reasons to be determined by\nphilosophers. However, now and then, they take a whale, that happens to\nbe dashed against the rocks, which the common people feed on heartily.\nThese whales I have known so large, that a man could hardly carry one\nupon his shoulders; and sometimes, for curiosity, they are brought in\nhampers to Lorbrulgrud: I saw one of them in a dish at the king's table,\nwhich passed for a rarity, but I did not observe he was fond of it; for\nI think indeed the bigness disgusted him, although I have seen one\nsomewhat larger in Greenland.\n\nThe country is well inhabited, for it contains fifty-one cities, near a\nhundred walled towns, and a great number of villages. To satisfy my\ncurious reader, it may be sufficient to describe Lorbrulgrud. This city\nstands upon almost two equal parts on each side the river that passes\nthrough. It contains above eighty thousand houses, and about six hundred\nthousand inhabitants. It is in length three _glomglungs_ (which make\nabout fifty-four English miles) and two and a half in breadth, as I\nmeasured it myself in the royal map made by the king's order, which was\nlaid on the ground on purpose for me, and extended a hundred feet: I\npaced the diameter and circumference several times barefoot, and,\ncomputing by the scale, measured it pretty exactly.\n\nThe king's palace is no regular edifice, but a heap of buildings, about\nseven miles round: the chief rooms are generally two hundred and forty\nfeet high, and broad and long in proportion. A coach was allowed to\nGlumdalclitch and me, wherein her governess frequently took her out to\nsee the town, or go among the shops; and I was always of the party,\ncarried in my box; although the girl, at my own desire, would often take\nme out, and hold me in her hand, that I might more conveniently view the\nhouses and the people as we passed along the streets, I reckoned our\ncoach to be about the square of Westminster-hall, but not altogether so\nhigh: however, I cannot be very exact.\n\nBesides the large box in which I was usually carried, the queen ordered\na smaller one to be made for me, of about twelve feet square and ten\nhigh, for the convenience of travelling, because the other was somewhat\ntoo large for Glumdalclitch's lap, and cumbersome in the coach. It was\nmade by the same artist, whom I directed in the whole contrivance. This\ntravelling closet was an exact square,[64] with a window in the middle\nof three of the squares, and each window was latticed with iron wire on\nthe outside, to prevent accidents in long journeys. On the fourth side,\nwhich had no window, two strong staples were fixed, through which the\nperson who carried me, when I had a mind to be on horseback, put a\nleathern belt, and buckled it about his waist. This was always the\noffice of some grave, trusty servant, in whom I could confide, whether I\nattended the king and queen in their progresses, or were disposed to see\nthe gardens, or pay a visit to some great lady or minister of state in\nthe court; for I soon began to be known and esteemed among the greatest\nofficers, I suppose more on account of their majesties' favor than any\nmerit of my own.\n\nIn journeys, when I was weary of the coach, a servant on horseback would\nbuckle on my box, and place it upon a cushion before him; and there I\nhad a full prospect of the country on three sides from my three windows.\nI had in this closet a field-bed, and a hammock hung from the ceiling,\ntwo chairs and a table, neatly screwed to the floor, to prevent being\ntossed about by the agitation of the horse or the coach. And having been\nlong used to sea voyages, those motions, although sometimes very\nviolent, did not much discompose me.\n\nWhenever I had a mind to see the town, it was always in my travelling\ncloset, which Glumdalclitch held in her lap, in a kind of open sedan,\nafter the fashion of the country, borne by four men, and attended by two\nothers in the queen's livery. The people, who had often heard of me,\nwere very curious to crowd about the sedan, and the girl was complaisant\nenough to make the bearers stop, and to take me in her hand, that I\nmight be more conveniently seen.\n\nI was very desirous to see the chief temple, and particularly the tower\nbelonging to it, which is reckoned the highest in the kingdom.\nAccordingly, one day my nurse carried me thither, but I must truly say\nI came back disappointed; for the height is not above three thousand\nfeet, reckoning from the ground to the highest pinnacle top; which,\nallowing for the difference between the size of those people and us in\nEurope, is no great matter for admiration, nor at all equal in\nproportion (if I rightly remember) to Salisbury steeple.[65] But, not to\ndetract from a nation, to which during my life I shall acknowledge\nmyself extremely obliged, it must be allowed that whatever this famous\ntower wants in height is amply made up in beauty and strength. For the\nwalls are nearly a hundred feet thick, built of hewn stone, whereof each\nis about forty feet square, and adorned on all sides with statues of\ngods and emperors, cut in marble larger than life, placed in their\nseveral niches. I measured a little finger which had fallen down from\none of these statues, and lay unperceived among some rubbish, and found\nit exactly four feet and an inch in length. Glumdalclitch wrapped it up\nin her handkerchief and carried it home in her pocket, to keep among\nother trinkets, of which the girl was very fond, as children at her age\nusually are.\n\nThe king's kitchen is indeed a noble building, vaulted at top, and about\nsix hundred feet high. The great oven is not so wide by ten paces as the\ncupola at St. Paul's, for I measured the latter on purpose after my\nreturn. But if I should describe the kitchen-grate, the prodigious pots\nand kettles, the joints of meat turning on the spits, with many other\nparticulars, perhaps I should be hardly believed; at least, a severe\ncritic would be apt to think I enlarged a little, as travellers are\noften suspected to do. To avoid which censure, I fear I have run too\nmuch into the other extreme; and that if this treatise should happen to\nbe translated into the language of Brobdingnag (which is the general\nname of that kingdom) and transmitted thither, the king and his people\nwould have reason to complain that I had done them an injury, by a false\nand diminutive representation.\n\nHis majesty seldom keeps above six hundred horses in his stables: they\nare generally from fifty-four to sixty feet high. But when he goes\nabroad on solemn days, he is attended for state by a militia guard of\nfive hundred horse, which indeed I thought was the most splendid sight\nthat could be ever beheld, till I saw part of his army in battalia,[66]\nwhereof I shall find another occasion to speak.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "When the King and Queen go traveling about the country, they decide to take Gulliver along. Gulliver describes the island, the sea around the island, the city of Lorbrulgrud, the King's palace, his method of travel on the island, several of the island's inhabitants, and some of the sights to see on the island. In describing the inhabitants of the island, Gulliver focuses on their illnesses and diseases. He mentions, for instance, giant beggars, horribly deformed, with lice crawling all over them. Gulliver compares the sights to similar sights in his homeland. Finally, the dimensions of the King's palace are described with the kitchen receiving particular attention."}, {"": "104", "document": "SCENE II.\n\n\n                           OLIVIA'S _Garden_.\n\n        _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_.\n\n    _Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;--\n\n    _Sir And._ Oh!\n\n    _Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with\nhim,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,----\n\n    _Sir And._ Oh!\n\n    _Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they\nsay, he has been fencer to the Sophy.\n\n    _Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him.\n\n    _Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce\nhold him yonder.\n\n    _Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so\ncunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let\nhim let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.\n\n    _Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show\non't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.\n\n                      _Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA.\n\nI have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded\nhim, the youth's a devil.\n\n    _Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and\npants, as if a bear were at his heels.\n\n    _Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with\nyou for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his\nquarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore\ndraw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you.\n\n    _Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A\nlittle thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.\n\n    _Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will,\nfor his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello\navoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he\nwill not hurt you. Come on; to 't.\n\n    _Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath!\n\n    _Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will.\n\n [_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.\n\n      _Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.\n\n    _Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman\n  Have done offence, I take the fault on me;\n  If you offend him, I for him defy you.\n\n    _Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you?\n\n    _Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more\n  Than you have heard him brag to you he will.\n\n    _Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I\nam for you.\n\n                   [SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.]\n\n    [SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a\n                               little_.]\n\n    _Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the\nofficers.\n\n    _Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows\ngreat alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir\nAndrew,--\n\n    _Sir And._ Here I am.\n\n    _Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.]\n\n    _Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your\nsword, if you please.\n\n    _Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll\nbe as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well.\n\n                    _Enter two Officers of Justice._\n\n    _1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office.\n\n    _2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit\n  Of Duke Orsino.\n\n    _Ant._ You do mistake me, sir.\n\n    _1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.--\n  Take him away; he knows, I know him well.\n\n    _Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you;\n  But there's no remedy.\n  Now my necessity\n  Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me\n  Much more, for what I cannot do for you,\n  Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;\n  But be of comfort.\n\n    _1 Off._ Come, sir, away.\n\n    _Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money.\n\n    _Vio._ What money, sir?\n  For the fair kindness you have showed me here,\n  And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,\n  Out of my lean and low ability\n  I'll lend you something: my having is not much;\n  I'll make division of my present with you;\n  Hold, there is half my coffer.\n\n    _Ant._ Will you deny me now?\n  Is't possible, that my deserts to you\n  Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery;\n  Lest that it make me so unsound a man,\n  As to upbraid you with those kindnesses\n  That I have done for you.\n\n    _Vio._ I know of none;\n  Nor know I you by voice, or any feature.\n\n    _Ant._ O heavens themselves!\n\n    _1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go.\n\n    _Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here,\n  I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death;\n  And to his image, which, methought, did promise\n  Most venerable worth, did I devotion.\n  But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!--\n  Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.--\n  In nature there's no blemish, but the mind;\n  None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind:\n  Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil\n  Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil.\n\n                                       [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian.\n\n                                                [_They retire together._\n\n    _Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know\n  Yet living in my glass; even such, and so,\n  In favour was my brother; and he went\n  Still in this fashion, colour, ornament;\n  For him I imitate: O, if it prove,\n  Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!\n\n                                                         [_Exit_ VIOLA.\n\n                           [_They advance._]\n\n    _Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a\nhare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity,\nand denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.\n\n    _Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.\n\n    _Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him.\n\n    _Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword.\n\n    _Sir And._ An I do not!--                                 [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In order to fully appreciate this scene, you should recall that Olivia gave Sir Toby and the household staff orders to take care of Malvolio and the \"midsummer madness\" that turned him into a grinning zany, tightly cross-gartered, and garbed in yellow stockings. They locked him in a dark room, and now Maria and Feste prepare to pull a few more pranks on the supercilious, overbearing Malvolio. Feste disguises himself as a parson and plans to make a \"mercy call\" on the \"poor mad prisoner.\" He will assume the role of Sir Topas, the curate. The interview is a masterpiece of low, broad comedy. Feste, as Sir Topas, knows just enough Latin phrases to lace them into his interview, along with pedantic nonsense and pseudo-metaphysical drivel concerning the philosophy of existence. The imprisoned steward, of course, is extremely relieved to hear what he believes to be the parson's voice, for he fondly imagines that his deliverance from this darkened room of a prison is near. This is not the case, however; he will \"remain in his darkness\" for some time to come. When Feste slips out for a moment, Sir Toby suggests that Feste use his natural voice to speak with Malvolio; things have taken a turn for the worse, and he wants to release Malvolio and end this charade. He is afraid that Olivia might turn him out of the house, and he \"cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot.\" Feste is having too much fun, though, to pay much attention to Toby's fears; he enters Malvolio's room, assumes his ecclesiastical voice, and tries to convince the steward that there are two visitors in the room instead of one. Malvolio pleads that he is not insane, and finally Feste is persuaded to bring Malvolio some ink, a pen, and some writing paper so that he can \"set down to lady\" proof of his sanity."}, {"": "105", "document": "\nThe weather was bad during the latter days of the voyage.  The wind,\nobstinately remaining in the north-west, blew a gale, and retarded the\nsteamer.  The Rangoon rolled heavily and the passengers became\nimpatient of the long, monstrous waves which the wind raised before\ntheir path.  A sort of tempest arose on the 3rd of November, the squall\nknocking the vessel about with fury, and the waves running high.  The\nRangoon reefed all her sails, and even the rigging proved too much,\nwhistling and shaking amid the squall.  The steamer was forced to\nproceed slowly, and the captain estimated that she would reach Hong\nKong twenty hours behind time, and more if the storm lasted.\n\nPhileas Fogg gazed at the tempestuous sea, which seemed to be\nstruggling especially to delay him, with his habitual tranquillity.  He\nnever changed countenance for an instant, though a delay of twenty\nhours, by making him too late for the Yokohama boat, would almost\ninevitably cause the loss of the wager.  But this man of nerve\nmanifested neither impatience nor annoyance; it seemed as if the storm\nwere a part of his programme, and had been foreseen.  Aouda was amazed\nto find him as calm as he had been from the first time she saw him.\n\nFix did not look at the state of things in the same light.  The storm\ngreatly pleased him.  His satisfaction would have been complete had the\nRangoon been forced to retreat before the violence of wind and waves.\nEach delay filled him with hope, for it became more and more probable\nthat Fogg would be obliged to remain some days at Hong Kong; and now\nthe heavens themselves became his allies, with the gusts and squalls.\nIt mattered not that they made him sea-sick--he made no account of this\ninconvenience; and, whilst his body was writhing under their effects,\nhis spirit bounded with hopeful exultation.\n\nPassepartout was enraged beyond expression by the unpropitious weather.\nEverything had gone so well till now!  Earth and sea had seemed to be\nat his master's service; steamers and railways obeyed him; wind and\nsteam united to speed his journey.  Had the hour of adversity come?\nPassepartout was as much excited as if the twenty thousand pounds were\nto come from his own pocket.  The storm exasperated him, the gale made\nhim furious, and he longed to lash the obstinate sea into obedience.\nPoor fellow!  Fix carefully concealed from him his own satisfaction,\nfor, had he betrayed it, Passepartout could scarcely have restrained\nhimself from personal violence.\n\nPassepartout remained on deck as long as the tempest lasted, being\nunable to remain quiet below, and taking it into his head to aid the\nprogress of the ship by lending a hand with the crew.  He overwhelmed\nthe captain, officers, and sailors, who could not help laughing at his\nimpatience, with all sorts of questions.  He wanted to know exactly how\nlong the storm was going to last; whereupon he was referred to the\nbarometer, which seemed to have no intention of rising.  Passepartout\nshook it, but with no perceptible effect; for neither shaking nor\nmaledictions could prevail upon it to change its mind.\n\nOn the 4th, however, the sea became more calm, and the storm lessened\nits violence; the wind veered southward, and was once more favourable.\nPassepartout cleared up with the weather.  Some of the sails were\nunfurled, and the Rangoon resumed its most rapid speed.  The time lost\ncould not, however, be regained.  Land was not signalled until five\no'clock on the morning of the 6th; the steamer was due on the 5th.\nPhileas Fogg was twenty-four hours behind-hand, and the Yokohama\nsteamer would, of course, be missed.\n\nThe pilot went on board at six, and took his place on the bridge, to\nguide the Rangoon through the channels to the port of Hong Kong.\nPassepartout longed to ask him if the steamer had left for Yokohama;\nbut he dared not, for he wished to preserve the spark of hope, which\nstill remained till the last moment.  He had confided his anxiety to\nFix who--the sly rascal!--tried to console him by saying that Mr. Fogg\nwould be in time if he took the next boat; but this only put\nPassepartout in a passion.\n\nMr. Fogg, bolder than his servant, did not hesitate to approach the\npilot, and tranquilly ask him if he knew when a steamer would leave\nHong Kong for Yokohama.\n\n\"At high tide to-morrow morning,\" answered the pilot.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mr. Fogg, without betraying any astonishment.\n\nPassepartout, who heard what passed, would willingly have embraced the\npilot, while Fix would have been glad to twist his neck.\n\n\"What is the steamer's name?\" asked Mr. Fogg.\n\n\"The Carnatic.\"\n\n\"Ought she not to have gone yesterday?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; but they had to repair one of her boilers, and so her\ndeparture was postponed till to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" returned Mr. Fogg, descending mathematically to the saloon.\n\nPassepartout clasped the pilot's hand and shook it heartily in his\ndelight, exclaiming, \"Pilot, you are the best of good fellows!\"\n\nThe pilot probably does not know to this day why his responses won him\nthis enthusiastic greeting.  He remounted the bridge, and guided the\nsteamer through the flotilla of junks, tankas, and fishing boats which\ncrowd the harbour of Hong Kong.\n\nAt one o'clock the Rangoon was at the quay, and the passengers were\ngoing ashore.\n\nChance had strangely favoured Phileas Fogg, for had not the Carnatic\nbeen forced to lie over for repairing her boilers, she would have left\non the 6th of November, and the passengers for Japan would have been\nobliged to await for a week the sailing of the next steamer.  Mr. Fogg\nwas, it is true, twenty-four hours behind his time; but this could not\nseriously imperil the remainder of his tour.\n\nThe steamer which crossed the Pacific from Yokohama to San Francisco\nmade a direct connection with that from Hong Kong, and it could not\nsail until the latter reached Yokohama; and if Mr. Fogg was twenty-four\nhours late on reaching Yokohama, this time would no doubt be easily\nregained in the voyage of twenty-two days across the Pacific.  He found\nhimself, then, about twenty-four hours behind-hand, thirty-five days\nafter leaving London.\n\nThe Carnatic was announced to leave Hong Kong at five the next morning.\nMr. Fogg had sixteen hours in which to attend to his business there,\nwhich was to deposit Aouda safely with her wealthy relative.\n\nOn landing, he conducted her to a palanquin, in which they repaired to\nthe Club Hotel.  A room was engaged for the young woman, and Mr. Fogg,\nafter seeing that she wanted for nothing, set out in search of her\ncousin Jeejeeh.  He instructed Passepartout to remain at the hotel\nuntil his return, that Aouda might not be left entirely alone.\n\nMr. Fogg repaired to the Exchange, where, he did not doubt, every one\nwould know so wealthy and considerable a personage as the Parsee\nmerchant.  Meeting a broker, he made the inquiry, to learn that Jeejeeh\nhad left China two years before, and, retiring from business with an\nimmense fortune, had taken up his residence in Europe--in Holland the\nbroker thought, with the merchants of which country he had principally\ntraded.  Phileas Fogg returned to the hotel, begged a moment's\nconversation with Aouda, and without more ado, apprised her that\nJeejeeh was no longer at Hong Kong, but probably in Holland.\n\nAouda at first said nothing.  She passed her hand across her forehead,\nand reflected a few moments.  Then, in her sweet, soft voice, she said:\n\"What ought I to do, Mr. Fogg?\"\n\n\"It is very simple,\" responded the gentleman.  \"Go on to Europe.\"\n\n\"But I cannot intrude--\"\n\n\"You do not intrude, nor do you in the least embarrass my project.\nPassepartout!\"\n\n\"Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Go to the Carnatic, and engage three cabins.\"\n\nPassepartout, delighted that the young woman, who was very gracious to\nhim, was going to continue the journey with them, went off at a brisk\ngait to obey his master's order.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The ship tosses about in some really rough weather, but Phileas Fogg remains calm and practical as always. The Rangoon docks at Hong Kong a day late and Fogg worries he will miss the ship for Yokohama. But a pilot informs him that the Carnatic will leave in time for him to board. Phew. Fogg takes Aouda to the Club Hotel and then goes out to look for her relative. He finds that the uncle has left the city--bummer--so now the hot Indian princess will have to accompany Phileas to Europe. Geez, that's so inconvenient. Passepartout is told to grab three cabins on the Carnatic."}, {"": "106", "document": "\nFix soon rejoined Passepartout, who was lounging and looking about on\nthe quay, as if he did not feel that he, at least, was obliged not to\nsee anything.\n\n\"Well, my friend,\" said the detective, coming up with him, \"is your\npassport visaed?\"\n\n\"Ah, it's you, is it, monsieur?\" responded Passepartout.  \"Thanks, yes,\nthe passport is all right.\"\n\n\"And you are looking about you?\"\n\n\"Yes; but we travel so fast that I seem to be journeying in a dream.\nSo this is Suez?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"In Egypt?\"\n\n\"Certainly, in Egypt.\"\n\n\"And in Africa?\"\n\n\"In Africa.\"\n\n\"In Africa!\" repeated Passepartout.  \"Just think, monsieur, I had no\nidea that we should go farther than Paris; and all that I saw of Paris\nwas between twenty minutes past seven and twenty minutes before nine in\nthe morning, between the Northern and the Lyons stations, through the\nwindows of a car, and in a driving rain!  How I regret not having seen\nonce more Pere la Chaise and the circus in the Champs Elysees!\"\n\n\"You are in a great hurry, then?\"\n\n\"I am not, but my master is.  By the way, I must buy some shoes and\nshirts.  We came away without trunks, only with a carpet-bag.\"\n\n\"I will show you an excellent shop for getting what you want.\"\n\n\"Really, monsieur, you are very kind.\"\n\nAnd they walked off together, Passepartout chatting volubly as they\nwent along.\n\n\"Above all,\" said he; \"don't let me lose the steamer.\"\n\n\"You have plenty of time; it's only twelve o'clock.\"\n\nPassepartout pulled out his big watch.  \"Twelve!\" he exclaimed; \"why,\nit's only eight minutes before ten.\"\n\n\"Your watch is slow.\"\n\n\"My watch?  A family watch, monsieur, which has come down from my\ngreat-grandfather!  It doesn't vary five minutes in the year.  It's a\nperfect chronometer, look you.\"\n\n\"I see how it is,\" said Fix.  \"You have kept London time, which is two\nhours behind that of Suez.  You ought to regulate your watch at noon in\neach country.\"\n\n\"I regulate my watch?  Never!\"\n\n\"Well, then, it will not agree with the sun.\"\n\n\"So much the worse for the sun, monsieur.  The sun will be wrong, then!\"\n\nAnd the worthy fellow returned the watch to its fob with a defiant\ngesture.  After a few minutes silence, Fix resumed: \"You left London\nhastily, then?\"\n\n\"I rather think so!  Last Friday at eight o'clock in the evening,\nMonsieur Fogg came home from his club, and three-quarters of an hour\nafterwards we were off.\"\n\n\"But where is your master going?\"\n\n\"Always straight ahead.  He is going round the world.\"\n\n\"Round the world?\" cried Fix.\n\n\"Yes, and in eighty days!  He says it is on a wager; but, between us, I\ndon't believe a word of it.  That wouldn't be common sense.  There's\nsomething else in the wind.\"\n\n\"Ah!  Mr. Fogg is a character, is he?\"\n\n\"I should say he was.\"\n\n\"Is he rich?\"\n\n\"No doubt, for he is carrying an enormous sum in brand new banknotes\nwith him.  And he doesn't spare the money on the way, either: he has\noffered a large reward to the engineer of the Mongolia if he gets us to\nBombay well in advance of time.\"\n\n\"And you have known your master a long time?\"\n\n\"Why, no; I entered his service the very day we left London.\"\n\nThe effect of these replies upon the already suspicious and excited\ndetective may be imagined.  The hasty departure from London soon after\nthe robbery; the large sum carried by Mr. Fogg; his eagerness to reach\ndistant countries; the pretext of an eccentric and foolhardy bet--all\nconfirmed Fix in his theory.  He continued to pump poor Passepartout,\nand learned that he really knew little or nothing of his master, who\nlived a solitary existence in London, was said to be rich, though no\none knew whence came his riches, and was mysterious and impenetrable in\nhis affairs and habits.  Fix felt sure that Phileas Fogg would not land\nat Suez, but was really going on to Bombay.\n\n\"Is Bombay far from here?\" asked Passepartout.\n\n\"Pretty far.  It is a ten days' voyage by sea.\"\n\n\"And in what country is Bombay?\"\n\n\"India.\"\n\n\"In Asia?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"The deuce!  I was going to tell you there's one thing that worries\nme--my burner!\"\n\n\"What burner?\"\n\n\"My gas-burner, which I forgot to turn off, and which is at this moment\nburning at my expense.  I have calculated, monsieur, that I lose two\nshillings every four and twenty hours, exactly sixpence more than I\nearn; and you will understand that the longer our journey--\"\n\nDid Fix pay any attention to Passepartout's trouble about the gas?  It\nis not probable.  He was not listening, but was cogitating a project.\nPassepartout and he had now reached the shop, where Fix left his\ncompanion to make his purchases, after recommending him not to miss the\nsteamer, and hurried back to the consulate.  Now that he was fully\nconvinced, Fix had quite recovered his equanimity.\n\n\"Consul,\" said he, \"I have no longer any doubt.  I have spotted my man.\nHe passes himself off as an odd stick who is going round the world in\neighty days.\"\n\n\"Then he's a sharp fellow,\" returned the consul, \"and counts on\nreturning to London after putting the police of the two countries off\nhis track.\"\n\n\"We'll see about that,\" replied Fix.\n\n\"But are you not mistaken?\"\n\n\"I am not mistaken.\"\n\n\"Why was this robber so anxious to prove, by the visa, that he had\npassed through Suez?\"\n\n\"Why?  I have no idea; but listen to me.\"\n\nHe reported in a few words the most important parts of his conversation\nwith Passepartout.\n\n\"In short,\" said the consul, \"appearances are wholly against this man.\nAnd what are you going to do?\"\n\n\"Send a dispatch to London for a warrant of arrest to be dispatched\ninstantly to Bombay, take passage on board the Mongolia, follow my\nrogue to India, and there, on English ground, arrest him politely, with\nmy warrant in my hand, and my hand on his shoulder.\"\n\nHaving uttered these words with a cool, careless air, the detective\ntook leave of the consul, and repaired to the telegraph office, whence\nhe sent the dispatch which we have seen to the London police office.  A\nquarter of an hour later found Fix, with a small bag in his hand,\nproceeding on board the Mongolia; and, ere many moments longer, the\nnoble steamer rode out at full steam upon the waters of the Red Sea.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Detective Fix finds Passepartout and gets him talking. Passepartout tells Fix that he and his master are going on a super-fast journey and that he never gets a minute to stop and see the sights. Passepartout accepts the detective's offer to help him find some shirts and shoes for himself and his master. Passepartout tells Fix about his watch, which is a family heirloom, noting that he always keeps it on London time, no matter where he is. Fix tells him to set his watch to the correct time in each country, but Passepartout refuses. Passepartout tells Fix that Fogg is making the journey around the world because of a bet. Passepartout does not really believe his master will go through with it, though, and he tells Fix that Fogg is rich, but no one really knows how or why. This increases Fix's suspicions that Phileas Fogg is the bank robber in question."}, {"": "107", "document": "SCENE III.\n\n\n                  _The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_.\n\n                     _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN.\n\n    _Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you?\n\n    _Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of\nthee.\n\n    _Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not\nsent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is\nnot Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is\nso.\n\n    _Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not\nme.\n\n    _Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and\nnow applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my\nlady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming?\n\n    _Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for\nthee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment.\n\n    _Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that\ngive fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years'\npurchase.\n\n                          _Enter_ SIR ANDREW.\n\n    _Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you.\n                                                  [_Striking_ SEBASTIAN.\n\n    _Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and\nthere:--Are all the people mad?\n\n                                                  [_Beating_ SIR ANDREW.\n\n                  _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.\n\n    _Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.\n\n    _Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of\nyour coats for two-pence.\n\n                                                          [_Exit_ CLOWN.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold.                  [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN.\n\n    _Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him;\nI'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in\nIllyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that.\n\n    _Seb._ Let go thy hand.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,\nput up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on.\n\n    _Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee.\n        --What would'st thou now?\n  If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.\n\n    _Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or\ntwo of this malapert blood from you.                      [_They fight._\n\n                   _Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_.\n\n    _Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here!\n\n                                                         [_Exit_ FABIAN.\n\n    _Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold.\n\n    _Sir To._ Madam?\n\n    _Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,\n  Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves,\n  Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight!\n  Be not offended, dear Cesario:----\n  Rudesby, be gone!--\n\n    _Sir To._ Come along, knight.                      [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.\n\n    _Oli._ And you, sir, follow him.\n\n    _Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,--\n\n                                                     [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.\n\n    _Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend,\n  Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway\n  In this uncivil and unjust extent\n  Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;\n  And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks\n  This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby\n  May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;\n  Do not deny.\n\n    _Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream?\n  Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:--\n  Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;\n  If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!\n\n    _Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me!\n\n    _Seb._ Madam, I will.\n\n    _Oli._ O, say so, and so be!                              [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sitting in Olivia's garden, Sebastian is enjoying the bliss of being loved by a beautiful and rich countess, although he is still thoroughly confused about why all this has happened to him. As he sits alone, he admires the lovely pearl which Olivia has given to him, and he wonders why Antonio did not meet him at The Elephant Inn, where they had agreed to meet. All of this seems truly like a dream; yet, looking at the pearl, he holds tangible proof that this is not a dream at all. He wishes that Antonio were with him to advise him; he heard that the sea captain did stay at the inn. Yet where is he now? And he wonders if the beautiful Olivia is mad -- and, of course, there is another possibility: perhaps he himself is mad. Olivia enters with a priest and tells Sebastian that she wants him to accompany her and the priest \"into the chantry\" . There, \"before him / And underneath that consecrated roof,\" Sebastian will \"plight the fullest assurance of faith.\" Sebastian agrees to marry Olivia; the marriage will be kept secret until later, when they will have a splendid, public ceremony, befitting Olivia's rank. They exit, arm in arm, for the private ceremony, as the fourth act comes to a close."}, {"": "108", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nThe park.\n\n[Enter ARMADO and MOTH.]\n\nARMADO.\nBoy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows\nmelancholy?\n\nMOTH.\nA great sign, sir, that he will look sad.\n\nARMADO.\nWhy, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp.\n\nMOTH.\nNo, no; O Lord, sir, no.\n\nARMADO.\nHow canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender\njuvenal?\n\nMOTH.\nBy a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior.\n\nARMADO.\nWhy tough senior? Why tough senior?\n\nMOTH.\nWhy tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal?\n\nARMADO.\nI spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton\nappertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.\n\nMOTH.\nAnd I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old\ntime, which we may name tough.\n\nARMADO.\nPretty and apt.\n\nMOTH.\nHow mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and\nmy saying pretty?\n\nARMADO.\nThou pretty, because little.\n\nMOTH.\nLittle pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?\n\nARMADO.\nAnd therefore apt, because quick.\n\nMOTH.\nSpeak you this in my praise, master?\n\nARMADO.\nIn thy condign praise.\n\nMOTH.\nI will praise an eel with the same praise.\n\nARMADO.\nWhat! That an eel is ingenious?\n\nMOTH.\nThat an eel is quick.\n\nARMADO.\nI do say thou art quick in answers: thou heat'st my blood.\n\nMOTH.\nI am answered, sir.\n\nARMADO.\nI love not to be crossed.\n\nMOTH.\n[Aside] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him.\n\nARMADO.\nI have promised to study three years with the duke.\n\nMOTH.\nYou may do it in an hour, sir.\n\nARMADO.\nImpossible.\n\nMOTH.\nHow many is one thrice told?\n@@@@\n\nARMADO.\nI am ill at reck'ning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster.\n\nMOTH.\nYou are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.\n\nARMADO.\nI confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man.\n\nMOTH.\nThen I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace\namounts to.\n\nARMADO.\nIt doth amount to one more than two.\n\nMOTH.\nWhich the base vulgar do call three.\n\nARMADO.\nTrue.\n\nMOTH.\nWhy, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here's three\nstudied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put 'years'\nto the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the\ndancing horse will tell you.\n\nARMADO.\nA most fine figure!\n\nMOTH.\n[Aside] To prove you a cipher.\n\nARMADO.\nI will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for\na soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing\nmy sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from\nthe reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and\nransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised curtsy. I\nthink scorn to sigh: methinks I should out-swear Cupid. Comfort\nme, boy: what great men have been in love?\n\nMOTH.\nHercules, master.\n\nARMADO.\nMost sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more;\nand, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.\n\nMOTH.\nSamson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great\ncarriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a\nporter; and he was in love.\n\nARMADO.\nO well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee\nin my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in\nlove too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth?\n\nMOTH.\nA woman, master.\n\nARMADO.\nOf what complexion?\n\nMOTH.\nOf all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the\nfour.\n\nARMADO.\nTell me precisely of what complexion.\n\nMOTH.\nOf the sea-water green, sir.\n\nARMADO.\nIs that one of the four complexions?\n\nMOTH.\nAs I have read, sir; and the best of them too.\n\nARMADO.\nGreen, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a love\nof that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He\nsurely affected her for her wit.\n\nMOTH.\nIt was so, sir, for she had a green wit.\n\nARMADO.\nMy love is most immaculate white and red.\n\nMOTH.\nMost maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such\ncolours.\n\nARMADO.\nDefine, define, well-educated infant.\n\nMOTH.\nMy father's wit my mother's tongue assist me!\n\nARMADO.\nSweet invocation of a child; most pretty, and pathetical!\n\nMOTH.\n  If she be made of white and red,\n     Her faults will ne'er be known;\n  For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,\n     And fears by pale white shown.\n  Then if she fear, or be to blame,\n     By this you shall not know,\n  For still her cheeks possess the same\n     Which native she doth owe.\nA dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red.\n\nARMADO.\nIs there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?\n\nMOTH.\nThe world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages\nsince; but I think now 'tis not to be found; or if it were, it\nwould neither serve for the writing nor the tune.\n\nARMADO.\nI will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may\nexample my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love\nthat country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind\nCostard: she deserves well.\n\nMOTH.\n[Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master.\n\nARMADO.\nSing, boy: my spirit grows heavy in love.\n\nMOTH.\nAnd that's great marvel, loving a light wench.\n\nARMADO.\nI say, sing.\n\nMOTH.\nForbear till this company be past.\n\n[Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA.]\n\nDULL.\nSir, the Duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and\nyou must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but a'\nmust fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at\nthe park; she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well.\n\nARMADO.\nI do betray myself with blushing. Maid!\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nMan?\n\nARMADO.\nI will visit thee at the lodge.\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nThat's hereby.\n\nARMADO.\nI know where it is situate.\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nLord, how wise you are!\n\nARMADO.\nI will tell thee wonders.\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nWith that face?\n\nARMADO.\nI love thee.\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nSo I heard you say.\n\nARMADO.\nAnd so, farewell.\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nFair weather after you!\n\nDULL.\nCome, Jaquenetta, away!\n\n[Exit with JAQUENETTA.]\n\nARMADO.\nVillain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be\npardoned.\n\nCOSTARD.\nWell, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full\nstomach.\n\nARMADO.\nThou shalt be heavily punished.\n\nCOSTARD.\nI am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but\nlightly rewarded.\n\nARMADO.\nTake away this villain: shut him up.\n\nMOTH.\nCome, you transgressing slave: away!\n\nCOSTARD.\nLet me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose.\n\nMOTH.\nNo, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison.\n\nCOSTARD.\nWell, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I\nhave seen, some shall see--\n\nMOTH.\nWhat shall some see?\n\nCOSTARD.\nNay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is\nnot for prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore\nI will say nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as\nanother man, and therefore I can be quiet.\n\n[Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD.]\n\nARMADO.\nI do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe,\nwhich is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread.\nI shall be forsworn,--which is a great argument of falsehood,--if\nI love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted?\nLove is a familiar; Love is a devil; there is no evil angel but\nLove. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent\nstrength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit.\nCupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club, and therefore\ntoo much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause\nwill not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello\nhe regards not; his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory\nis to subdue men.  Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum!\nfor your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me, some\nextemporal god of rime, for I am sure I shall turn sonneter.\nDevise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "This scene opens with a conversation between the verbose Spanish traveler, Armado, and his flighty page, Moth. Armado confesses that he is in love with Jaquenetta, the woman whom Costard was accused of trying to seduce. Most of the conversation revolves around Armado's justification of his feelings, since he, too, has pledged celibacy for three years. To make himself feel better, he instructs Moth to tell him the names of great and worthy men who have succumbed to the power of love despite their best intentions. When Moth supplies him with names and details, Armado's drooping ego is boosted. Likening himself to these heroes of the past, Armado begins to feel better about his weakening resolve. Armado asks to be entertained by song, but is put off by the arrival of Costard, Constable Dull, and the object of his love, Jaquenetta. Dull delivers Costard to Armado's custody, telling him the King has decided Costard's punishment should include excessive fasting. In the meantime, Armado flirts with Jaquenetta, arranging to meet her at a later time. She gently pokes fun at Armado, but agrees to the meeting, rather unenthusiastically. He then instructs Moth to take Costard away, though Costard begs that he \"not be pent up\". Armado is left alone on stage to soliloquize about his predicament, justify his feelings, and bid farewell to \"valour\", exiting with the intention to write a love sonnet."}, {"": "109", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE I.\nRome. Before a gate of the city\n\nEnter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS,\nwith the young NOBILITY of Rome\n\n  CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears; a brief farewell. The beast\n    With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,\n    Where is your ancient courage? You were us'd\n    To say extremities was the trier of spirits;\n    That common chances common men could bear;\n    That when the sea was calm all boats alike\n    Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows,\n    When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves\n    A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me\n    With precepts that would make invincible\n    The heart that conn'd them.\n  VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens!\n  CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman-\n  VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,\n    And occupations perish!\n  CORIOLANUS. What, what, what!\n    I shall be lov'd when I am lack'd. Nay, mother,\n    Resume that spirit when you were wont to say,\n    If you had been the wife of Hercules,\n    Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav'd\n    Your husband so much sweat. Cominius,\n    Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother.\n    I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius,\n    Thy tears are salter than a younger man's\n    And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime General,\n    I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld\n    Heart-hard'ning spectacles; tell these sad women\n    'Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes,\n    As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well\n    My hazards still have been your solace; and\n    Believe't not lightly- though I go alone,\n    Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen\n    Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen- your son\n    Will or exceed the common or be caught\n    With cautelous baits and practice.\n  VOLUMNIA. My first son,\n    Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius\n    With thee awhile; determine on some course\n    More than a wild exposture to each chance\n    That starts i' th' way before thee.\n  VIRGILIA. O the gods!\n  COMINIUS. I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee\n    Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us,\n    And we of thee; so, if the time thrust forth\n    A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send\n    O'er the vast world to seek a single man,\n    And lose advantage, which doth ever cool\n    I' th' absence of the needer.\n  CORIOLANUS. Fare ye well;\n    Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full\n    Of the wars' surfeits to go rove with one\n    That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate.\n    Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and\n    My friends of noble touch; when I am forth,\n    Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you come.\n    While I remain above the ground you shall\n    Hear from me still, and never of me aught\n    But what is like me formerly.\n  MENENIUS. That's worthily\n    As any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep.\n    If I could shake off but one seven years\n    From these old arms and legs, by the good gods,\n    I'd with thee every foot.\n  CORIOLANUS. Give me thy hand.\n    Come.                                                 Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Before leaving the city, Coriolanus says a quick goodbye to his wife and mom at Rome's gates. The women are boo-hooing, which totally bugs Coriolanus. He orders them to man up, especially his tough mama. Coriolanus then declares that he's going to live his life like a \"lonely dragon.\" His pal Cominius offers to go with him but Coriolanus shrugs him off and sets out on his own."}, {"": "110", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE I.\n\nThe frontiers of Mantua. A forest\n\nEnter certain OUTLAWS\n\n  FIRST OUTLAW. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.\n  SECOND OUTLAW. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em.\n\n                  Enter VALENTINE and SPEED\n\n  THIRD OUTLAW. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye;\n    If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.\n  SPEED. Sir, we are undone; these are the villains\n    That all the travellers do fear so much.\n  VALENTINE. My friends-\n  FIRST OUTLAW. That's not so, sir; we are your enemies.\n  SECOND OUTLAW. Peace! we'll hear him.\n  THIRD OUTLAW. Ay, by my beard, will we; for he is a proper man.\n  VALENTINE. Then know that I have little wealth to lose;\n    A man I am cross'd with adversity;\n    My riches are these poor habiliments,\n    Of which if you should here disfurnish me,\n    You take the sum and substance that I have.\n  SECOND OUTLAW. Whither travel you?\n  VALENTINE. To Verona.\n  FIRST OUTLAW. Whence came you?\n  VALENTINE. From Milan.\n  THIRD OUTLAW. Have you long sojourn'd there?\n  VALENTINE. Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd,\n    If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.\n  FIRST OUTLAW. What, were you banish'd thence?\n  VALENTINE. I was.\n  SECOND OUTLAW. For what offence?\n  VALENTINE. For that which now torments me to rehearse:\n    I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;\n    But yet I slew him manfully in fight,\n    Without false vantage or base treachery.\n  FIRST OUTLAW. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so.\n    But were you banish'd for so small a fault?\n  VALENTINE. I was, and held me glad of such a doom.\n  SECOND OUTLAW. Have you the tongues?\n  VALENTINE. My youthful travel therein made me happy,\n    Or else I often had been miserable.\n  THIRD OUTLAW. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,\n    This fellow were a king for our wild faction!\n  FIRST OUTLAW. We'll have him. Sirs, a word.\n  SPEED. Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of\nthievery.\n  VALENTINE. Peace, villain!\n  SECOND OUTLAW. Tell us this: have you anything to take to?\n  VALENTINE. Nothing but my fortune.\n  THIRD OUTLAW. Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,\n    Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth\n    Thrust from the company of awful men;\n    Myself was from Verona banished\n    For practising to steal away a lady,\n    An heir, and near allied unto the Duke.\n  SECOND OUTLAW. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman\n    Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart.\n  FIRST OUTLAW. And I for such-like petty crimes as these.\n    But to the purpose- for we cite our faults\n    That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives;\n    And, partly, seeing you are beautified\n    With goodly shape, and by your own report\n    A linguist, and a man of such perfection\n    As we do in our quality much want-\n  SECOND OUTLAW. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man,\n    Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you.\n    Are you content to be our general-\n    To make a virtue of necessity,\n    And live as we do in this wilderness?\n  THIRD OUTLAW. What say'st thou? Wilt thou be of our consort?\n    Say 'ay' and be the captain of us all.\n    We'll do thee homage, and be rul'd by thee,\n    Love thee as our commander and our king.\n  FIRST OUTLAW. But if thou scorn our courtesy thou diest.\n  SECOND OUTLAW. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have\noffer'd.\n  VALENTINE. I take your offer, and will live with you,\n    Provided that you do no outrages\n    On silly women or poor passengers.\n  THIRD OUTLAW. No, we detest such vile base practices.\n    Come, go with us; we'll bring thee to our crews,\n    And show thee all the treasure we have got;\n    Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.       Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Meanwhile, Valentine and Speed have fled to a forest between Milan and Mantua, where they encounter a group of outlaws. One of the outlaws says \"stick em' up\" and Valentine proceeds to explain that he's got nothing for the roadside robbers to steal. The outlaws are impressed when they hear that Valentine has been banished from Milan. They're even more impressed when Valentine lies about having \"killed a man.\" The outlaws now think of Valentine as a kind of Robin Hood figure and invite him to join their bad boy club. The outlaws take turns bragging about their crimes and then add that Valentine can be head bad boy if he joins up. Um, and that they'll kill him if he refuses. Valentine agrees to join the outlaw club but makes them promise not to hurt any women or defenseless travelers. They agree and set off to live as a band of happy bachelors."}, {"": "111", "document": "\nPhileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would\ncreate a lively sensation at the West End.  The news of the bet spread\nthrough the Reform Club, and afforded an exciting topic of conversation\nto its members.  From the club it soon got into the papers throughout\nEngland.  The boasted \"tour of the world\" was talked about, disputed,\nargued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama\nclaim.  Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook\ntheir heads and declared against him; it was absurd, impossible, they\ndeclared, that the tour of the world could be made, except\ntheoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the\nexisting means of travelling.  The Times, Standard, Morning Post, and\nDaily News, and twenty other highly respectable newspapers scouted Mr.\nFogg's project as madness; the Daily Telegraph alone hesitatingly\nsupported him.  People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his\nReform Club friends for having accepted a wager which betrayed the\nmental aberration of its proposer.\n\nArticles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for\ngeography is one of the pet subjects of the English; and the columns\ndevoted to Phileas Fogg's venture were eagerly devoured by all classes\nof readers.  At first some rash individuals, principally of the gentler\nsex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the\nIllustrated London News came out with his portrait, copied from a\nphotograph in the Reform Club.  A few readers of the Daily Telegraph\neven dared to say, \"Why not, after all?  Stranger things have come to\npass.\"\n\nAt last a long article appeared, on the 7th of October, in the bulletin\nof the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from\nevery point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the enterprise.\n\nEverything, it said, was against the travellers, every obstacle imposed\nalike by man and by nature.  A miraculous agreement of the times of\ndeparture and arrival, which was impossible, was absolutely necessary\nto his success.  He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains at\nthe designated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively\nmoderate; but when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and\nthe United States in seven, could he rely beyond misgiving upon\naccomplishing his task?  There were accidents to machinery, the\nliability of trains to run off the line, collisions, bad weather, the\nblocking up by snow--were not all these against Phileas Fogg?  Would he\nnot find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of\nthe winds and fogs?  Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be\ntwo or three days behind time?  But a single delay would suffice to\nfatally break the chain of communication; should Phileas Fogg once\nmiss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for the next,\nand that would irrevocably render his attempt vain.\n\nThis article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the\npapers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist.\n\nEverybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a\nhigher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament.\nNot only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy\nwagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting\nbooks as if he were a race-horse.  Bonds were issued, and made their\nappearance on 'Change; \"Phileas Fogg bonds\" were offered at par or at a\npremium, and a great business was done in them.  But five days after\nthe article in the bulletin of the Geographical Society appeared, the\ndemand began to subside:  \"Phileas Fogg\" declined.  They were offered\nby packages, at first of five, then of ten, until at last nobody would\ntake less than twenty, fifty, a hundred!\n\nLord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only\nadvocate of Phileas Fogg left.  This noble lord, who was fastened to\nhis chair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of\nthe world, if it took ten years; and he bet five thousand pounds on\nPhileas Fogg.  When the folly as well as the uselessness of the\nadventure was pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying,\n\"If the thing is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an\nEnglishman.\"\n\nThe Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him,\nand the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a\nweek after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of\nbackers at any price.\n\nThe commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o'clock\none evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his\nhands:\n\nSuez to London.\n\nRowan, Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard:\n\nI've found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg.  Send with out delay warrant\nof arrest to Bombay.\n\nFix, Detective.\n\nThe effect of this dispatch was instantaneous.  The polished gentleman\ndisappeared to give place to the bank robber.  His photograph, which\nwas hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was\nminutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description\nof the robber which had been provided to the police.  The mysterious\nhabits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden\ndeparture; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the\nworld on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than\nto elude the detectives, and throw them off his track.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "News is spreading about Phileas taking on \"the challenge\" of racing around the world in eighty days or under . Nobody really thinks he can do it, except the ladies who appreciate his rashness and bold adventurous spirit--cue sighing and fainting. There are more bets around the gambling clubs in England for and against Phileas completing his journey. One Detective Fix of Scotland Yard has been sent to follow and apprehend Phileas Fogg on charges of suspected bank robbery. People are starting to think that Phileas Fogg just might be the robber in question because of his odd ways and his similarity in features to the thief."}, {"": "112", "document": "\n\n|DO you know,\" said Anne confidentially, \"I've made up my mind to enjoy\nthis drive. It's been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy\nthings if you make up your mind firmly that you will. Of course, you\nmust make it up _firmly_. I am not going to think about going back to\nthe asylum while we're having our drive. I'm just going to think about\nthe drive. Oh, look, there's one little early wild rose out! Isn't it\nlovely? Don't you think it must be glad to be a rose? Wouldn't it be\nnice if roses could talk? I'm sure they could tell us such lovely\nthings. And isn't pink the most bewitching color in the world? I love\nit, but I can't wear it. Redheaded people can't wear pink, not even in\nimagination. Did you ever know of anybody whose hair was red when she\nwas young, but got to be another color when she grew up?\"\n\n\"No, I don't know as I ever did,\" said Marilla mercilessly, \"and I\nshouldn't think it likely to happen in your case either.\"\n\nAnne sighed.\n\n\"Well, that is another hope gone. 'My life is a perfect graveyard of\nburied hopes.' That's a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it\nover to comfort myself whenever I'm disappointed in anything.\"\n\n\"I don't see where the comforting comes in myself,\" said Marilla.\n\n\"Why, because it sounds so nice and romantic, just as if I were a\nheroine in a book, you know. I am so fond of romantic things, and a\ngraveyard full of buried hopes is about as romantic a thing as one can\nimagine isn't it? I'm rather glad I have one. Are we going across the\nLake of Shining Waters today?\"\n\n\"We're not going over Barry's pond, if that's what you mean by your Lake\nof Shining Waters. We're going by the shore road.\"\n\n\"Shore road sounds nice,\" said Anne dreamily. \"Is it as nice as it\nsounds? Just when you said 'shore road' I saw it in a picture in my\nmind, as quick as that! And White Sands is a pretty name, too; but I\ndon't like it as well as Avonlea. Avonlea is a lovely name. It just\nsounds like music. How far is it to White Sands?\"\n\n\"It's five miles; and as you're evidently bent on talking you might as\nwell talk to some purpose by telling me what you know about yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh, what I _know_ about myself isn't really worth telling,\" said Anne\neagerly. \"If you'll only let me tell you what I _imagine_ about myself\nyou'll think it ever so much more interesting.\"\n\n\"No, I don't want any of your imaginings. Just you stick to bald facts.\nBegin at the beginning. Where were you born and how old are you?\"\n\n\"I was eleven last March,\" said Anne, resigning herself to bald facts\nwith a little sigh. \"And I was born in Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia.\nMy father's name was Walter Shirley, and he was a teacher in the\nBolingbroke High School. My mother's name was Bertha Shirley. Aren't\nWalter and Bertha lovely names? I'm so glad my parents had nice names.\nIt would be a real disgrace to have a father named--well, say Jedediah,\nwouldn't it?\"\n\n\"I guess it doesn't matter what a person's name is as long as he behaves\nhimself,\" said Marilla, feeling herself called upon to inculcate a good\nand useful moral.\n\n\"Well, I don't know.\" Anne looked thoughtful. \"I read in a book once\nthat a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been\nable to believe it. I don't believe a rose _would_ be as nice if it was\ncalled a thistle or a skunk cabbage. I suppose my father could have been\na good man even if he had been called Jedediah; but I'm sure it would\nhave been a cross. Well, my mother was a teacher in the High school,\ntoo, but when she married father she gave up teaching, of course. A\nhusband was enough responsibility. Mrs. Thomas said that they were\na pair of babies and as poor as church mice. They went to live in a\nweeny-teeny little yellow house in Bolingbroke. I've never seen that\nhouse, but I've imagined it thousands of times. I think it must have\nhad honeysuckle over the parlor window and lilacs in the front yard and\nlilies of the valley just inside the gate. Yes, and muslin curtains in\nall the windows. Muslin curtains give a house such an air. I was born\nin that house. Mrs. Thomas said I was the homeliest baby she ever saw, I\nwas so scrawny and tiny and nothing but eyes, but that mother thought I\nwas perfectly beautiful. I should think a mother would be a better judge\nthan a poor woman who came in to scrub, wouldn't you? I'm glad she\nwas satisfied with me anyhow, I would feel so sad if I thought I was a\ndisappointment to her--because she didn't live very long after that, you\nsee. She died of fever when I was just three months old. I do wish she'd\nlived long enough for me to remember calling her mother. I think it\nwould be so sweet to say 'mother,' don't you? And father died four days\nafterwards from fever too. That left me an orphan and folks were at\ntheir wits' end, so Mrs. Thomas said, what to do with me. You see,\nnobody wanted me even then. It seems to be my fate. Father and mother\nhad both come from places far away and it was well known they hadn't any\nrelatives living. Finally Mrs. Thomas said she'd take me, though she was\npoor and had a drunken husband. She brought me up by hand. Do you know\nif there is anything in being brought up by hand that ought to make\npeople who are brought up that way better than other people? Because\nwhenever I was naughty Mrs. Thomas would ask me how I could be such a\nbad girl when she had brought me up by hand--reproachful-like.\n\n\"Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from Bolingbroke to Marysville, and I\nlived with them until I was eight years old. I helped look after the\nThomas children--there were four of them younger than me--and I can tell\nyou they took a lot of looking after. Then Mr. Thomas was killed\nfalling under a train and his mother offered to take Mrs. Thomas and the\nchildren, but she didn't want me. Mrs. Thomas was at _her_ wits' end, so\nshe said, what to do with me. Then Mrs. Hammond from up the river came\ndown and said she'd take me, seeing I was handy with children, and\nI went up the river to live with her in a little clearing among the\nstumps. It was a very lonesome place. I'm sure I could never have\nlived there if I hadn't had an imagination. Mr. Hammond worked a little\nsawmill up there, and Mrs. Hammond had eight children. She had twins\nthree times. I like babies in moderation, but twins three times in\nsuccession is _too much_. I told Mrs. Hammond so firmly, when the last\npair came. I used to get so dreadfully tired carrying them about.\n\n\"I lived up river with Mrs. Hammond over two years, and then Mr. Hammond\ndied and Mrs. Hammond broke up housekeeping. She divided her children\namong her relatives and went to the States. I had to go to the asylum\nat Hopeton, because nobody would take me. They didn't want me at the\nasylum, either; they said they were over-crowded as it was. But they had\nto take me and I was there four months until Mrs. Spencer came.\"\n\nAnne finished up with another sigh, of relief this time. Evidently\nshe did not like talking about her experiences in a world that had not\nwanted her.\n\n\"Did you ever go to school?\" demanded Marilla, turning the sorrel mare\ndown the shore road.\n\n\"Not a great deal. I went a little the last year I stayed with Mrs.\nThomas. When I went up river we were so far from a school that I\ncouldn't walk it in winter and there was a vacation in summer, so I\ncould only go in the spring and fall. But of course I went while I was\nat the asylum. I can read pretty well and I know ever so many pieces of\npoetry off by heart--'The Battle of Hohenlinden' and 'Edinburgh after\nFlodden,' and 'Bingen of the Rhine,' and most of the 'Lady of the Lake'\nand most of 'The Seasons' by James Thompson. Don't you just love poetry\nthat gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There is a piece\nin the Fifth Reader--'The Downfall of Poland'--that is just full of\nthrills. Of course, I wasn't in the Fifth Reader--I was only in the\nFourth--but the big girls used to lend me theirs to read.\"\n\n\"Were those women--Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond--good to you?\" asked\nMarilla, looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye.\n\n\"O-o-o-h,\" faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed\nscarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow. \"Oh, they _meant_ to be--I know\nthey meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people\nmean to be good to you, you don't mind very much when they're not\nquite--always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It's  a very\ntrying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it must be very trying to\nhave twins three times in succession, don't you think? But I feel sure\nthey meant to be good to me.\"\n\nMarilla asked no more questions. Anne gave herself up to a silent\nrapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly\nwhile she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for\nthe child. What a starved, unloved life she had had--a life of drudgery\nand poverty and neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to read between\nthe lines of Anne's history and divine the truth. No wonder she had been\nso delighted at the prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be\nsent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew's unaccountable\nwhim and let her stay? He was set on it; and the child seemed a nice,\nteachable little thing.\n\n\"She's got too much to say,\" thought Marilla, \"but she might be trained\nout of that. And there's nothing rude or slangy in what she does say.\nShe's ladylike. It's likely her people were nice folks.\"\n\nThe shore road was \"woodsy and wild and lonesome.\" On the right hand,\nscrub firs, their spirits quite unbroken by long years of tussle with\nthe gulf winds, grew thickly. On the left were the steep red sandstone\ncliffs, so near the track in places that a mare of less steadiness than\nthe sorrel might have tried the nerves of the people behind her. Down\nat the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks or little sandy\ncoves inlaid with pebbles as with ocean jewels; beyond lay the sea,\nshimmering and blue, and over it soared the gulls, their pinions\nflashing silvery in the sunlight.\n\n\"Isn't the sea wonderful?\" said Anne, rousing from a long, wide-eyed\nsilence. \"Once, when I lived in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired an express\nwagon and took us all to spend the day at the shore ten miles away.\nI enjoyed every moment of that day, even if I had to look after the\nchildren all the time. I lived it over in happy dreams for years.\nBut this shore is nicer than the Marysville shore. Aren't those gulls\nsplendid? Would you like to be a gull? I think I would--that is, if I\ncouldn't be a human girl. Don't you think it would be nice to wake up at\nsunrise and swoop down over the water and away out over that lovely blue\nall day; and then at night to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just\nimagine myself doing it. What big house is that just ahead, please?\"\n\n\"That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn't\nbegun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They\nthink this shore is just about right.\"\n\n\"I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place,\" said Anne mournfully.\n\"I don't want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of\neverything.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Anne tells Marilla she's made up her mind to enjoy the drive and immediately starts talking about names again. They're driving down The Shore Road, a name Anne's okay with. She likes White Sands too, but the name she's really into is Avonlea. She thinks it sounds like music. Marilla tells Anne that since she's determined to talk, she might as well tell Marilla about her life. Anne's not so into that idea--she'd rather tell Marilla what she imagines about herself--but Marilla insists, so she begins. Anne was born to schoolteachers who were poor, from out of town, and didn't have any family. They both died of fever shortly after Anne was born. Mrs. Thomas, the woman who scrubbed her parents' house, took her in. Mrs. Thomas raised Anne to watch her four younger children . When Anne was eight, Mrs. Thomas's husband died, and Anne was passed off to Mrs. Hammond, to help watch her three sets of twins. Another family, another underage, unpaid job. She was there for two years, until Mr. Hammond died. The kids were divided among relatives, and Anne was put in the orphan asylum, where she stayed for four months until meeting Matthew. Anne had some schooling, enough to learn how to read. She loves memorizing poetry. Marilla asks Anne if the Mrs. Hammond and Thomas were good to her. Anne gets really flushed and says she thinks they meant to be. Okay, now Marilla starts to feel bad for Anne and actually considers keeping her."}, {"": "113", "document": "SCENE IV.\n\n\n                     _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.\n\n               _Enter_ SIR ANDREW, FABIAN, _and_ SIR TOBY.\n\n    _Sir And._ No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.\n\n    _Sir To._ Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.\n\n    _Fab._ You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.\n\n    _Sir And._ Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count's\nserving man, than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't this moment in the\ngarden.\n\n    _Sir To._ Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.\n\n    _Sir And._ As plain as I see you now.\n\n    _Fab._ This was a great argument of love in her toward you.\n\n    _Sir And._ 'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?\n\n    _Fab._ I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment\nand reason.\n\n    _Sir To._ And they have been grand jury-men, since before Noah was a\nsailor.\n\n    _Fab._ She did show favour to the youth in your sight, only to\nexasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your\nheart, and brimstone in your liver: you should then have accosted her;\nand with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have\nbang'd the youth into dumbness. This was look'd for at your hand, and\nthis was baulk'd: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash\noff, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion: where\nyou will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem\nit by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy.\n\n    _Sir And._ An it be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I\nhate.\n\n    _Sir To._ Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour.\nChallenge me the Count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven\nplaces; my niece shall take note of it: and assure thyself, there is no\nlove-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with\nwoman, than report of valour.\n\n    _Fab._ There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.\n\n    _Sir And._ Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?\n\n    _Sir To._ Go write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is\nno matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention: taunt him\nwith the license of ink: if thou _thou'st_ him some thrice, it shall not\nbe amiss; and as many _lies_ as will lie in thy sheet of paper; although\nthe sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set 'em down;\ngo, about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write\nwith a goose-pen, no matter: About it.\n\n    _Sir And._ Where shall I find you?\n\n    _Sir To._ We'll call thee at the _cubiculo:_ Go.\n\n                                                     [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.\n\n    _Fab._ This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.\n\n    _Sir To._ I have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or\nso.\n\n    _Fab._ We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver\nit?\n\n    _Sir To._ Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth to\nan answer. I think, oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For\nAndrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as\nwill clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of the anatomy.\n\n    _Fab._ And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great\npresage of cruelty.\n\n    _Sir To._ Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.\n\n                             _Enter_ MARIA.\n\n    _Mar._ If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into\nstitches, follow me: yon gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very\nrenegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing\nrightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He's in\nyellow stockings.\n\n    _Sir To._ And cross-gartered?\n\n    _Mar._ Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the\nchurch.--I have dogg'd him, like his murderer: He does obey every point\nof the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into\nmore lines, than are in a map: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis.\n\n    _Sir To._ Come, bring us, bring us where he is.\n\n                                                             [_Exeunt._\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Orsino's palace, the duke is gathered together with Cesario , Curio, and others, and he says that he would like to hear a song, a certain \"old and antique\" song that he heard last night; the song seemed to \"relieve passion much.\" Feste, the jester, is not there to sing it, however, so Orsino sends Curio out to find him and, while Curio is gone, Orsino calls Cesario to him. He tells the young lad that \"if ever shalt love,\" then he should remember how Orsino suffered while he experienced love's sweet pangs. Orsino tells Cesario that Orsino himself is the sad epitome of all lovers -- \"unstaid and skittish\" -- except when he recalls \"the constant image\" of his beloved. Cesario hints that love has already enthroned itself within him, and Orsino remarks that he believes that Cesario is indeed correct. He can tell by looking at the boy that his \"eye / Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves.\" Cesario acknowledges that this is true. The duke is intrigued; he is curious about the woman who has caught Cesario's fancy, and he begins to question the lad. Cesario says that the object of his love is a great deal like Orsino, a confession that makes Orsino scoff: \"She is not worth thee, then,\" he says. When he learns that Cesario's \"beloved\" is about Orsino's own age, he becomes indignant. A woman, he says, should take someone \"elder than herself.\" He says that women, by nature, are not able to love with the same intensity as a young man is able to love; women need to find themselves a steady, doggedly devoted older man whose passions are burned low and, thus, more equal to hers. Cesario, Orsino suggests, needs to find a very young virgin, one who has just blossomed, \"for women are as a rose being once displayed, do fall that very hour.\" Cesario sadly agrees; women, he says, often \"die, even when they to perfection grow.\" Curio and Feste enter then, and Feste is more than happy to sing the song that he sang last night. He urges Cesario, in particular, to take note of it for although it is \"old and plain,\" it is a song that is well known. Spinsters sing it, as do young maidens; its theme concerns the simple truth of love's innocence. The song begins, \"Come away, come away, death . . .\" and goes on to lament unrequited love -- of which Orsino and Viola all suffer. The lover of the song is a young man who has been \"slain\" by \"a fair cruel maid,\" and, his heart broken, he asks for a shroud of white to encase his body. He wants no flowers strewn on his black coffin; nor does he want friends nor mourners present when he is lowered into the grave. In fact, he wants to be buried in a secret place so that no other \"sad true lover\" will chance to find his grave and find reason to weep there. The emphasis here is on the innocence of love, and our focus is on poor Viola, who has innocently fallen in love with Duke Orsino, who believes that she is only a handsome young man, to whom he feels \"fatherly.\" Orsino gives Feste some money for singing the mournful ballad, and, in return, Feste praises his good and generous master and then exits. The duke then excuses the others, and when he and Cesario are alone, he turns to the boy and tells him that he must return to Olivia and her \"sovereign cruelty.\" He tells Cesario that he must convince Olivia that Orsino's love is \"more noble than the world.\" It is not her riches which he seeks ; instead, he prizes her as a \"queen of gems.\" It is his soul which loves her. When Cesario asks what he should say if Olivia protests that she absolutely cannot love Orsino, the duke refuses to accept such an answer. Cesario then grows bold and tells Orsino that perhaps there is \"some lady\" who has \"as great a pang of heart\" for him as he has for Olivia. Orsino refuses to acknowledge that women can love with the passion that men can: . . . no woman's sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart So big, to hold so much. True love, he says, using a typically Elizabethan analogy, lies in one's liver, and a woman's love lies only on the tip of her tongue. Women may talk sweetly, but women cannot \"suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt,\" pains of the liver which are reserved for only men. He wants to make it perfectly clear to Cesario that there is \"no compare / Between that love a woman can bear me / And that I owe Olivia.\" Cesario now becomes bolder still and says that women can indeed love with as much passion as men can. He knows it to be so, for his father had a daughter who loved a man with as much passion as Cesario himself could love Orsino -- that is, if Cesario were a woman. Then Cesario realizes that perhaps he has said enough on the subject, but when Orsino inquires further concerning the history of this \"sister,\" Cesario's imagination is rekindled. He returns to the theme of the unrequited lover and conjures up a sad tale about his \"sister\" who loved so purely and so passionately and so privately that love became \"like a worm in the bud\" of her youth and fed \"on her damask cheek.\" Turning to Orsino, he says, \"We men may say more, swear more,\" but talk is often empty. His sister died, Cesario sighs, and now he is \"all the daughters of my father's house, / And all the brothers too.\" With this cryptic statement in mind, the duke gives Cesario a jewel. He is to present it to Olivia, and he is to \"bide no denay\" -- that is, he is not to take No for an answer. Orsino is determined to have Olivia's love."}, {"": "114", "document": "Scene II.\nCapulet's house.\n\nEnter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Servingmen,\n                        two or three.\n\n\n  Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ.\n                                            [Exit a Servingman.]\n    Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\n  Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they can\n    lick their fingers.\n\n  Cap. How canst thou try them so?\n\n  Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own\n    fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not\n    with me.\n\n  Cap. Go, begone.\n                                                Exit Servingman.\n    We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time.\n    What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?\n\n  Nurse. Ay, forsooth.\n\n  Cap. Well, be may chance to do some good on her.\n    A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is.\n\n                        Enter Juliet.\n\n\n  Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with merry look.\n\n  Cap. How now, my headstrong? Where have you been gadding?\n\n  Jul. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin\n    Of disobedient opposition\n    To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd\n    By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here\n    To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you!\n    Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you.\n\n  Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this.\n    I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.\n\n  Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell\n    And gave him what becomed love I might,\n    Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.\n\n  Cap. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up.\n    This is as't should be. Let me see the County.\n    Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.\n    Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar,\n    All our whole city is much bound to him.\n\n  Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet\n    To help me sort such needful ornaments\n    As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow?\n\n  Mother. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough.\n\n  Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church to-morrow.\n                                        Exeunt Juliet and Nurse.\n\n  Mother. We shall be short in our provision.\n    'Tis now near night.\n\n  Cap. Tush, I will stir about,\n    And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.\n    Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.\n    I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone.\n    I'll play the housewife for this once. What, ho!\n    They are all forth; well, I will walk myself\n    To County Paris, to prepare him up\n    Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light,\n    Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd.\n                                                         Exeunt.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Juliet returns home, where she finds Capulet and Lady Capulet preparing for the wedding. She surprises her parents by repenting her disobedience and cheerfully agreeing to marry Paris. Capulet is so pleased that he insists on moving the marriage up a day, to Wednesday--tomorrow. Juliet heads to her chambers to, ostensibly, prepare for her wedding. Capulet heads off to tell Paris the news"}, {"": "115", "document": "\n\nOne evening that Candide and Martin were going to sit down to supper\nwith some foreigners who lodged in the same inn, a man whose complexion\nwas as black as soot, came behind Candide, and taking him by the arm,\nsaid:\n\n\"Get yourself ready to go along with us; do not fail.\"\n\nUpon this he turned round and saw--Cacambo! Nothing but the sight of\nCunegonde could have astonished and delighted him more. He was on the\npoint of going mad with joy. He embraced his dear friend.\n\n\"Cunegonde is here, without doubt; where is she? Take me to her that I\nmay die of joy in her company.\"\n\n\"Cunegonde is not here,\" said Cacambo, \"she is at Constantinople.\"\n\n\"Oh, heavens! at Constantinople! But were she in China I would fly\nthither; let us be off.\"\n\n\"We shall set out after supper,\" replied Cacambo. \"I can tell you\nnothing more; I am a slave, my master awaits me, I must serve him at\ntable; speak not a word, eat, and then get ready.\"\n\nCandide, distracted between joy and grief, delighted at seeing his\nfaithful agent again, astonished at finding him a slave, filled with the\nfresh hope of recovering his mistress, his heart palpitating, his\nunderstanding confused, sat down to table with Martin, who saw all these\nscenes quite unconcerned, and with six strangers who had come to spend\nthe Carnival at Venice.\n\nCacambo waited at table upon one of the strangers; towards the end of\nthe entertainment he drew near his master, and whispered in his ear:\n\n\"Sire, your Majesty may start when you please, the vessel is ready.\"\n\nOn saying these words he went out. The company in great surprise looked\nat one another without speaking a word, when another domestic approached\nhis master and said to him:\n\n\"Sire, your Majesty's chaise is at Padua, and the boat is ready.\"\n\nThe master gave a nod and the servant went away. The company all stared\nat one another again, and their surprise redoubled. A third valet came\nup to a third stranger, saying:\n\n\"Sire, believe me, your Majesty ought not to stay here any longer. I am\ngoing to get everything ready.\"\n\nAnd immediately he disappeared. Candide and Martin did not doubt that\nthis was a masquerade of the Carnival. Then a fourth domestic said to a\nfourth master:\n\n\"Your Majesty may depart when you please.\"\n\nSaying this he went away like the rest. The fifth valet said the same\nthing to the fifth master. But the sixth valet spoke differently to the\nsixth stranger, who sat near Candide. He said to him:\n\n\"Faith, Sire, they will no longer give credit to your Majesty nor to me,\nand we may perhaps both of us be put in jail this very night. Therefore\nI will take care of myself. Adieu.\"\n\nThe servants being all gone, the six strangers, with Candide and Martin,\nremained in a profound silence. At length Candide broke it.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, \"this is a very good joke indeed, but why should\nyou all be kings? For me I own that neither Martin nor I is a king.\"\n\nCacambo's master then gravely answered in Italian:\n\n\"I am not at all joking. My name is Achmet III. I was Grand Sultan many\nyears. I dethroned my brother; my nephew dethroned me, my viziers were\nbeheaded, and I am condemned to end my days in the old Seraglio. My\nnephew, the great Sultan Mahmoud, permits me to travel sometimes for my\nhealth, and I am come to spend the Carnival at Venice.\"\n\nA young man who sat next to Achmet, spoke then as follows:\n\n\"My name is Ivan. I was once Emperor of all the Russias, but was\ndethroned in my cradle. My parents were confined in prison and I was\neducated there; yet I am sometimes allowed to travel in company with\npersons who act as guards; and I am come to spend the Carnival at\nVenice.\"\n\nThe third said:\n\n\"I am Charles Edward, King of England; my father has resigned all his\nlegal rights to me. I have fought in defence of them; and above eight\nhundred of my adherents have been hanged, drawn, and quartered. I have\nbeen confined in prison; I am going to Rome, to pay a visit to the King,\nmy father, who was dethroned as well as myself and my grandfather, and I\nam come to spend the Carnival at Venice.\"\n\nThe fourth spoke thus in his turn:\n\n\"I am the King of Poland; the fortune of war has stripped me of my\nhereditary dominions; my father underwent the same vicissitudes; I\nresign myself to Providence in the same manner as Sultan Achmet, the\nEmperor Ivan, and King Charles Edward, whom God long preserve; and I am\ncome to the Carnival at Venice.\"\n\nThe fifth said:\n\n\"I am King of Poland also; I have been twice dethroned; but Providence\nhas given me another country, where I have done more good than all the\nSarmatian kings were ever capable of doing on the banks of the Vistula;\nI resign myself likewise to Providence, and am come to pass the Carnival\nat Venice.\"\n\nIt was now the sixth monarch's turn to speak:\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, \"I am not so great a prince as any of you;\nhowever, I am a king. I am Theodore, elected King of Corsica; I had the\ntitle of Majesty, and now I am scarcely treated as a gentleman. I have\ncoined money, and now am not worth a farthing; I have had two\nsecretaries of state, and now I have scarce a valet; I have seen myself\non a throne, and I have seen myself upon straw in a common jail in\nLondon. I am afraid that I shall meet with the same treatment here\nthough, like your majesties, I am come to see the Carnival at Venice.\"\n\nThe other five kings listened to this speech with generous compassion.\nEach of them gave twenty sequins to King Theodore to buy him clothes and\nlinen; and Candide made him a present of a diamond worth two thousand\nsequins.\n\n\"Who can this private person be,\" said the five kings to one another,\n\"who is able to give, and really has given, a hundred times as much as\nany of us?\"\n\nJust as they rose from table, in came four Serene Highnesses, who had\nalso been stripped of their territories by the fortune of war, and were\ncome to spend the Carnival at Venice. But Candide paid no regard to\nthese newcomers, his thoughts were entirely employed on his voyage to\nConstantinople, in search of his beloved Cunegonde.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "While dining at an inn one evening, Cacambo shows up. Cacambo explains that he has become a slave and that Cunegonde is in Constantinople. He then suggests that they peace the hell out, sooner rather than later. Candide dines with Martin and six strangers, all of whom are revealed to be dethroned kings. As expected, they all tell their stories."}, {"": "116", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\nThe same. Another part of the same.\n\n[Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, and others.]\n\nSALISBURY.\nI did not think the king so stor'd with friends.\n\nPEMBROKE.\nUp once again; put spirit in the French;\nIf they miscarry, we miscarry too.\n\nSALISBURY.\nThat misbegotten devil, Falconbridge,\nIn spite of spite, alone upholds the day.\n\nPEMBROKE.\nThey say King John, sore sick, hath left the field.\n\n[Enter MELUN wounded, and led by Soldiers.]\n\nMELUN.\nLead me to the revolts of England here.\n\nSALISBURY.\nWhen we were happy we had other names.\n\nPEMBROKE.\nIt is the Count Melun.\n\nSALISBURY.\nWounded to death.\n\nMELUN.\nFly, noble English, you are bought and sold;\nUnthread the rude eye of rebellion,\nAnd welcome home again discarded faith.\nSeek out King John, and fall before his feet;\nFor if the French be lords of this loud day,\nHe means to recompense the pains you take\nBy cutting off your heads: thus hath he sworn,\nAnd I with him, and many more with me,\nUpon the altar at Saint Edmunds-bury;\nEven on that altar where we swore to you\nDear amity and everlasting love.\n\nSALISBURY.\nMay this be possible? may this be true?\n\nMELUN.\nHave I not hideous death within my view,\nRetaining but a quantity of life,\nWhich bleeds away even as a form of wax\nResolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire?\nWhat in the world should make me now deceive,\nSince I must lose the use of all deceit?\nWhy should I then be false, since it is true\nThat I must die here, and live hence by truth?\nI say again, if Louis do will the day,\nHe is forsworn if e'er those eyes of yours\nBehold another day break in the east:\nBut even this night,--whose black contagious breath\nAlready smokes about the burning crest\nOf the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,--\nEven this ill night, your breathing shall expire;\nPaying the fine of rated treachery\nEven with a treacherous fine of all your lives,\nIf Louis by your assistance win the day.\nCommend me to one Hubert, with your king;\nThe love of him,--and this respect besides,\nFor that my grandsire was an Englishman,--\nAwakes my conscience to confess all this.\nIn lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence\nFrom forth the noise and rumour of the field,\nWhere I may think the remnant of my thoughts\nIn peace, and part this body and my soul\nWith contemplation and devout desires.\n\nSALISBURY.\nWe do believe thee:--and beshrew my soul\nBut I do love the favour and the form\nOf this most fair occasion, by the which\nWe will untread the steps of damned flight;\nAnd like a bated and retired flood,\nLeaving our rankness and irregular course,\nStoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd,\nAnd calmly run on in obedience\nEven to our ocean, to our great King John.--\nMy arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;\nFor I do see the cruel pangs of death\nRight in thine eye.--Away, my friends! New flight,\nAnd happy newness, that intends old right.\n\n[Exeunt, leading off MELUN.]\n\n\n\n\nSCENE 5.\n\nThe same. The French camp.\n\n[Enter LEWIS and his train.]\n\nLOUIS.\nThe sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set,\nBut stay'd, and made the western welkin blush,\nWhen the English measur'd backward their own ground\nIn faint retire. O, bravely came we off,\nWhen with a volley of our needless shot,\nAfter such bloody toil, we bid good night;\nAnd wound our tattrring colours clearly up,\nLast in the field, and almost lords of it!\n\n[Enter a MESSENGER.]\n\nMESSENGER.\nWhere is my prince, the Dauphin?\n\nLOUIS.\nHere:--what news?\n\nMESSENGER.\nThe Count Melun is slain; the English lords\nBy his persuasion are again falln off:\nAnd your supply, which you have wish'd so long,\nAre cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.\n\nLOUIS.\nAh, foul shrewd news!--beshrew thy very heart!--\nI did not think to be so sad to-night\nAs this hath made me.--Who was he that said\nKing John did fly an hour or two before\nThe stumbling night did part our weary powers?\n\nMESSENGER.\nWhoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.\n\nLOUIS.\nKeep good quarter and good care to-night;\nThe day shall not be up so soon as I,\nTo try the fair adventure of to-morrow.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\nSCENE 6.\n\nAn open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey.\n\n[Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, meeting.]\n\nHUBERT.\nWho's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.\n\nBASTARD.\nA friend.--What art thou?\n\nHUBERT.\nOf the part of England.\n\nBASTARD.\nWhither dost thou go?\n\nHUBERT.\nWhat's that to thee? Why may I not demand\nOf thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?\n\nBASTARD.\nHubert, I think.\n\nHUBERT.\nThou hast a perfect thought:\nI will, upon all hazards, well believe\nThou art my friend that know'st my tongue so well.\nWho art thou?\n\nBASTARD.\nWho thou wilt: and if thou please,\nThou mayst befriend me so much as to think\nI come one way of the Plantagenets.\n\nHUBERT.\nUnkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night\nHave done me shame:--brave soldier, pardon me,\nThat any accent breaking from thy tongue\nShould scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.\n\nBASTARD.\nCome, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?\n\nHUBERT.\nWhy, here walk I, in the black brow of night,\nTo find you out.\n\nBASTARD.\nBrief, then; and what's the news?\n\nHUBERT.\nO, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,\nBlack, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.\n\nBASTARD.\nShow me the very wound of this ill news;\nI am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.\n\nHUBERT.\nThe king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk:\nI left him almost speechless and broke out\nTo acquaint you with this evil, that you might\nThe better arm you to the sudden time,\nThan if you had at leisure known of this.\n\nBASTARD.\nHow did he take it; who did taste to him?\n\nHUBERT.\nA monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,\nWhose bowels suddenly burst out: the king\nYet speaks, and peradventure may recover.\n\nBASTARD.\nWho didst thou leave to tend his majesty?\n\nHUBERT.\nWhy, know you not? The lords are all come back,\nAnd brought Prince Henry in their company;\nAt whose request the king hath pardon'd them,\nAnd they are all about his majesty.\n\nBASTARD.\nWithhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,\nAnd tempt us not to bear above our power!--\nI'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,\nPassing these flats, are taken by the tide,--\nThese Lincoln washes have devoured them;\nMyself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd.\nAway, before! conduct me to the king;\nI doubt he will be dead or ere I come.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\nSCENE 7.\n\nThe orchard of Swinstead Abbey.\n\n[Enter PRINCE HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.]\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nIt is too late: the life of all his blood\nIs touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain,--\nWhich some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,--\nDoth, by the idle comments that it makes,\nForetell the ending of mortality.\n\n[Enter PEMBROKE.]\n\nPEMBROKE.\nHis Highness yet doth speak; and holds belief\nThat, being brought into the open air,\nIt would allay the burning quality\nOf that fell poison which assaileth him.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nLet him be brought into the orchard here.--\nDoth he still rage?\n\n[Exit BIGOT.]\n\nPEMBROKE.\nHe is more patient\nThan when you left him; even now he sung.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nO vanity of sickness! fierce extremes\nIn their continuance will not feel themselves.\nDeath, having prey'd upon the outward parts,\nLeaves them invisible; and his siege is now\nAgainst the mind, the which he pricks and wounds\nWith many legions of strange fantasies,\nWhich, in their throng and press to that last hold,\nConfound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing.--\nI am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,\nWho chants a doleful hymn to his own death;\nAnd from the organ-pipe of frailty sings\nHis soul and body to their lasting rest.\n\nSALISBURY.\nBe of good comfort, prince; for you are born\nTo set a form upon that indigest\nWhich he hath left so shapeless and so rude.\n\n[Re-enter BIGOT and Attendants, who bring in KING JOHN in a\nchair.]\n\nKING JOHN.\nAy, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;\nIt would not out at windows nor at doors.\nThere is so hot a summer in my bosom\nThat all my bowels crumble up to dust;\nI am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen,\nUpon a parchment; and against this fire\nDo I shrink up.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nHow fares your majesty?\n\nKING JOHN.\nPoison'd,--ill-fare;--dead, forsook, cast off;\nAnd none of you will bid the winter come,\nTo thrust his icy fingers in my maw;\nNor let my kingdom's rivers take their course\nThrough my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north\nTo make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,\nAnd comfort me with cold:--I do not ask you much;\nI beg cold comfort; and you are so strait,\nAnd so ingrateful, you deny me that.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nO, that there were some virtue in my tears,\nThat might relieve you!\n\nKING JOHN.\nThe salt in them is hot.--\nWithin me is a hell; and there the poison\nIs, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize\nOn unreprievable condemned blood.\n\n[Enter the BASTARD.]\n\nBASTARD.\nO, I am scalded with my violent motion\nAnd spleen of speed to see your majesty!\n\nKING JOHN.\nO cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:\nThe tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;\nAnd all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,\nAre turned to one thread, one little hair:\nMy heart hath one poor string to stay it by,\nWhich holds but till thy news be uttered;\nAnd then all this thou seest is but a clod,\nAnd module of confounded royalty.\n\nBASTARD.\nThe Dauphin is preparing hitherward,\nWhere heaven he knows how we shall answer him;\nFor in a night the best part of my power,\nAs I upon advantage did remove,\nWere in the washes all unwarily\nDevoured by the unexpected flood.\n\n[The KING dies.]\n\nSALISBURY.\nYou breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.\nMy liege! my lord!--But now a king,--now thus.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nEven so must I run on, and even so stop.\nWhat surety of the world, what hope, what stay,\nWhen this was now a king, and now is clay?\n\nBASTARD.\nArt thou gone so? I do but stay behind\nTo do the office for thee of revenge,\nAnd then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,\nAs it on earth hath been thy servant still.--\nNow, now, you stars that move in your right spheres,\nWhere be your powers? Show now your mended faiths;\nAnd instantly return with me again,\nTo push destruction and perpetual shame\nOut of the weak door of our fainting land.\nStraight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought;\nThe Dauphin rages at our very heels.\n\nSALISBURY.\nIt seems you know not, then, so much as we:\nThe Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,\nWho half an hour since came from the Dauphin,\nAnd brings from him such offers of our peace\nAs we with honour and respect may take,\nWith purpose presently to leave this war.\n\nBASTARD.\nHe will the rather do it when he sees\nOurselves well sinewed to our defence.\n\nSALISBURY.\nNay, 'tis in a manner done already;\nFor many carriages he hath despatch'd\nTo the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel\nTo the disposing of the cardinal:\nWith whom yourself, myself, and other lords,\nIf you think meet, this afternoon will post\nTo consummate this business happily.\n\nBASTARD.\nLet it be so:--And you, my noble prince,\nWith other princes that may best be spar'd,\nShall wait upon your father's funeral.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nAt Worcester must his body be interr'd;\nFor so he will'd it.\n\nBASTARD.\nThither shall it, then:\nAnd happily may your sweet self put on\nThe lineal state and glory of the land!\nTo whom, with all submission, on my knee,\nI do bequeath my faithful services\nAnd true subjection everlastingly.\n\nSALISBURY.\nAnd the like tender of our love we make,\nTo rest without a spot for evermore.\n\nPRINCE HENRY.\nI have a kind soul that would give you thanks,\nAnd knows not how to do it but with tears.\n\nBASTARD.\nO, let us pay the time but needful woe,\nSince it hath been beforehand with our griefs.--\nThis England never did, nor never shall,\nLie at the proud foot of a conqueror,\nBut when it first did help to wound itself.\nNow these her princes are come home again,\nCome the three corners of the world in arms,\nAnd we shall shock them: nought shall make us rue,\nIf England to itself do rest but true.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Salisbury, Pembroke, and Bigot meet on the field, astonished that King John's forces have proven to be so powerful. Count Melun, a French nobleman, enters; he is wounded, and he urges the English lords to turn back from the path of their rebellion and seek out John to plead for his mercy. Melun reports that if the French win that day, Louis has ordered the English lords to be beheaded. The English are astonished, but Melun insists that he is telling the truth; he will die soon and has no reason to deceive them. Salisbury believes Melun and thanks him. He urges his companions to return to John. Louis enters, remarking on the strength of the English army. A messenger arrives to report the death of Melun, the departure of the English lords, and the sinking of his army of reinforcements. Louis is dismayed at the news; with his reinforcements annihilated, his chances of victory are now very slim indeed. Hubert and the Bastard encounter each other in the darkness. Hubert reports that the king has been poisoned by a monk. He adds that the English lords have returned to John, bringing his son Prince Henry. The Bastard replies that he has lost his men, who were drowned in the rising tide on the flatlands that night. He asks Hubert to escort him to the king's side. Prince Henry discusses his father's health with Salisbury and Bigot. Pembroke reports that John can still speak. Henry mourns the fact that his father's mind has been destroyed by the sickness, even while his body still seems in good health. John is brought in, babbling. He tells Henry that he has been poisoned. The Bastard arrives, and he reports that Louis approaches unimpeded because the Bastard's forces have drowned. King John dies. Henry marvels at the transitive nature of the world, where what was once a king can become a meaningless pile of dust. The Bastard swears to avenge the king's death, and turning to the lords, orders them to assemble their forces to help repel the French from their land. Salisbury reports that Pandolf recently visited them with an offer of peace from the Dauphin. The Bastard wants to attack anyway, but Salisbury says the peace has been agreed upon. They discuss John's burial, and the Bastard swears to serve Henry. The other lords follow suit. The Bastard speaks of the suffering they have endured and comments that England has never been in danger of being conquered, except when it was divided against itself. Now that the lords have returned to the allegiance of their English king, England is strong again. Nothing can weaken England if its citizens remain loyal, he says."}, {"": "117", "document": "\nIt is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion\nwhen it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand,\nhad been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh.  Three\ndays before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being\ndesperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable\ngentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the\nworld.\n\nThe papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had\nlaid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic;\nthe \"Phileas Fogg bonds\" again became negotiable, and many new wagers\nwere made.  Phileas Fogg's name was once more at a premium on 'Change.\n\nHis five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state\nof feverish suspense.  Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten,\nreappear before their eyes!  Where was he at this moment?  The 17th of\nDecember, the day of James Strand's arrest, was the seventy-sixth since\nPhileas Fogg's departure, and no news of him had been received.  Was he\ndead?  Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey\nalong the route agreed upon?  And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st\nof December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold\nof the Reform Club saloon?\n\nThe anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be\ndescribed.  Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas\nFogg.  Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning\nand evening.  No news.  The police were ignorant what had become of the\ndetective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent.\nBets increased, nevertheless, in number and value.  Phileas Fogg, like\na racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point.  The bonds were\nquoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at\nfive; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour.\n\nA great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets\non Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently\nestablished around the Reform Club.  Circulation was impeded, and\neverywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going\non.  The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as\nthe hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to\nits highest pitch.\n\nThe five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the\nclub.  John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart,\nthe engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and\nThomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously.\n\nWhen the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got\nup, saying, \"Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between\nMr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired.\"\n\n\"What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?\"  asked Thomas\nFlanagan.\n\n\"At twenty-three minutes past seven,\" replied Gauthier Ralph; \"and the\nnext does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve.\"\n\n\"Well, gentlemen,\" resumed Andrew Stuart, \"if Phileas Fogg had come in\nthe 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time.  We can,\ntherefore, regard the bet as won.\"\n\n\"Wait; don't let us be too hasty,\" replied Samuel Fallentin.  \"You know\nthat Mr. Fogg is very eccentric.  His punctuality is well known; he\nnever arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if\nhe appeared before us at the last minute.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Andrew Stuart nervously, \"if I should see him, I should not\nbelieve it was he.\"\n\n\"The fact is,\" resumed Thomas Flanagan, \"Mr. Fogg's project was\nabsurdly foolish.  Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the\ndelays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three\ndays would be fatal to his tour.\"\n\n\"Observe, too,\" added John Sullivan, \"that we have received no\nintelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his\nroute.\"\n\n\"He has lost, gentleman,\" said Andrew Stuart, \"he has a hundred times\nlost!  You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have\ntaken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday.  I have seen\na list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among\nthem.  Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely\nhave reached America.  I think he will be at least twenty days\nbehind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand.\"\n\n\"It is clear,\" replied Gauthier Ralph; \"and we have nothing to do but\nto present Mr. Fogg's cheque at Barings to-morrow.\"\n\nAt this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes\nto nine.\n\n\"Five minutes more,\" said Andrew Stuart.\n\nThe five gentlemen looked at each other.  Their anxiety was becoming\nintense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr.\nFallentin's proposal of a rubber.\n\n\"I wouldn't give up my four thousand of the bet,\" said Andrew Stuart,\nas he took his seat, \"for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.\"\n\nThe clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine.\n\nThe players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the\nclock.  Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed\nso long to them!\n\n\"Seventeen minutes to nine,\" said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards\nwhich Ralph handed to him.\n\nThen there was a moment of silence.  The great saloon was perfectly\nquiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and\nthen a shrill cry.  The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player\neagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity.\n\n\"Sixteen minutes to nine!\" said John Sullivan, in a voice which\nbetrayed his emotion.\n\nOne minute more, and the wager would be won.  Andrew Stuart and his\npartners suspended their game.  They left their cards, and counted the\nseconds.\n\nAt the fortieth second, nothing.  At the fiftieth, still nothing.\n\nAt the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by\napplause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls.\n\nThe players rose from their seats.\n\nAt the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the\npendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared,\nfollowed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club\ndoors, and in his calm voice, said, \"Here I am, gentlemen!\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In this chapter, the state of England is described. Once the real thief is arrested everyone starts taking interest in Fogg's wager once again. Betting is revived. A great crowd gathers near the Reform Club on Saturday evening. In the meantime Fogg's five fellow club members and whist partners come together at the Club. They all discuss whether Fogg will be able to make it on time. They think that he won't be able to. As their tension grows, they start counting the seconds to the time of the wager. Barely a few seconds before Fogg makes his appearance in his usual calm way. Outside the club, a delirious crowd makes much noise"}, {"": "118", "document": "Christian, Cyrano.  At back Roxane talking to Carbon and some cadets.\n\nCHRISTIAN (calling toward Cyrano's tent):\n  Cyrano!\n\nCYRANO (reappearing, fully armed):\n  What?  Why so pale?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  She does not love me!\n\nCYRANO:\n  What?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  'Tis you she loves!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  --For she loves me only for my soul!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Truly?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Yes!  Thus--you see, that soul is you,. . .\n  Therefore, 'tis you she loves!--And you--love her!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh, I know it!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, 'tis true!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  You love\n  To madness!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay! and worse!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Then tell her so!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  And why not?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Look at my face!--be answered!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  She'd love me--were I ugly.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Said she so?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ay! in those words!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I'm glad she told you that!\n  But pooh!--believe it not!  I am well pleased\n  She thought to tell you.  Take it not for truth.\n  Never grow ugly:--she'd reproach me then!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  That I intend discovering!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No! I beg!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ay! she shall choose between us!--Tell her all!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No! no!  I will not have it!  Spare me this!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Because my face is haply fair, shall I\n  Destroy your happiness?  'Twere too unjust!\n\nCYRANO:\n  And I,--because by Nature's freak I have\n  The gift to say--all that perchance you feel.\n  Shall I be fatal to your happiness?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Tell all!\n\nCYRANO:\n  It is ill done to tempt me thus!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Too long I've borne about within myself\n  A rival to myself--I'll make an end!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Christian!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Our union, without witness--secret--\n  Clandestine--can be easily dissolved\n  If we survive.\n\nCYRANO:\n  My God!--he still persists!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I will be loved myself--or not at all!\n  --I'll go see what they do--there, at the end\n  Of the post:  speak to her, and then let her choose\n  One of us two!\n\nCYRANO:\n  It will be you.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Pray God!\n(He calls):\n  Roxane!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No! no!\n\nROXANE (coming up quickly):\n  What?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Cyrano has things\n  Important for your ear. . .\n\n(She hastens to Cyrano.  Christian goes out.)\n\n\n\n\nRoxane, Cyrano.  Then Le Bret, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, Ragueneau,\nDe Guiche, etc.\n\nROXANE:\n  Important, how?\n\nCYRANO (in despair. to Roxane):\n  He's gone!  'Tis naught!--Oh, you know how he sees\n  Importance in a trifle!\n\nROXANE (warmly):\n  Did he doubt\n  Of what I said?--Ah, yes, I saw he doubted!\n\nCYRANO (taking her hand):\n  But are you sure you told him all the truth?\n\nROXANE:\n  Yes, I would love him were he. . .\n\n(She hesitates.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Does that word\n  Embarrass you before my face, Roxane?\n\nROXANE:\n  I. . .\n\nCYRANO (smiling sadly):\n  'Twill not hurt me!  Say it!  If he were\n  Ugly!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Yes, ugly!\n(Musket report outside):\n  Hark!  I hear a shot!\n\nCYRANO (ardently):\n  Hideous!\n\nROXANE:\n  Hideous! yes!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Disfigured.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Grotesque?\n\nROXANE:\n  He could not be grotesque to me!\n\nCYRANO:\n  You'd love the same?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  The same--nay, even more!\n\nCYRANO (losing command over himself--aside):\n  My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there!\n(To Roxane):\n  I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . .\n\nLE BRET (entering hurriedly--to Cyrano):\n  Cyrano!\n\nCYRANO (turning round):\n  What?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Hush!\n\n(He whispers something to him.)\n\nCYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming):\n  Ah, God!\n\nROXANE:\n  What is it?\n\nCYRANO (to himself--stunned):\n  All is over now.\n\n(Renewed reports.)\n\nROXANE:\n  What is the matter?  Hark! another shot!\n\n(She goes up to look outside.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  It is too late, now I can never tell!\n\nROXANE (trying to rush out):\n  What has chanced?\n\nCYRANO (rushing to stop her):\n  Nothing!\n\n(Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close\nround it to prevent Roxane approaching.)\n\nROXANE:\n  And those men?\n(Cyrano draws her away):\n  What were you just about to say before. . .?\n\nCYRANO:\n  What was I saying?  Nothing now, I swear!\n(Solemnly):\n  I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . .\n(Hastily correcting himself):\n  Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Were?\n(With a loud scream):\n  Oh!\n\n(She rushes up, pushing every one aside.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  All is over now!\n\nROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak):\n  O Christian!\n\nLE BRET (to Cyrano):\n  Struck by first shot of the enemy!\n\n(Roxane flings herself down by Christian.  Fresh reports of cannon--clash of\narms--clamor--beating of drums.)\n\nCARBON (with sword in the air):\n  O come!  Your muskets.\n\n(Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.)\n\nROXANE:\n  Christian!\n\nTHE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side):\n  Ho! make haste!\n\nROXANE:\n  Christian!\n\nCARBON:\n  FORM LINE!\n\nROXANE:\n  Christian!\n\nCARBON:\n  HANDLE YOUR MATCH!\n\n(Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.)\n\nCHRISTIAN (in a dying voice):\n  Roxane!\n\nCYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly\ntears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying\nto stanch the bleeding):\n  I told her all.  She loves you still.\n\n(Christian closes his eyes.)\n\nROXANE:\n  How, my sweet love?\n\nCARBON:\n  DRAW RAMRODS!\n\nROXANE (to Cyrano):\n  He is not dead?\n\nCARBON:\n  OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH!\n\nROXANE:\n  His cheek\n  Grows cold against my own!\n\nCARBON:\n  READY!  PRESENT!\n\nROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet):\n  A letter!. . .\n  'Tis for me!\n\n(She opens it.)\n\nCYRANO (aside):\n  My letter!\n\nCARBON:\n  FIRE!\n\n(Musket reports--shouts--noise of battle.)\n\nCYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding):\n  But, Roxane, hark, they fight!\n\nROXANE (detaining him):\n  Stay yet awhile.\n  For he is dead.  You knew him, you alone.\n(Weeping quietly):\n  Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul\n  Wondrous!\n\nCYRANO (standing up--bareheaded):\n  Ay, Roxane.\n\nROXANE:\n  An inspired poet?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, Roxane.\n\nROXANE:\n  And a mind sublime?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh, yes!\n\nROXANE:\n  A heart too deep for common minds to plumb,\n  A spirit subtle, charming?\n\nCYRANO (firmly):\n  Ay, Roxane.\n\nROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body):\n  Dead, my love!\n\nCYRANO (aside--drawing his sword):\n  Ay, and let me die to-day,\n  Since, all unconscious, she mourns me--in him!\n\n(Sounds of trumpets in the distance.)\n\nDE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts--bareheaded--with a wound on his\nforehead--in a voice of thunder):\n  It is the signal!  Trumpet flourishes!\n  The French bring the provisions into camp!\n  Hold but the place awhile!\n\nROXANE:\n  See, there is blood\n  Upon the letter--tears!\n\nA VOICE (outside--shouting):\n  Surrender!\n\nVOICE OF CADETS:\n  No!\n\nRAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the\nedge of the ramparts):\n  The danger's ever greater!\n\nCYRANO (to De Guiche--pointing to Roxane):\n  I will charge!\n  Take her away!\n\nROXANE (kissing the letter--in a half-extinguished voice):\n  O God! his tears! his blood!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her):\n  She's swooned away!\n\nDE GUICHE (on the rampart--to the cadets--with fury):\n  Stand fast!\n\nA VOICE (outside):\n  Lay down your arms!\n\nTHE CADETS:\n  No!\n\nCYRANO (to De Guiche):\n  Now that you have proved your valor, Sir,\n(Pointing to Roxane):\n  Fly, and save her!\n\nDE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms):\n  So be it!  Gain but time,\n  The victory's ours!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Good.\n(Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in\na fainting condition):\n  Farewell, Roxane!\n\n(Tumult.  Shouts.  Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene.  Cyrano,\nrushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming\nwith blood.)\n\nCARBON:\n  We are breaking!  I am wounded--wounded twice!\n\nCYRANO (shouting to the Gascons):\n  GASCONS!  HO, GASCONS!  NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS!\n(To Carbon, whom he is supporting):\n  Have no fear!  I have two deaths to avenge:\n  My friend who's slain;--and my dead happiness!\n(They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's\nhandkerchief):\n  Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name!\n(He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets):\n  FALL ON THEM, GASCONS!  CRUSH THEM!\n(To the fifer):\n  Fifer, play!\n\n(The fife plays.  The wounded try to rise.  Some cadets, falling one over the\nother down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag.  The\ncarriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with\narquebuses, is turned into a fortress.)\n\nA CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries):\n  They're climbing the redoubt!\n(and falls dead.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Let us salute them!\n(The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies.  The\nstandards of the Imperialists are raised):\n  Fire!\n\n(General discharge.)\n\nA CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS:\n  Fire!\n\n(A deadly answering volley.  The cadets fall on all sides.)\n\nA SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering):\n  Who are these men who rush on death?\n\nCYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets):\n  The bold Cadets of Gascony,\n  Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux!\n  Brawling, swaggering boastfully,\n(He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors):\n  The bold Cadets. . .\n\n(His voice is drowned in the battle.)\n\n\nCurtain.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Christian tells Cyrano that Roxane loves not him, but Cyrano, for she loves the author of the letters and the man who spoke to her under her balcony. Because she is unaware of this, Christian wants Roxane to be told the truth so that she may choose between them. He calls Roxane and exits, leaving Cyrano to explain the fraudulent situation. Cyrano begins to unravel the story, but just when his hopes are aroused, Christian's body is carried on stage; he has been killed by the first bullet fired in the battle. This bullet also destroys Cyrano's hopes; he can never tell Roxane the truth now, especially after she discovers a letter on Christian's body. It is addressed to her, covered with Christian's blood and, although Roxane does not know it, Cyrano's tears."}, {"": "119", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\n                   London. The Temple garden\n\n         Enter the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK;\n           RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another LAWYER\n\n  PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this\n    silence?\n    Dare no man answer in a case of truth?\n  SUFFOLK. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud;\n    The garden here is more convenient.\n  PLANTAGENET. Then say at once if I maintain'd the truth;\n    Or else was wrangling Somerset in th' error?\n  SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law\n    And never yet could frame my will to it;\n    And therefore frame the law unto my will.\n  SOMERSET. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.\n  WARWICK. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;\n    Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;\n    Between two blades, which bears the better temper;\n    Between two horses, which doth bear him best;\n    Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye\n    I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment;\n    But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,\n    Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.\n  PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance:\n    The truth appears so naked on my side\n    That any purblind eye may find it out.\n  SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell'd,\n    So clear, so shining, and so evident,\n    That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye.\n  PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak,\n    In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts.\n    Let him that is a true-born gentleman\n    And stands upon the honour of his birth,\n    If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,\n    From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.\n  SOMERSET. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,\n    But dare maintain the party of the truth,\n    Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.\n  WARWICK. I love no colours; and, without all colour\n    Of base insinuating flattery,\n    I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.\n  SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset,\n    And say withal I think he held the right.\n  VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more\n    Till you conclude that he upon whose side\n    The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree\n    Shall yield the other in the right opinion.\n  SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected;\n    If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence.\n  PLANTAGENET. And I.\n  VERNON. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case,\n    I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,\n    Giving my verdict on the white rose side.\n  SOMERSET. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,\n    Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red,\n    And fall on my side so, against your will.\n  VERNON. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed,\n    Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt\n    And keep me on the side where still I am.\n  SOMERSET. Well, well, come on; who else?\n  LAWYER.  [To Somerset]  Unless my study and my books be\n    false,\n    The argument you held was wrong in you;\n    In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.\n  PLANTAGENET. Now, Somerset, where is your argument?\n  SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating that\n    Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.\n  PLANTAGENET. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our\n    roses;\n    For pale they look with fear, as witnessing\n    The truth on our side.\n  SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet,\n    'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks\n    Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses,\n    And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.\n  PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?\n  SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?\n  PLANTAGENET. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;\n    Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.\n  SOMERSET. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,\n    That shall maintain what I have said is true,\n    Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.\n  PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,\n    I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy.\n  SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.\n  PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and\n    thee.\n  SUFFOLK. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat.\n  SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la Pole!\n    We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.\n  WARWICK. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset;\n    His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence,\n    Third son to the third Edward, King of England.\n    Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?\n  PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place's privilege,\n    Or durst not for his craven heart say thus.\n  SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words\n    On any plot of ground in Christendom.\n    Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge,\n    For treason executed in our late king's days?\n    And by his treason stand'st not thou attainted,\n    Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?\n    His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood;\n    And till thou be restor'd thou art a yeoman.\n  PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted;\n    Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor;\n    And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset,\n    Were growing time once ripened to my will.\n    For your partaker Pole, and you yourself,\n    I'll note you in my book of memory\n    To scourge you for this apprehension.\n    Look to it well, and say you are well warn'd.\n  SOMERSET. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still;\n    And know us by these colours for thy foes\n    For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.\n  PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,\n    As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,\n    Will I for ever, and my faction, wear,\n    Until it wither with me to my grave,\n    Or flourish to the height of my degree.\n  SUFFOLK. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition!\n    And so farewell until I meet thee next.                 Exit\n  SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious\n    Richard.                                                Exit\n  PLANTAGENET. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure\n    it!\n  WARWICK. This blot that they object against your house\n    Shall be wip'd out in the next Parliament,\n    Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;\n    And if thou be not then created York,\n    I will not live to be accounted Warwick.\n    Meantime, in signal of my love to thee,\n    Against proud Somerset and William Pole,\n    Will I upon thy party wear this rose;\n    And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,\n    Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden,\n    Shall send between the Red Rose and the White\n    A thousand souls to death and deadly night.\n  PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you\n    That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.\n  VERNON. In your behalf still will I wear the same.\n  LAWYER. And so will I.\n  PLANTAGENET. Thanks, gentle sir.\n    Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say\n    This quarrel will drink blood another day.            Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Things do not go well in this scene. Imagine a feud between high school cliques. Then imagine a feud between high school cliques where the members have huge political power and carry swords. This scene starts off with a quarrel: Richard Plantagenet is having some sort of fight with Somerset. Interestingly, we never find out what the fight was actually about, but it spirals out of control pretty fast. They already had to take it outside, as Suffolk says. Somerset decides that Warwick should arbitrate. Warwick declines in a tactful and eloquent speech, though, so Richard says he himself is obviously right, as anyone could see. Somerset says the same. You can almost hear them shouting, \"Is not, is too!\" Various people take sides, but the scene really gets interesting when everyone starts plucking roses. Wait, roses? Have we suddenly gone all Hallmark card? Nope. Here's the deal: Richard Plantagenet's family, known as the House of York, is symbolized by a white rose. The House of Lancaster is symbolized by a red rose. Later, a war will officially start between the two houses over the crown, and this will be the start of the Wars of the Roses, a turbulent period of civil war in English history. So this scene is ominous. Maybe storm clouds would be more appropriate than roses. Richard asks his followers to pluck a white rose. Somerset asks his followers to pluck a red rose. Warwick now does take sides with Richard, choosing a white rose. Suffolk sides with Somerset, choosing a red rose. Vernon's all hold up and points out that they should agree that whoever gets the most roses wins. Somerset and Richard agree. Final count: Somerset: 1 rose, Richard: 3 roses. Richard kind of rubs it in. They keep arguing, and Somerset insults Richard by calling him a \"yeoman\" , a much lower rank than his family actually holds. Warwick points out that Richard's grandfather was a Duke, and not only that, but also the third son of a king. Somerset says basically \"So what? Richard's father was executed for treason. Doesn't that disqualify Richard from being a nobleman?\" Richard says his father may have been executed for treason, but he wasn't actually a traitor. He says he won't forget these insults. The quarrelers part on bad terms, and Warwick says that Richard will be restored to the aristocracy at the next parliament, where he will be named the Duke of York. Warwick also says he'll keep wearing the white rose as a sign of support for Richard, a bit like wearing a campaign pin during an election. Warwick makes an ominous prophecy: Today's argument will bring about many deaths. This is a hint at the Wars of the Roses--it's like knowing that galactic war is coming as you watch the first three Star Wars films. However solid the Old Republic seems, you know it's going down. Richard thanks the other guys who sided with him, and they all head off to dinner. There's a lot of going to dinner in this play. Maybe Shakespeare and Co. were hungry when they wrote it."}, {"": "120", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\nThe same.\n\n[Alarums, Excursions, Retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR,\nthe BASTARD, HUBERT, and LORDS.]\n\nKING JOHN.\n[To ELINOR] So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind,\nSo strongly guarded.--\n[To ARTHUR] Cousin, look not sad;\nThy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will\nAs dear be to thee as thy father was.\n\nARTHUR.\nO, this will make my mother die with grief!\n\nKING JOHN.\nCousin [To the BASTARD], away for England; haste before:\nAnd, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags\nOf hoarding abbots; imprison'd angels\nSet at liberty: the fat ribs of peace\nMust by the hungry now be fed upon:\nUse our commission in his utmost force.\n\nBASTARD.\nBell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,\nWhen gold and silver becks me to come on.\nI leave your highness.--Grandam, I will pray,--\nIf ever I remember to be holy,--\nFor your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand.\n\nELINOR.\nFarewell, gentle cousin.\n\nKING JOHN.\nCoz, farewell.\n\n[Exit BASTARD.]\n\nELINOR.\nCome hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.\n\n[She takes Arthur aside.]\n\nKING JOHN.\nCome hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,\nWe owe thee much! within this wall of flesh\nThere is a soul counts thee her creditor,\nAnd with advantage means to pay thy love:\nAnd, my good friend, thy voluntary oath\nLives in this bosom, dearly cherished.\nGive me thy hand. I had a thing to say,--\nBut I will fit it with some better time.\nBy heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd\nTo say what good respect I have of thee.\n\nHUBERT.\nI am much bounden to your majesty.\n\nKING JOHN.\nGood friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet:\nBut thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,\nYet it shall come for me to do thee good.\nI had a thing to say,--but let it go:\nThe sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,\nAttended with the pleasures of the world,\nIs all too wanton and too full of gawds\nTo give me audience:--if the midnight bell\nDid, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,\nSound on into the drowsy race of night;\nIf this same were a churchyard where we stand,\nAnd thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;\nOr if that surly spirit, melancholy,\nHad bak'd thy blood and made it heavy-thick,\nWhich else runs tickling up and down the veins,\nMaking that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,\nAnd strain their cheeks to idle merriment--\nA passion hateful to my purposes;--\nOr if that thou couldst see me without eyes,\nHear me without thine ears, and make reply\nWithout a tongue, using conceit alone,\nWithout eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words,--\nThen, in despite of brooded watchful day,\nI would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:\nBut, ah, I will not!--yet I love thee well;\nAnd, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.\n\nHUBERT.\nSo well that what you bid me undertake,\nThough that my death were adjunct to my act,\nBy heaven, I would do it.\n\nKING JOHN.\nDo not I know thou wouldst?\nGood Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye\nOn yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,\nHe is a very serpent in my way;\nAnd wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,\nHe lies before me: dost thou understand me?\nThou art his keeper.\n\nHUBERT.\nAnd I'll keep him so\nThat he shall not offend your majesty.\n\nKING JOHN.\nDeath.\n\nHUBERT.\nMy lord?\n\nKING JOHN.\nA grave.\n\nHUBERT.\nHe shall not live.\n\nKING JOHN.\nEnough!--\nI could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;\nWell, I'll not say what I intend for thee:\nRemember.--Madam, fare you well:\nI'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.\n\nELINOR.\nMy blessing go with thee!\n\nKING JOHN.\nFor England, cousin, go:\nHubert shall be your man, attend on you\nWith all true duty.--On toward Calais, ho!\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\nSCENE 4.\n\nThe same. The FRENCH KING's tent.\n\n[Enter KING PHILIP, LOUIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants.]\n\nKING PHILIP.\nSo, by a roaring tempest on the flood\nA whole armado of convicted sail\nIs scattered and disjoin'd from fellowship.\n\nPANDULPH.\nCourage and comfort! all shall yet go well.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nWhat can go well, when we have run so ill.\nAre we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?\nArthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?\nAnd bloody England into England gone,\nO'erbearing interruption, spite of France?\n\nLOUIS.\nWhat he hath won, that hath he fortified:\nSo hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,\nSuch temperate order in so fierce a cause,\nDoth want example: who hath read or heard\nOf any kindred action like to this?\n\nKING PHILIP.\nWell could I bear that England had this praise,\nSo we could find some pattern of our shame.--\nLook who comes here! a grave unto a soul;\nHolding the eternal spirit, against her will,\nIn the vile prison of afflicted breath.\n\n[Enter CONSTANCE.]\n\nI pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nLo, now! now see the issue of your peace!\n\nKING PHILIP.\nPatience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!\n\nCONSTANCE.\nNo, I defy all counsel, all redress,\nBut that which ends all counsel, true redress,\nDeath, death:--O amiable lovely death!\nThou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!\nArise forth from the couch of lasting night,\nThou hate and terror to prosperity,\nAnd I will kiss thy detestable bones;\nAnd put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows;\nAnd ring these fingers with thy household worms;\nAnd stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,\nAnd be a carrion monster like thyself:\nCome, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,\nAnd buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,\nO, come to me!\n\nKING PHILIP.\nO fair affliction, peace!\n\nCONSTANCE.\nNo, no, I will not, having breath to cry:--\nO, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!\nThen with a passion would I shake the world;\nAnd rouse from sleep that fell anatomy\nWhich cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,\nWhich scorns a modern invocation.\n\nPANDULPH.\nLady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nThou art not holy to belie me so;\nI am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;\nMy name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;\nYoung Arthur is my son, and he is lost:\nI am not mad:--I would to heaven I were!\nFor then, 'tis like I should forget myself:\nO, if I could, what grief should I forget!--\nPreach some philosophy to make me mad,\nAnd thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;\nFor, being not mad, but sensible of grief,\nMy reasonable part produces reason\nHow I may be deliver'd of these woes,\nAnd teaches me to kill or hang myself:\nIf I were mad I should forget my son,\nOr madly think a babe of clouts were he:\nI am not mad; too well, too well I feel\nThe different plague of each calamity.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nBind up those tresses.--O, what love I note\nIn the fair multitude of those her hairs!\nWhere but by a chance a silver drop hath fallen,\nEven to that drop ten thousand wiry friends\nDo glue themselves in sociable grief;\nLike true, inseparable, faithful loves,\nSticking together in calamity.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nTo England, if you will.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nBind up your hairs.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nYes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?\nI tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud,\n'O that these hands could so redeem my son,\nAs they have given these hairs their liberty!'\nBut now I envy at their liberty,\nAnd will again commit them to their bonds,\nBecause my poor child is a prisoner.--\nAnd, father cardinal, I have heard you say\nThat we shall see and know our friends in heaven:\nIf that be true, I shall see my boy again;\nFor since the birth of Cain, the first male child,\nTo him that did but yesterday suspire,\nThere was not such a gracious creature born.\nBut now will canker sorrow eat my bud,\nAnd chase the native beauty from his cheek,\nAnd he will look as hollow as a ghost,\nAs dim and meagre as an ague's fit;\nAnd so he'll die; and, rising so again,\nWhen I shall meet him in the court of heaven\nI shall not know him: therefore never, never\nMust I behold my pretty Arthur more!\n\nPANDULPH.\nYou hold too heinous a respect of grief.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nHe talks to me that never had a son.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nYou are as fond of grief as of your child.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nGrief fills the room up of my absent child,\nLies in his bed, walks up and down with me,\nPuts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,\nRemembers me of all his gracious parts,\nStuffs out his vacant garments with his form;\nThen have I reason to be fond of grief.\nFare you well: had you such a loss as I,\nI could give better comfort than you do.--\nI will not keep this form upon my head,\n\n[Tearing off her head-dress.]\n\nWhen there is such disorder in my wit.\nO Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!\nMy life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!\nMy widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!\n\n[Exit.]\n\nKING PHILIP.\nI fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nLOUIS.\nThere's nothing in this world can make me joy:\nLife is as tedious as a twice-told tale\nVexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;\nAnd bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste,\nThat it yields nought but shame and bitterness.\n\nPANDULPH.\nBefore the curing of a strong disease,\nEven in the instant of repair and health,\nThe fit is strongest; evils that take leave\nOn their departure most of all show evil;\nWhat have you lost by losing of this day?\n\nLOUIS.\nAll days of glory, joy, and happiness.\n\nPANDULPH.\nIf you had won it, certainly you had.\nNo, no; when Fortune means to men most good,\nShe looks upon them with a threatening eye.\n'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost\nIn this which he accounts so clearly won.\nAre not you griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner?\n\nLouIS.\nAs heartily as he is glad he hath him.\n\nPANDULPH.\nYour mind is all as youthful as your blood.\nNow hear me speak with a prophetic spirit;\nFor even the breath of what I mean to speak\nShall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,\nOut of the path which shall directly lead\nThy foot to England's throne; and therefore mark.\nJohn hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be\nThat, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,\nThe misplac'd John should entertain an hour,\nOne minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:\nA sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand\nMust be boisterously maintain'd as gain'd:\nAnd he that stands upon a slippery place\nMakes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:\nThat John may stand then, Arthur needs must fall:\nSo be it, for it cannot be but so.\n\nLOUIS.\nBut what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?\n\nPANDULPH.\nYou, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,\nMay then make all the claim that Arthur did.\n\nLOUIS.\nAnd lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.\n\nPANDULPH.\nHow green you are, and fresh in this old world!\nJohn lays you plots; the times conspire with you;\nFor he that steeps his safety in true blood\nShall find but bloody safety and untrue.\nThis act, so evilly borne, shall cool the hearts\nOf all his people, and freeze up their zeal,\nThat none so small advantage shall step forth\nTo check his reign, but they will cherish it;\nNo natural exhalation in the sky,\nNo scope of nature, no distemper'd day,\nNo common wind, no customed event,\nBut they will pluck away his natural cause\nAnd call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,\nAbortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,\nPlainly denouncing vengeance upon John.\n\nLOUIS.\nMay be he will not touch young Arthur's life,\nBut hold himself safe in his prisonment.\n\nPANDULPH.\nO, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,\nIf that young Arthur be not gone already,\nEven at that news he dies; and then the hearts\nOf all his people shall revolt from him,\nAnd kiss the lips of unacquainted change;\nAnd pick strong matter of revolt and wrath\nOut of the bloody fingers' ends of john.\nMethinks I see this hurly all on foot:\nAnd, O, what better matter breeds for you\nThan I have nam'd!--The bastard Falconbridge\nIs now in England, ransacking the church,\nOffending charity: if but a dozen French\nWere there in arms, they would be as a call\nTo train ten thousand English to their side:\nOr as a little snow, tumbled about\nAnon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,\nGo with me to the king:--'tis wonderful\nWhat may be wrought out of their discontent,\nNow that their souls are topful of offence:\nFor England go:--I will whet on the king.\n\nLOUIS.\nStrong reasons makes strong actions: let us go:\nIf you say ay, the king will not say no.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "John enters the battle scene with Eleanor, Arthur, the Bastard, and Hubert. John instructs Eleanor to stay behind in France to look after the English territories there. He assures Arthur that he will be in good company on a return to France, but he is sure his mother will grieve. John sends the Bastard before his party in order to collect the wealth of the monasteries. John takes Hubert aside and thanks him for his loyal service. John says he wants to ask Hubert to do something, but says he changed his mind. Then he tries to ask him again and stops himself. Hubert assures the king that he loves him well enough to do anything he asks. John points out Arthur, saying he is a serpent who stands in his way. John reminds Hubert is Arthur's keeper. Hubert says he will keep him out of the king's way, but John suggests sending him to his grave might work best toward that end. Hubert says Arthur will not live. John is pleased, bids farewell to his mother, and sets off for England. Philip enters with Louis and Pandolf. Philip remarks on a storm, saying that it has destroyed his entire fleet. Pandolf encourages him, but Philip insists that he has lost; Angers has been lost, Arthur has been captured, and the English have returned to England. Constance enters with wild hair and a distracted appearance. She remarks on the unfortunate end of Philip's peace with John, and calls mournfully for death. Philip tries to soothe her, but she continues. Pandolf says she suffers from madness, not sorrow, but Constance disagrees. She was wife and mother to heirs to the English throne, she declares, and yet her son is now lost. She says she wishes she were mad so she could forget her son; being left in command of her reason, she can only imagine suicide as an end to her woes. Philip urges her to pull herself together, which she begins to do as she speaks to Pandolf about seeing her son again in heaven. As she remembers her son, she despairs, and exits, followed by Philip. Louis now expresses his own woe, saying nothing in the world can bring him joy again. Pandolf urges him to consider the losses of the day as a mere bad symptom on the way to health. Pandolf prophecies discord in England; John may have Arthur, but he won't have civic peace, and he will have to continue to defend his kingdom. He predicts that John will have to kill Arthur. Louis asks how he may benefit from Arthur's death, and Pandolf reminds him that with Blanche as his wife, he can make the same claim to the throne that Arthur had. Louis continues to despair. Pandolf remarks that when John kills Arthur, his citizens will be appalled and will turn against John, welcoming a change in ruler in the person of Louis. Louis is unconvinced, so Pandolf adds that the people will be enraged at reports of the Bastard stealing from monasteries. Pandolf is delighted with the opportunities provided by unrest in England and urges Louis to go to Philip and plan an assault."}, {"": "121", "document": "SCENE IV.\nBefore Corioli\n\nEnter MARCIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with drum and colours,\nwith CAPTAINS and soldiers. To them a MESSENGER\n\n  MARCIUS. Yonder comes news; a wager- they have met.\n  LARTIUS. My horse to yours- no.\n  MARCIUS. 'Tis done.\n  LARTIUS. Agreed.\n  MARCIUS. Say, has our general met the enemy?\n  MESSENGER. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet.\n  LARTIUS. So, the good horse is mine.\n  MARCIUS. I'll buy him of you.\n  LARTIUS. No, I'll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will\n    For half a hundred years. Summon the town.\n  MARCIUS. How far off lie these armies?\n  MESSENGER. Within this mile and half.\n  MARCIUS. Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours.\n    Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work,\n    That we with smoking swords may march from hence\n    To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast.\n\n          They sound a parley. Enter two SENATORS with others,\n                      on the walls of Corioli\n\n    Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls?\n  FIRST SENATOR. No, nor a man that fears you less than he:\n    That's lesser than a little.  [Drum afar off]  Hark, our\ndrums\n    Are bringing forth our youth. We'll break our walls\n    Rather than they shall pound us up; our gates,\n    Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes;\n    They'll open of themselves.  [Alarum far off]  Hark you far\noff!\n    There is Aufidius. List what work he makes\n    Amongst your cloven army.\n  MARCIUS. O, they are at it!\n  LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho!\n\n                   Enter the army of the Volsces\n\n  MARCIUS. They fear us not, but issue forth their city.\n    Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight\n    With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus.\n    They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts,\n    Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows.\n    He that retires, I'll take him for a Volsce,\n    And he shall feel mine edge.\n\n          Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their trenches.\n                      Re-enter MARCIUS, cursing\n\n  MARCIUS. All the contagion of the south light on you,\n    You shames of Rome! you herd of- Boils and plagues\n    Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd\n    Farther than seen, and one infect another\n    Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese\n    That bear the shapes of men, how have you run\n    From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell!\n    All hurt behind! Backs red, and faces pale\n    With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home,\n    Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe\n    And make my wars on you. Look to't. Come on;\n    If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives,\n    As they us to our trenches. Follow me.\n\n         Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and MARCIUS follows\n                          them to the gates\n\n    So, now the gates are ope; now prove good seconds;\n    'Tis for the followers fortune widens them,\n    Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like.\n\n                    [MARCIUS enters the gates]\n\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Fool-hardiness; not I.\n  SECOND SOLDIER. Not I.                    [MARCIUS is shut in]\n  FIRST SOLDIER. See, they have shut him in.\n  ALL. To th' pot, I warrant him.             [Alarum continues]\n\n                      Re-enter TITUS LARTIUS\n\n  LARTIUS. What is become of Marcius?\n  ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless.\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels,\n    With them he enters; who, upon the sudden,\n    Clapp'd to their gates. He is himself alone,\n    To answer all the city.\n  LARTIUS. O noble fellow!\n    Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword,\n    And when it bows stand'st up. Thou art left, Marcius;\n    A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art,\n    Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier\n    Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible\n    Only in strokes; but with thy grim looks and\n    The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds\n    Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world\n    Were feverous and did tremble.\n\n          Re-enter MARCIUS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy\n\n  FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir.\n  LARTIUS. O, 'tis Marcius!\n    Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike.\n                            [They fight, and all enter the city]\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The scene opens outside the gates of Corioli, where Caius Martius and Titus Lartius's army is laying siege to the city. Two Volscian Senators appear on the city walls to parley with the besiegers. They warn the Romans that Aufidius will soon return with his army. The Volscians open the city gates and send out their remaining forces to fight the Romans. After some fighting, the Volscians withdraw back into the city, pursued by Caius Martius. He orders his men to follow him, but they refuse, believing that he is going to a certain death. The gates close behind Caius Martius, shutting him into the city. Titus Lartius assumes he is dead, but Caius Martius fights off the Volscians single-handed. The gates open and Caius Martius emerges, bloodstained. Lartius summons the Roman army to follow Caius Martius back into Corioli, which they do"}, {"": "122", "document": "\nThe circumstances under which this telegraphic dispatch about Phileas\nFogg was sent were as follows:\n\nThe steamer Mongolia, belonging to the Peninsular and Oriental Company,\nbuilt of iron, of two thousand eight hundred tons burden, and five\nhundred horse-power, was due at eleven o'clock a.m. on Wednesday, the\n9th of October, at Suez.  The Mongolia plied regularly between Brindisi\nand Bombay via the Suez Canal, and was one of the fastest steamers\nbelonging to the company, always making more than ten knots an hour\nbetween Brindisi and Suez, and nine and a half between Suez and Bombay.\n\nTwo men were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of\nnatives and strangers who were sojourning at this once straggling\nvillage--now, thanks to the enterprise of M. Lesseps, a fast-growing\ntown.  One was the British consul at Suez, who, despite the prophecies\nof the English Government, and the unfavourable predictions of\nStephenson, was in the habit of seeing, from his office window, English\nships daily passing to and fro on the great canal, by which the old\nroundabout route from England to India by the Cape of Good Hope was\nabridged by at least a half.  The other was a small, slight-built\npersonage, with a nervous, intelligent face, and bright eyes peering\nout from under eyebrows which he was incessantly twitching.  He was\njust now manifesting unmistakable signs of impatience, nervously pacing\nup and down, and unable to stand still for a moment.  This was Fix, one\nof the detectives who had been dispatched from England in search of the\nbank robber; it was his task to narrowly watch every passenger who\narrived at Suez, and to follow up all who seemed to be suspicious\ncharacters, or bore a resemblance to the description of the criminal,\nwhich he had received two days before from the police headquarters at\nLondon.  The detective was evidently inspired by the hope of obtaining\nthe splendid reward which would be the prize of success, and awaited\nwith a feverish impatience, easy to understand, the arrival of the\nsteamer Mongolia.\n\n\"So you say, consul,\" asked he for the twentieth time, \"that this\nsteamer is never behind time?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Fix,\" replied the consul.  \"She was bespoken yesterday at Port\nSaid, and the rest of the way is of no account to such a craft.  I\nrepeat that the Mongolia has been in advance of the time required by\nthe company's regulations, and gained the prize awarded for excess of\nspeed.\"\n\n\"Does she come directly from Brindisi?\"\n\n\"Directly from Brindisi; she takes on the Indian mails there, and she\nleft there Saturday at five p.m.  Have patience, Mr. Fix; she will not\nbe late.  But really, I don't see how, from the description you have,\nyou will be able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the\nMongolia.\"\n\n\"A man rather feels the presence of these fellows, consul, than\nrecognises them.  You must have a scent for them, and a scent is like a\nsixth sense which combines hearing, seeing, and smelling.  I've\narrested more than one of these gentlemen in my time, and, if my thief\nis on board, I'll answer for it; he'll not slip through my fingers.\"\n\n\"I hope so, Mr. Fix, for it was a heavy robbery.\"\n\n\"A magnificent robbery, consul; fifty-five thousand pounds!  We don't\noften have such windfalls.  Burglars are getting to be so contemptible\nnowadays!  A fellow gets hung for a handful of shillings!\"\n\n\"Mr. Fix,\" said the consul, \"I like your way of talking, and hope\nyou'll succeed; but I fear you will find it far from easy.  Don't you\nsee, the description which you have there has a singular resemblance to\nan honest man?\"\n\n\"Consul,\" remarked the detective, dogmatically, \"great robbers always\nresemble honest folks.  Fellows who have rascally faces have only one\ncourse to take, and that is to remain honest; otherwise they would be\narrested off-hand.  The artistic thing is, to unmask honest\ncountenances; it's no light task, I admit, but a real art.\"\n\nMr. Fix evidently was not wanting in a tinge of self-conceit.\n\nLittle by little the scene on the quay became more animated; sailors of\nvarious nations, merchants, ship-brokers, porters, fellahs, bustled to\nand fro as if the steamer were immediately expected.  The weather was\nclear, and slightly chilly.  The minarets of the town loomed above the\nhouses in the pale rays of the sun.  A jetty pier, some two thousand\nyards along, extended into the roadstead.  A number of fishing-smacks\nand coasting boats, some retaining the fantastic fashion of ancient\ngalleys, were discernible on the Red Sea.\n\nAs he passed among the busy crowd, Fix, according to habit, scrutinised\nthe passers-by with a keen, rapid glance.\n\nIt was now half-past ten.\n\n\"The steamer doesn't come!\" he exclaimed, as the port clock struck.\n\n\"She can't be far off now,\" returned his companion.\n\n\"How long will she stop at Suez?\"\n\n\"Four hours; long enough to get in her coal.  It is thirteen hundred\nand ten miles from Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, and\nshe has to take in a fresh coal supply.\"\n\n\"And does she go from Suez directly to Bombay?\"\n\n\"Without putting in anywhere.\"\n\n\"Good!\" said Fix.  \"If the robber is on board he will no doubt get off\nat Suez, so as to reach the Dutch or French colonies in Asia by some\nother route.  He ought to know that he would not be safe an hour in\nIndia, which is English soil.\"\n\n\"Unless,\" objected the consul, \"he is exceptionally shrewd.  An English\ncriminal, you know, is always better concealed in London than anywhere\nelse.\"\n\nThis observation furnished the detective food for thought, and\nmeanwhile the consul went away to his office.  Fix, left alone, was\nmore impatient than ever, having a presentiment that the robber was on\nboard the Mongolia.  If he had indeed left London intending to reach\nthe New World, he would naturally take the route via India, which was\nless watched and more difficult to watch than that of the Atlantic.\nBut Fix's reflections were soon interrupted by a succession of sharp\nwhistles, which announced the arrival of the Mongolia.  The porters and\nfellahs rushed down the quay, and a dozen boats pushed off from the\nshore to go and meet the steamer.  Soon her gigantic hull appeared\npassing along between the banks, and eleven o'clock struck as she\nanchored in the road.  She brought an unusual number of passengers,\nsome of whom remained on deck to scan the picturesque panorama of the\ntown, while the greater part disembarked in the boats, and landed on\nthe quay.\n\nFix took up a position, and carefully examined each face and figure\nwhich made its appearance.  Presently one of the passengers, after\nvigorously pushing his way through the importunate crowd of porters,\ncame up to him and politely asked if he could point out the English\nconsulate, at the same time showing a passport which he wished to have\nvisaed.  Fix instinctively took the passport, and with a rapid glance\nread the description of its bearer.  An involuntary motion of surprise\nnearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical\nwith that of the bank robber which he had received from Scotland Yard.\n\n\"Is this your passport?\" asked he.\n\n\"No, it's my master's.\"\n\n\"And your master is--\"\n\n\"He stayed on board.\"\n\n\"But he must go to the consul's in person, so as to establish his\nidentity.\"\n\n\"Oh, is that necessary?\"\n\n\"Quite indispensable.\"\n\n\"And where is the consulate?\"\n\n\"There, on the corner of the square,\" said Fix, pointing to a house two\nhundred steps off.\n\n\"I'll go and fetch my master, who won't be much pleased, however, to be\ndisturbed.\"\n\nThe passenger bowed to Fix, and returned to the steamer.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Detective Fix is following Mr. Fogg from Suez with a supreme confidence that he is the right man to apprehend the bank robber. Detective Fix impatiently waits for the steamship The Mongolia, and when it arrives, he scrutinizes the passengers and crew, looking for the thief. A man approaches the detective asking where the consulate office might be and if the detective will stamp his passport. Poor unsuspecting Passepartout has no idea that he has just given his master's documents to the detective wishing to arrest Fogg. The detective sneakily tells Passepartout that Fogg will need to present himself at the consulate if he wishes to have his passport stamped. Well played, Detective."}, {"": "123", "document": "\n\nMr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power\nto superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her\nsister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation,\nand then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest;\nand during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be\nexpected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional,\nfortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might\nadvance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or\nother whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure\nfor them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they\nwill do for themselves.\n\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent\nfrom Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest.\nTill this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been\ndivided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of\nthis autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was\ntherefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their\nSurry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be\ninduced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and\nwho consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in\nforestalling this too short visit.\n\nHe thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little\nof the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some\nof the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;\nthe sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John\nKnightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids,\nall reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival,\nthe many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed\nand disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could\nnot have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even\nfor this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father\nwere so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal\nsolicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their\nhaving instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and\ndrinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for,\nwithout the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long\na disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance\non them.\n\nMrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet\nmanners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt\nup in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly\nattached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a\nwarmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault\nin any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any\nquickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also\nmuch of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful\nof that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond\nof her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry.\nThey were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong\nhabit of regard for every old acquaintance.\n\nMr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;\nrising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private\ncharacter; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally\npleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an\nill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a\nreproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with\nsuch a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects\nin it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper\nmust hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she\nwanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.\n\nHe was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong\nin him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to\nIsabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have\npassed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister,\nbut they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without\npraise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal\ncompliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of\nall in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful\nforbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience\nthat could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and\nfidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or\nsharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John\nKnightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally\na strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's\ncharity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently\nto be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of\nevery visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of\nnecessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.\nThey had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a\nmelancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention\nto the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.\n\n\"Ah, my dear,\" said he, \"poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, sir,\" cried she with ready sympathy, \"how you must miss her!\nAnd dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so\ngrieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without\nher.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir.\"\n\n\"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the\nplace agrees with her tolerably.\"\n\nMr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts\nof the air of Randalls.\n\n\"Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my\nlife--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.\"\n\n\"Very much to the honour of both,\" was the handsome reply.\n\n\"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?\" asked Isabella in the\nplaintive tone which just suited her father.\n\nMr. Woodhouse hesitated.--\"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.\"\n\n\"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they\nmarried. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,\nhave we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,\neither at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most\nfrequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston\nis really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way,\nyou will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be\naware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be\nassured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by\nany means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact\ntruth.\"\n\n\"Just as it should be,\" said Mr. John Knightley, \"and just as I hoped\nit was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be\ndoubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I\nhave been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change\nbeing so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have\nEmma's account, I hope you will be satisfied.\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure,\" said Mr. Woodhouse--\"yes, certainly--I cannot\ndeny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty\noften--but then--she is always obliged to go away again.\"\n\n\"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite\nforget poor Mr. Weston.\"\n\n\"I think, indeed,\" said John Knightley pleasantly, \"that Mr. Weston has\nsome little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the\npoor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims\nof the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella,\nshe has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all\nthe Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.\"\n\n\"Me, my love,\" cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.--\n\"Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a\ngreater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for\nthe misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss\nTaylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting\nMr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does\nnot deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever\nexisted. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal\nfor temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that\nvery windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last\nSeptember twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night,\non purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I\nhave been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better\nman in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.\"\n\n\"Where is the young man?\" said John Knightley. \"Has he been here on this\noccasion--or has he not?\"\n\n\"He has not been here yet,\" replied Emma. \"There was a strong\nexpectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in\nnothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.\"\n\n\"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,\" said her father.\n\"He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very\nproper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very\nwell done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one\ncannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--\"\n\n\"My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.\"\n\n\"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought\nit--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well,\ntime does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an\nexceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal\nof pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.\n28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it\nwas signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly.\"\n\n\"How very pleasing and proper of him!\" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John\nKnightley. \"I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But\nhow sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is\nsomething so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and\nnatural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with\nhim. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body\nwho proposed such a thing to any body else.\"\n\n\"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,\" observed Mr.\nJohn Knightley coolly. \"But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt\nwhat you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather\nan easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes\nthings as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other,\ndepending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his\ncomforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing\nwhist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection,\nor any thing that home affords.\"\n\nEmma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had\nhalf a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She\nwould keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and\nvaluable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to\nhimself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on\nthe common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was\nimportant.--It had a high claim to forbearance.\n\n\n", "summary": "Emma's sister and her husband arrive from London with several baby Knightleys in tow. Our narrator presents John Knightley as a smart gentleman and Isabella as a warm wife. Luckily, they're married. It all evens out. In case we haven't mentioned it, Mr. Woodhouse is something of a sympathetic hypochondriac - he's convinced that Isabella and the children must all be getting ill after their journey. Isabella, a bit of a hypochondriac herself, agrees. Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella spend quite a bit of time talking about their favorite doctors. It's fascinating, really. Check it out. Isabella mentions her doctor, which makes Mr. Woodhouse rather nervous. After all, everyone knows that Mr. Perry is the best - and only - good doctor in England. Isabella disagrees. Mr. John Knightley starts to point out how silly the entire conversation is. Emma has to play some quick damage control to avert family feuds. The whole family discusses the mysterious Frank Churchill ."}, {"": "124", "document": "THE CAREW MURDER CASE\n\nNEARLY a year later, in the month of October, 18---, London was\nstartled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more\nnotable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and\nstartling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the\nriver, had gone up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled\nover the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was\ncloudless, and the lane, which the maid's window overlooked, was\nbrilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically\ngiven, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under\nthe window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say,\n    with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had\nshe felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the\nworld. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful\ngentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and\nadvancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at\nfirst she\n\n29)\n\npaid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was\n    just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the\nother with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as\nif the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed,\nfrom his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only\ninquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and\nthe girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an\ninnocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something\nhigh too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye\nwandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a\ncertain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she\nhad conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which\nhe was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen\nwith an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke\nout in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing\nthe cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman.\nThe old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much\nsurprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all\nbounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like\nfury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a\nstorm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the\nbody jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and\nsounds, the maid fainted.\n\n30)\n\nIt was two o'clock when she came to herself and called for the\npolice. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in\nthe middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the\ndeed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and\nheavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this\ninsensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the\nneighbouring gutter--the other, without doubt, had been carried\naway by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the\nvictim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped\nenvelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which\nbore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.\n\nThis was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out\nof bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the\ncircumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. \"I shall say nothing\ntill I have seen the body,\" said he; \"this may be very serious. Have\nthe kindness to wait while I dress.\" And with the same grave\ncountenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police\nstation, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into\nthe cell, he nodded.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is\nSir Danvers Carew.\"\n\n\"Good God, sir,\" exclaimed the officer, \"is it possible?\" And the\nnext moment his eye\n\n31)\n\nlighted up with professional ambition. \"This will make a deal of\nnoise,\" he said. \"And perhaps you can help us to the man.\" And he\nbriefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken\nstick.\n\nMr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the\nstick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and\nbattered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself\npresented many years before to Henry Jekyll.\n\n\"Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the\nmaid calls him,\" said the officer.\n\nMr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, \"If you will\ncome with me in my cab,\" he said, \"I think I can take you to his\nhouse.\"\n\nIt was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of\nthe season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but\nthe wind was continually charging and routing these embattled\nvapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr.\nUtterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight;\nfor here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there\nwould be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some\nstrange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be\nquite broken up, and a haggard shaft\n\n32)\n\nof daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The\ndismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its\nmuddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had\nnever been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this\nmournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like\na district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind,\nbesides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the\ncompanion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that\nterror of the law and the law's officers, which may at times assail\nthe most honest.\n\nAs the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a\nlittle and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French\neating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny\nsalads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many\nwomen of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a\nmorning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon\nthat part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly\nsurroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a\nman who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling.\n\nAn ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She\nhad an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were\nexcellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at\nhome; he had been in that night very late,\n\n33)\n\nbut had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing\nstrange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often\nabsent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen\nhim till yesterday.\n\n\"Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,\" said the lawyer; and\nwhen the woman began to declare it was impossible, \"I had better\ntell you who this person is,\" he added. \"This is Inspector Newcomen\nof Scotland Yard.\"\n\nA flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's face. \"Ah!\" said\nshe, \"he is in trouble! What has he done?\"\n\nMr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. \"He don't seem a\nvery popular character,\" observed the latter. \"And now, my good\nwoman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us.\"\n\nIn the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman\nremained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms;\nbut these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was\nfilled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a\ngood picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from\nHenry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of\nmany plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the\nrooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly\nransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside\nout;\n\n34)\n\nlock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of\ngrey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these\nembers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green\ncheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other\nhalf of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched\nhis suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to\nthe bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to\nthe murderer's credit, completed his gratification.\n\n\"You may depend upon it, sir,\" he told Mr. Utterson: \"I have him in\nmy hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the\nstick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money's life to\nthe man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get\nout the handbills.\"\n\nThis last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde\nhad numbered few familiars--even the master of the servant-maid\nhad only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had\nnever been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed\nwidely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they\nagreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity\nwith which the fugitive impressed his beholders.\n\n", "summary": "Nearly a year later, a respected member of London society, Sir Danvers Carew, is murdered. A maid sitting by her window in the very early morning hours witnesses the story recounts the event. She gazes out her window, romantically feeling at one with the world, when she sees an aged man with white hair walking along a nearby path. She watches as he meets another, smaller man, whom she recognizes as Mr. Hyde. Suddenly, Mr. Hyde brakes out in anger and attacks the white haired man, beating him to death with a cane. The maid faints upon witnessing such horror. When she awakes a few hours later, she immediately calls the police, who find the victim's body. On his person, the victim carried a purse, some gold, and a letter addressed to Mr. Utterson. Subsequently, the police contact Mr. Utterson who identifies the victim as Sir Danvers Carew, a member of Parliament. Upon learning the identity of the attacker, Mr. Utterson takes the police chief to Mr. Hyde's home. The police find the rooms in Hyde's home ransacked. Clothes strewn everywhere, half of the cane used to murder Danvers Carew is in one of the corners, and the remnants of a burned checkbook lie on one of the tables. The police soon discover that Mr. Hyde has disappeared. He cannot be found anywhere, and they are unable to find any trace of his past. Moreover, those who have seen him are unable to describe him in detail, but generally agree on his evil appearance."}, {"": "125", "document": "SCENE IV.\nRome. A public place\n\nEnter MENENIUS and SICINIUS\n\n  MENENIUS. See you yond coign o' th' Capitol, yond cornerstone?\n  SICINIUS. Why, what of that?\n  MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace it with your\nlittle\n    finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his\n    mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope\nin't;\n    our throats are sentenc'd, and stay upon execution.\n  SICINIUS. Is't possible that so short a time can alter the\n    condition of a man?\n  MENENIUS. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly;\nyet\n    your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to\n    dragon; he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing.\n  SICINIUS. He lov'd his mother dearly.\n  MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now\n    than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours\nripe\n    grapes; when he walks, he moves like an engine and the ground\n    shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet\nwith\n    his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He\nsits in\n    his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done\nis\n    finish'd with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but\n    eternity, and a heaven to throne in.\n  SICINIUS. Yes- mercy, if you report him truly.\n  MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his\nmother\n    shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than\nthere is\n    milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find. And all\nthis\n    is 'long of you.\n  SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us!\n  MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us.\n    When we banish'd him we respected not them; and, he returning\nto\n    break our necks, they respect not us.\n\n                           Enter a MESSENGER\n\n  MESSENGER. Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house.\n    The plebeians have got your fellow tribune\n    And hale him up and down; all swearing if\n    The Roman ladies bring not comfort home\n    They'll give him death by inches.\n\n                         Enter another MESSENGER\n\n  SICINIUS. What's the news?\n  SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news! The ladies have\nprevail'd,\n    The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone.\n    A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,\n    No, not th' expulsion of the Tarquins.\n  SICINIUS. Friend,\n    Art thou certain this is true? Is't most certain?\n  SECOND MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire.\n    Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it?\n    Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide\n    As the recomforted through th' gates. Why, hark you!\n                  [Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together]\n    The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes,\n    Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans,\n    Make the sun dance. Hark you!               [A shout within]\n  MENENIUS. This is good news.\n    I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia\n    Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,\n    A city full; of tribunes such as you,\n    A sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day:\n    This morning for ten thousand of your throats\n    I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!\n                                   [Sound still with the shouts]\n  SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next,\n    Accept my thankfulness.\n  SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all\n    Great cause to give great thanks.\n  SICINIUS. They are near the city?\n  MESSENGER. Almost at point to enter.\n  SICINIUS. We'll meet them,\n    And help the joy.                                     Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In Rome, Menenius is frightening Sicinius by telling him that there is no hope that Volumnia's mission will succeed, and that Rome's fall will be Sicinius's fault. A messenger enters with the news that the plebeians have seized Brutus and are threatening to kill him if the women do not succeed. A second messenger enters and announces that the women have succeeded; the Volscians have left camp with Coriolanus. A sound of music and celebrations breaks out, as the Roman citizens greet Volumnia, who is returning in triumph to Rome"}, {"": "126", "document": "Roxane, Cyrano.  Then Le Bret, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, Ragueneau,\nDe Guiche, etc.\n\nROXANE:\n  Important, how?\n\nCYRANO (in despair. to Roxane):\n  He's gone!  'Tis naught!--Oh, you know how he sees\n  Importance in a trifle!\n\nROXANE (warmly):\n  Did he doubt\n  Of what I said?--Ah, yes, I saw he doubted!\n\nCYRANO (taking her hand):\n  But are you sure you told him all the truth?\n\nROXANE:\n  Yes, I would love him were he. . .\n\n(She hesitates.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Does that word\n  Embarrass you before my face, Roxane?\n\nROXANE:\n  I. . .\n\nCYRANO (smiling sadly):\n  'Twill not hurt me!  Say it!  If he were\n  Ugly!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Yes, ugly!\n(Musket report outside):\n  Hark!  I hear a shot!\n\nCYRANO (ardently):\n  Hideous!\n\nROXANE:\n  Hideous! yes!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Disfigured.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Grotesque?\n\nROXANE:\n  He could not be grotesque to me!\n\nCYRANO:\n  You'd love the same?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  The same--nay, even more!\n\nCYRANO (losing command over himself--aside):\n  My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there!\n(To Roxane):\n  I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . .\n\nLE BRET (entering hurriedly--to Cyrano):\n  Cyrano!\n\nCYRANO (turning round):\n  What?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Hush!\n\n(He whispers something to him.)\n\nCYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming):\n  Ah, God!\n\nROXANE:\n  What is it?\n\nCYRANO (to himself--stunned):\n  All is over now.\n\n(Renewed reports.)\n\nROXANE:\n  What is the matter?  Hark! another shot!\n\n(She goes up to look outside.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  It is too late, now I can never tell!\n\nROXANE (trying to rush out):\n  What has chanced?\n\nCYRANO (rushing to stop her):\n  Nothing!\n\n(Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close\nround it to prevent Roxane approaching.)\n\nROXANE:\n  And those men?\n(Cyrano draws her away):\n  What were you just about to say before. . .?\n\nCYRANO:\n  What was I saying?  Nothing now, I swear!\n(Solemnly):\n  I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . .\n(Hastily correcting himself):\n  Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Were?\n(With a loud scream):\n  Oh!\n\n(She rushes up, pushing every one aside.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  All is over now!\n\nROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak):\n  O Christian!\n\nLE BRET (to Cyrano):\n  Struck by first shot of the enemy!\n\n(Roxane flings herself down by Christian.  Fresh reports of cannon--clash of\narms--clamor--beating of drums.)\n\nCARBON (with sword in the air):\n  O come!  Your muskets.\n\n(Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.)\n\nROXANE:\n  Christian!\n\nTHE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side):\n  Ho! make haste!\n\nROXANE:\n  Christian!\n\nCARBON:\n  FORM LINE!\n\nROXANE:\n  Christian!\n\nCARBON:\n  HANDLE YOUR MATCH!\n\n(Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.)\n\nCHRISTIAN (in a dying voice):\n  Roxane!\n\nCYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly\ntears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying\nto stanch the bleeding):\n  I told her all.  She loves you still.\n\n(Christian closes his eyes.)\n\nROXANE:\n  How, my sweet love?\n\nCARBON:\n  DRAW RAMRODS!\n\nROXANE (to Cyrano):\n  He is not dead?\n\nCARBON:\n  OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH!\n\nROXANE:\n  His cheek\n  Grows cold against my own!\n\nCARBON:\n  READY!  PRESENT!\n\nROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet):\n  A letter!. . .\n  'Tis for me!\n\n(She opens it.)\n\nCYRANO (aside):\n  My letter!\n\nCARBON:\n  FIRE!\n\n(Musket reports--shouts--noise of battle.)\n\nCYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding):\n  But, Roxane, hark, they fight!\n\nROXANE (detaining him):\n  Stay yet awhile.\n  For he is dead.  You knew him, you alone.\n(Weeping quietly):\n  Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul\n  Wondrous!\n\nCYRANO (standing up--bareheaded):\n  Ay, Roxane.\n\nROXANE:\n  An inspired poet?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, Roxane.\n\nROXANE:\n  And a mind sublime?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh, yes!\n\nROXANE:\n  A heart too deep for common minds to plumb,\n  A spirit subtle, charming?\n\nCYRANO (firmly):\n  Ay, Roxane.\n\nROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body):\n  Dead, my love!\n\nCYRANO (aside--drawing his sword):\n  Ay, and let me die to-day,\n  Since, all unconscious, she mourns me--in him!\n\n(Sounds of trumpets in the distance.)\n\nDE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts--bareheaded--with a wound on his\nforehead--in a voice of thunder):\n  It is the signal!  Trumpet flourishes!\n  The French bring the provisions into camp!\n  Hold but the place awhile!\n\nROXANE:\n  See, there is blood\n  Upon the letter--tears!\n\nA VOICE (outside--shouting):\n  Surrender!\n\nVOICE OF CADETS:\n  No!\n\nRAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the\nedge of the ramparts):\n  The danger's ever greater!\n\nCYRANO (to De Guiche--pointing to Roxane):\n  I will charge!\n  Take her away!\n\nROXANE (kissing the letter--in a half-extinguished voice):\n  O God! his tears! his blood!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her):\n  She's swooned away!\n\nDE GUICHE (on the rampart--to the cadets--with fury):\n  Stand fast!\n\nA VOICE (outside):\n  Lay down your arms!\n\nTHE CADETS:\n  No!\n\nCYRANO (to De Guiche):\n  Now that you have proved your valor, Sir,\n(Pointing to Roxane):\n  Fly, and save her!\n\nDE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms):\n  So be it!  Gain but time,\n  The victory's ours!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Good.\n(Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in\na fainting condition):\n  Farewell, Roxane!\n\n(Tumult.  Shouts.  Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene.  Cyrano,\nrushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming\nwith blood.)\n\nCARBON:\n  We are breaking!  I am wounded--wounded twice!\n\nCYRANO (shouting to the Gascons):\n  GASCONS!  HO, GASCONS!  NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS!\n(To Carbon, whom he is supporting):\n  Have no fear!  I have two deaths to avenge:\n  My friend who's slain;--and my dead happiness!\n(They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's\nhandkerchief):\n  Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name!\n(He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets):\n  FALL ON THEM, GASCONS!  CRUSH THEM!\n(To the fifer):\n  Fifer, play!\n\n(The fife plays.  The wounded try to rise.  Some cadets, falling one over the\nother down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag.  The\ncarriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with\narquebuses, is turned into a fortress.)\n\nA CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries):\n  They're climbing the redoubt!\n(and falls dead.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Let us salute them!\n(The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies.  The\nstandards of the Imperialists are raised):\n  Fire!\n\n(General discharge.)\n\nA CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS:\n  Fire!\n\n(A deadly answering volley.  The cadets fall on all sides.)\n\nA SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering):\n  Who are these men who rush on death?\n\nCYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets):\n  The bold Cadets of Gascony,\n  Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux!\n  Brawling, swaggering boastfully,\n(He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors):\n  The bold Cadets. . .\n\n(His voice is drowned in the battle.)\n\n\nCurtain.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Roxane now reveals to Christian that it was his beautifully written letters that made her risk her life and come to the front to see him. She claims that she was so overwhelmed by feelings for him that she had to come. She also asks Christian's forgiveness for at first loving him only for his looks. Because of the letters, her love for him has become spiritual, and she has no further thoughts of his appearance. Christian is upset by this confession, making Roxane think that he cannot comprehend her love. As a result, she assures him that she would love him even if he were ugly, a confession that upsets Christian even more. He reacts by sending her away to cheer up the cadets in their last moments. He rushes away to speak with Cyrano. Christian desolately tells Cyrano that because of the letters Roxane now loves only his soul, which really means that she loves Cyrano. He encourages Cyrano to confess his love to her since she has said she would love Christian even if he were ugly. He further reasons that Roxane must be told the truth about the letters. Then she can decide whom she really loves. Christian next leaves to summon Roxane. Cyrano will be left alone to explain to her what has transpired. When Roxane arrives, she tells Cyrano that Christian seemed to doubt that she would love him even if he were physically ugly. Cyrano is then on the point of making his confession when Le Bret interrupts. He tells them that Christian has been seriously wounded by the first shot fired in the battle. When the dying Christian is carried on stage, Cyrano goes to him and tries to convince him that Roxane truly loves him. When Roxane goes to him, she finds a letter addressed to her in his pocket, the one that Cyrano has written and given to Christian. Roxane carefully reads the letter, which is now covered with blood, as well as with the tears of Cyrano. The death of Christian is a cruel irony for both Roxane and Cyrano. She has lost her new husband without ever being able to consummate the marriage. Cyrano has lost hope of ever being able to win Roxane for himself. He knows that he will now never be able to tell her of his love. She must also always believe that Christian had a fine mind as evidenced by the letters that he wrote to her. While the firing continues outside, Cyrano asks Ragueneau to get the carriage ready to take Roxane away. De Guiche enters battled- strained, and Cyrano hands over the care of Roxane to him since he has proven his valor for her. Cyrano goes out to fight and avenge the death of Christian and the loss of his happiness. Never again will he be able to express his feelings for Roxane, even in disguise."}, {"": "127", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nMilan. Outside the DUKE'S palace, under SILVIA'S window\n\nEnter PROTEUS\n\n  PROTEUS. Already have I been false to Valentine,\n    And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.\n    Under the colour of commending him\n    I have access my own love to prefer;\n    But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,\n    To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.\n    When I protest true loyalty to her,\n    She twits me with my falsehood to my friend;\n    When to her beauty I commend my vows,\n    She bids me think how I have been forsworn\n    In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd;\n    And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,\n    The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,\n    Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love\n    The more it grows and fawneth on her still.\n\n                 Enter THURIO and MUSICIANS\n\n    But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window,\n    And give some evening music to her ear.\n  THURIO. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us?\n  PROTEUS. Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love\n    Will creep in service where it cannot go.\n  THURIO. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here.\n  PROTEUS. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.\n  THURIO. Who? Silvia?\n  PROTEUS. Ay, Silvia- for your sake.\n  THURIO. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,\n    Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile.\n\n    Enter at a distance, HOST, and JULIA in boy's clothes\n\n  HOST. Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly; I pray\nyou,\n    why is it?\n  JULIA. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.\n  HOST. Come, we'll have you merry; I'll bring you where you\nshall\n    hear music, and see the gentleman that you ask'd for.\n  JULIA. But shall I hear him speak?\n  HOST. Ay, that you shall.                        [Music plays]\n  JULIA. That will be music.\n  HOST. Hark, hark!\n  JULIA. Is he among these?\n  HOST. Ay; but peace! let's hear 'em.\n\n                   SONG\n         Who is Silvia? What is she,\n           That all our swains commend her?\n         Holy, fair, and wise is she;\n           The heaven such grace did lend her,\n         That she might admired be.\n\n         Is she kind as she is fair?\n           For beauty lives with kindness.\n         Love doth to her eyes repair,\n           To help him of his blindness;\n         And, being help'd, inhabits there.\n\n         Then to Silvia let us sing\n           That Silvia is excelling;\n         She excels each mortal thing\n           Upon the dull earth dwelling.\n         'To her let us garlands bring.\n\n  HOST. How now, are you sadder than you were before?\n    How do you, man? The music likes you not.\n  JULIA. You mistake; the musician likes me not.\n  HOST. Why, my pretty youth?\n  JULIA. He plays false, father.\n  HOST. How, out of tune on the strings?\n  JULIA. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very\n    heart-strings.\n  HOST. You have a quick ear.\n  JULIA. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart.\n  HOST. I perceive you delight not in music.\n  JULIA. Not a whit, when it jars so.\n  HOST. Hark, what fine change is in the music!\n  JULIA. Ay, that change is the spite.\n  HOST. You would have them always play but one thing?\n  JULIA. I would always have one play but one thing.\n    But, Host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on,\n    Often resort unto this gentlewoman?\n  HOST. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov'd her\nout of\n    all nick.\n  JULIA. Where is Launce?\n  HOST. Gone to seek his dog, which to-morrow, by his master's\n    command, he must carry for a present to his lady.\n  JULIA. Peace, stand aside; the company parts.\n  PROTEUS. Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead\n    That you shall say my cunning drift excels.\n  THURIO. Where meet we?\n  PROTEUS. At Saint Gregory's well.\n  THURIO. Farewell.                  Exeunt THURIO and MUSICIANS\n\n                  Enter SILVIA above, at her window\n\n  PROTEUS. Madam, good ev'n to your ladyship.\n  SILVIA. I thank you for your music, gentlemen.\n    Who is that that spake?\n  PROTEUS. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,\n    You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.\n  SILVIA. Sir Proteus, as I take it.\n  PROTEUS. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.\n  SILVIA. What's your will?\n  PROTEUS. That I may compass yours.\n  SILVIA. You have your wish; my will is even this,\n    That presently you hie you home to bed.\n    Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man,\n    Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,\n    To be seduced by thy flattery\n    That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows?\n    Return, return, and make thy love amends.\n    For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,\n    I am so far from granting thy request\n    That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,\n    And by and by intend to chide myself\n    Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.\n  PROTEUS. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;\n    But she is dead.\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  'Twere false, if I should speak it;\n    For I am sure she is not buried.\n  SILVIA. Say that she be; yet Valentine, thy friend,\n    Survives, to whom, thyself art witness,\n    I am betroth'd; and art thou not asham'd\n    To wrong him with thy importunacy?\n  PROTEUS. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.\n  SILVIA. And so suppose am I; for in his grave\n    Assure thyself my love is buried.\n  PROTEUS. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.\n  SILVIA. Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence;\n    Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  He heard not that.\n  PROTEUS. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,\n    Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,\n    The picture that is hanging in your chamber;\n    To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep;\n    For, since the substance of your perfect self\n    Is else devoted, I am but a shadow;\n    And to your shadow will I make true love.\n  JULIA.  [Aside]  If 'twere a substance, you would, sure,\ndeceive it\n    And make it but a shadow, as I am.\n  SILVIA. I am very loath to be your idol, sir;\n    But since your falsehood shall become you well\n    To worship shadows and adore false shapes,\n    Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it;\n    And so, good rest.\n  PROTEUS. As wretches have o'ernight\n    That wait for execution in the morn.\n                                       Exeunt PROTEUS and SILVIA\n  JULIA. Host, will you go?\n  HOST. By my halidom, I was fast asleep.\n  JULIA. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?\n  HOST. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day.\n  JULIA. Not so; but it hath been the longest night\n    That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest.           Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Proteus stands outside Silvia's window in the moonlight. He tells the audience Silvia has been spurning his advances. She's also been reminding him of his friendship with Valentine and his commitment to Julia. Thurio shows up with a band of musicians and they all serenade Silvia. Julia enters with the Host, who leads her over to Proteus and the musicians. Julia is not happy that Proteus is singing to some other girl. She tells the host she's unhappy with the music because it rings false, but she let's him assume she's talking about the quality of the music or the choice of song--not Proteus's betrayal. Julia also learns from the Host that Proteus is in love with Silvia. And that tomorrow, Proteus is planning to give her Lance's dog, Crab, as a gift. Thurio and the musicians take off. Julia watches Proteus try to seduce Silvia. Silvia tells Proteus to get lost--he's a disloyal snake. Proteus lies and says his girlfriend and Valentine are both dead so there's no reason why they can't be together. Silvia promises to give Proteus a picture of her tomorrow if he'll go away and leave her alone. Julia is devastated. She's also still wearing her disguise. She wakes the Host, who apparently fell asleep, and asks him where Proteus is staying. Uh-oh. Something tells us this isn't going to go well."}, {"": "128", "document": "SCENE IV. \n\n_A nunnery._\n\n  _Enter ISABELLA and FRANCISCA._\n\n_Isab._ And have you nuns no farther privileges?\n\n_Fran._ Are not these large enough?\n\n_Isab._ Yes, truly: I speak not as desiring more;\nBut rather wishing a more strict restraint\nUpon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.                   5\n\n_Lucio_ [_within_]. Ho! Peace be in this place!\n\n_Isab._                                 Who's that which calls?\n\n_Fran._ It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella,\nTurn you the key, and know his business of him;\nYou may, I may not; you are yet unsworn.\nWhen you have vow'd, you must not speak with men                    10\nBut in the presence of the prioress:\nThen, if you speak, you must not show your face;\nOr, if you show your face, you must not speak.\nHe calls again; I pray you, answer him.    [_Exit._\n\n_Isab._ Peace and prosperity! Who is't that calls?                  15\n\n  _Enter LUCIO._\n\n_Lucio._ Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses\nProclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me\nAs bring me to the sight of Isabella,\nA novice of this place, and the fair sister\nTo her unhappy brother Claudio?                                     20\n\n_Isab._ Why, 'her unhappy brother'? let me ask\nThe rather, for I now must make you know\nI am that Isabella and his sister.\n\n_Lucio._ Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you:\nNot to be weary with you, he's in prison.                           25\n\n_Isab._ Woe me! for what?\n\n_Lucio._ For that which, if myself might be his judge,\nHe should receive his punishment in thanks:\nHe hath got his friend with child.\n\n_Isab._ Sir, make me not your story.\n\n_Lucio._                           It is true.                      30\nI would not--though 'tis my familiar sin\nWith maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest,\nTongue far from heart--play with all virgins so:\nI hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted;\nBy your renouncement, an immortal spirit;                           35\nAnd to be talk'd with in sincerity,\nAs with a saint.\n\n_Isab._ You do blaspheme the good in mocking me.\n\n_Lucio._ Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 'tis thus:--\nYour brother and his lover have embraced:                           40\nAs those that feed grow full,--as blossoming time,\nThat from the seedness the bare fallow brings\nTo teeming foison,--even so her plenteous womb\nExpresseth his full tilth and husbandry.\n\n_Isab._ Some one with child by him?--My cousin Juliet?              45\n\n_Lucio._ Is she your cousin?\n\n_Isab._ Adoptedly; as school-maids change their names\nBy vain, though apt, affection.\n\n_Lucio._                      She it is.\n\n_Isab._ O, let him marry her.\n\n_Lucio._                    This is the point.\nThe duke is very strangely gone from hence;                         50\nBore many gentlemen, myself being one,\nIn hand, and hope of action: but we do learn\nBy those that know the very nerves of state,\nHis givings-out were of an infinite distance\nFrom his true-meant design. Upon his place,                         55\nAnd with full line of his authority,\nGoverns Lord Angelo; a man whose blood\nIs very snow-broth; one who never feels\nThe wanton stings and motions of the sense,\nBut doth rebate and blunt his natural edge                          60\nWith profits of the mind, study and fast.\nHe--to give fear to use and liberty,\nWhich have for long run by the hideous law,\nAs mice by lions--hath pick'd out an act,\nUnder whose heavy sense your brother's life                         65\nFalls into forfeit: he arrests him on it;\nAnd follows close the rigour of the statute,\nTo make him an example. All hope is gone,\nUnless you have the grace by your fair prayer\nTo soften Angelo: and that's my pith of business                    70\n'Twixt you and your poor brother.\n\n_Isab._ Doth he so seek his life?\n\n_Lucio._                        Has censured him\nAlready; and, as I hear, the provost hath\nA warrant for his execution.\n\n_Isab._ Alas! what poor ability's in me                             75\nTo do him good?\n\n_Lucio._      Assay the power you have.\n\n_Isab._ My power? Alas, I doubt,--\n\n_Lucio._                         Our doubts are traitors,\nAnd make us lose the good we oft might win\nBy fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,\nAnd let him learn to know, when maidens sue,                        80\nMen give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,\nAll their petitions are as freely theirs\nAs they themselves would owe them.\n\n_Isab._ I'll see what I can do.\n\n_Lucio._                      But speedily.\n\n_Isab._ I will about it straight;                                   85\nNo longer staying but to give the Mother\nNotice of my affair. I humbly thank you:\nCommend me to my brother: soon at night\nI'll send him certain word of my success.\n\n_Lucio._ I take my leave of you.\n\n_Isab._                        Good sir, adieu.                     90\n\n    [_Exeunt._\n\n\n  NOTES: I, 4.\n\n  SCENE IV.] SCENA QUINTA Ff. SCENE VIII. Pope.\n  5: _sisterhood, the votarists_] _sister votarists_ Pope.\n  27: _For that which_] _That for which_ Malone conj.\n  30: _make me not your story_] _mock me not:--your story_ Malone.\n    _make me not your scorn_ Collier MS. (after Davenant).\n    _make ... sport_ Singer.\n  _It is true_] Steevens. _'Tis true_ Ff. om. Pope.\n    _Nay, tis true_ Capell.\n  31: _I would not_] Malone puts a full stop here.\n  40: _have_] _having_ Rowe.\n  42: _That ... brings_] _Doth ... bring_ Hanmer.\n  _seedness_] _seeding_ Collier MS.\n  44: _his_] _its_ Hanmer.\n  49: _O, let him_] F1. _Let him_ F2 F3 F4. _Let him then_ Pope.\n  50: _is_] _who's_ Collier MS.\n  52: _and_] _with_ Johnson conj.\n  _do_] om. Pope.\n  54: _givings-out_] Rowe. _giving-out_ Ff.\n  60: _his_] _it's_ Capell.\n  63: _for long_] _long time_ Pope.\n  68: _hope is_] _hope's_ Pope.\n  70: _pith of business 'Twixt_] _pith Of business betwixt_ Hanmer.\n    See note (VI).\n  _pith of_] om. Pope.\n  72: _so seek_] _so, Seeke_ Ff. _so? seek_ Edd. conj.\n  _Has_] _H'as_ Theobald.\n  71-75: Ff end the lines thus:-- _so,--already--warrant--poor--good._\n    Capell first gave the arrangement in the text.\n  73: _as_] om. Hanmer.\n  74: _A warrant for his_] _a warrant For's_ Ff.\n  78: _make_] Pope. _makes_ Ff.\n  82: _freely_] F1. _truely_ F2 F3 F4.\n    Enter _Provost_ inserted by Capell.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Duke is at a monastery, asking Friar Thomas to hide him there. He tells the friar that he has good reasons for hiding, and that he has lied to Angelo about his destination. The Duke explains that for the past fourteen years the laws have been flagrantly disobeyed, with little reproach from the government. As the Duke explains it, when the law only serves to threaten, because the lawmakers do not carry out the punishments dictated, the government loses its authority and \"the baby beats the nurse\" . Since he gave the people liberties, he does not feel comfortable punishing them for them now, yet he worries about the state of affairs in Vienna. He asked Angelo to take over in order to act more strictly without reproach or hypocrisy. He wants to observe Angelo at work, and so he asks the Friar to provide him with a disguise which will make him look like a visiting Friar himself. Meanwhile, Isabella is being introduced to the ways of the nunnery which she has decided to join. A man approaches, and the sister asks Isabella to answer the door, since she is not sworn in yet and therefore still allowed to speak to men. Isabella obeys and finds Lucio at the door, asking for her by name. Isabella asks him to explain what has happened, and he tells her that Claudio has impregnated his \"friend.\" Isabella does not believe it at first and tells Lucio not to mock her. Lucio says that he is indeed telling the truth, and Isabella asks if the woman is her friend Juliet. When Lucio says yes, Isabella asks why they cannot simply marry. Lucio explains that the Duke is gone, and that the very logical and unemotional Angelo is serving as leader in his place. He also says that Angelo wants to make Claudio an example by executing him. Isabella asks how she can help, and Lucio says she should test whatever influence she has and visit Angelo, using her feminine charms and submissiveness to convince him to have mercy on her brother. Isabella says she will leave right away."}, {"": "129", "document": "SCENE III.\nRome. The Forum\n\nEnter SICINIUS and BRUTUS\n\n  BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he affects\n    Tyrannical power. If he evade us there,\n    Enforce him with his envy to the people,\n    And that the spoil got on the Antiates\n    Was ne'er distributed.\n\n                           Enter an AEDILE\n\n    What, will he come?\n  AEDILE. He's coming.\n  BRUTUS. How accompanied?\n  AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators\n    That always favour'd him.\n  SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue\n    Of all the voices that we have procur'd,\n    Set down by th' poll?\n  AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready.\n  SICINIUS. Have you collected them by tribes?\n  AEDILE. I have.\n  SICINIUS. Assemble presently the people hither;\n    And when they hear me say 'It shall be so\n    I' th' right and strength o' th' commons' be it either\n    For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them,\n    If I say fine, cry 'Fine!'- if death, cry 'Death!'\n    Insisting on the old prerogative\n    And power i' th' truth o' th' cause.\n  AEDILE. I shall inform them.\n  BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry,\n    Let them not cease, but with a din confus'd\n    Enforce the present execution\n    Of what we chance to sentence.\n  AEDILE. Very well.\n  SICINIUS. Make them be strong, and ready for this hint,\n    When we shall hap to give't them.\n  BRUTUS. Go about it.                               Exit AEDILE\n    Put him to choler straight. He hath been us'd\n    Ever to conquer, and to have his worth\n    Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot\n    Be rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks\n    What's in his heart, and that is there which looks\n    With us to break his neck.\n\n          Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS and COMINIUS, with others\n\n  SICINIUS. Well, here he comes.\n  MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you.\n  CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th' poorest piece\n    Will bear the knave by th' volume. Th' honour'd gods\n    Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice\n    Supplied with worthy men! plant love among's!\n    Throng our large temples with the shows of peace,\n    And not our streets with war!\n  FIRST SENATOR. Amen, amen!\n  MENENIUS. A noble wish.\n\n                  Re-enter the AEDILE,with the plebeians\n\n  SICINIUS. Draw near, ye people.\n  AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, I say!\n  CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak.\n  BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say. Peace, ho!\n  CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charg'd no further than this present?\n    Must all determine here?\n  SICINIUS. I do demand,\n    If you submit you to the people's voices,\n    Allow their officers, and are content\n    To suffer lawful censure for such faults\n    As shall be prov'd upon you.\n  CORIOLANUS. I am content.\n  MENENIUS. Lo, citizens, he says he is content.\n    The warlike service he has done, consider; think\n    Upon the wounds his body bears, which show\n    Like graves i' th' holy churchyard.\n  CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briers,\n    Scars to move laughter only.\n  MENENIUS. Consider further,\n    That when he speaks not like a citizen,\n    You find him like a soldier; do not take\n    His rougher accents for malicious sounds,\n    But, as I say, such as become a soldier\n    Rather than envy you.\n  COMINIUS. Well, well! No more.\n  CORIOLANUS. What is the matter,\n    That being pass'd for consul with full voice,\n    I am so dishonour'd that the very hour\n    You take it off again?\n  SICINIUS. Answer to us.\n  CORIOLANUS. Say then; 'tis true, I ought so.\n  SICINIUS. We charge you that you have contriv'd to take\n    From Rome all season'd office, and to wind\n    Yourself into a power tyrannical;\n    For which you are a traitor to the people.\n  CORIOLANUS. How- traitor?\n  MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your promise.\n  CORIOLANUS. The fires i' th' lowest hell fold in the people!\n    Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune!\n    Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths,\n    In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in\n    Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say\n    'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free\n    As I do pray the gods.\n  SICINIUS. Mark you this, people?\n  PLEBEIANS. To th' rock, to th' rock, with him!\n  SICINIUS. Peace!\n    We need not put new matter to his charge.\n    What you have seen him do and heard him speak,\n    Beating your officers, cursing yourselves,\n    Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying\n    Those whose great power must try him- even this,\n    So criminal and in such capital kind,\n    Deserves th' extremest death.\n  BRUTUS. But since he hath\n    Serv'd well for Rome-\n  CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service?\n  BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it.\n  CORIOLANUS. You!\n  MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother?\n  COMINIUS. Know, I pray you-\n  CORIOLANUS. I'll know no further.\n    Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death,\n    Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger\n    But with a grain a day, I would not buy\n    Their mercy at the price of one fair word,\n    Nor check my courage for what they can give,\n    To have't with saying 'Good morrow.'\n  SICINIUS. For that he has-\n    As much as in him lies- from time to time\n    Envied against the people, seeking means\n    To pluck away their power; as now at last\n    Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence\n    Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers\n    That do distribute it- in the name o' th' people,\n    And in the power of us the tribunes, we,\n    Ev'n from this instant, banish him our city,\n    In peril of precipitation\n    From off the rock Tarpeian, never more\n    To enter our Rome gates. I' th' people's name,\n    I say it shall be so.\n  PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away!\n    He's banish'd, and it shall be so.\n  COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends-\n  SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; no more hearing.\n  COMINIUS. Let me speak.\n    I have been consul, and can show for Rome\n    Her enemies' marks upon me. I do love\n    My country's good with a respect more tender,\n    More holy and profound, than mine own life,\n    My dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase\n    And treasure of my loins. Then if I would\n    Speak that-\n  SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what?\n  BRUTUS. There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd,\n    As enemy to the people and his country.\n    It shall be so.\n  PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so.\n  CORIOLANUS. You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate\n    As reek o' th' rotten fens, whose loves I prize\n    As the dead carcasses of unburied men\n    That do corrupt my air- I banish you.\n    And here remain with your uncertainty!\n    Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts;\n    Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,\n    Fan you into despair! Have the power still\n    To banish your defenders, till at length\n    Your ignorance- which finds not till it feels,\n    Making but reservation of yourselves\n    Still your own foes- deliver you\n    As most abated captives to some nation\n    That won you without blows! Despising\n    For you the city, thus I turn my back;\n    There is a world elsewhere.\n                                              Exeunt CORIOLANUS,\n                   COMINIUS, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS\n  AEDILE. The people's enemy is gone, is gone!\n                        [They all shout and throw up their caps]\n  PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo!\n  SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him,\n    As he hath follow'd you, with all despite;\n    Give him deserv'd vexation. Let a guard\n    Attend us through the city.\n  PLEBEIANS. Come, come, let's see him out at gates; come!\n    The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come.           Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sicinius and Brutus plot Coriolanus's downfall. They have arranged a voting system that will favor the views of the poor majority rather than the usual system, which favors the patricians. They brief an Aedile to work on the people to echo whatever sentence they decide. Brutus tells Sicinius to make Coriolanus angry, as he will not be able to control his speech and will say something that will bring about his ruin. Coriolanus, accompanied by Senators, enters. He agrees to abide by the people's verdict. Menenius speaks in defense of Coriolanus, pointing out that he has done valuable service to Rome but that he is a soldier, rough in speech. Sicinius charges Coriolanus of plotting to seize tyrannical power and of treason to the people. Coriolanus rises to the bait and furiously accuses him of being a liar. With Sicinius's encouragement, the plebeians cry out for Coriolanus to be thrown off the Tarpeian rock. The Senators remind him to be polite, but Coriolanus insists he will not speak one polite word to them, even if it means his death. Sicinius and Brutus pronounce sentence on Coriolanus: he shall be banished from Rome forever. The plebeians echo the sentence. Coriolanus replies contemptuously that it is he who banishes them. He leaves with the patricians."}, {"": "130", "document": "\nThe faithful Cacambo had already prevailed upon the Turkish skipper, who\nwas to conduct the Sultan Achmet to Constantinople, to receive Candide\nand Martin on his ship. They both embarked after having made their\nobeisance to his miserable Highness.\n\n\"You see,\" said Candide to Martin on the way, \"we supped with six\ndethroned kings, and of those six there was one to whom I gave charity.\nPerhaps there are many other princes yet more unfortunate. For my part,\nI have only lost a hundred sheep; and now I am flying into Cunegonde's\narms. My dear Martin, yet once more Pangloss was right: all is for the\nbest.\"\n\n\"I wish it,\" answered Martin.\n\n\"But,\" said Candide, \"it was a very strange adventure we met with at\nVenice. It has never before been seen or heard that six dethroned kings\nhave supped together at a public inn.\"\n\n\"It is not more extraordinary,\" said Martin, \"than most of the things\nthat have happened to us. It is a very common thing for kings to be\ndethroned; and as for the honour we have had of supping in their\ncompany, it is a trifle not worth our attention.\"\n\nNo sooner had Candide got on board the vessel than he flew to his old\nvalet and friend Cacambo, and tenderly embraced him.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"what news of Cunegonde? Is she still a prodigy of\nbeauty? Does she love me still? How is she? Thou hast doubtless bought\nher a palace at Constantinople?\"\n\n\"My dear master,\" answered Cacambo, \"Cunegonde washes dishes on the\nbanks of the Propontis, in the service of a prince, who has very few\ndishes to wash; she is a slave in the family of an ancient sovereign\nnamed Ragotsky,[35] to whom the Grand Turk allows three crowns a day in\nhis exile. But what is worse still is, that she has lost her beauty and\nhas become horribly ugly.\"\n\n\"Well, handsome or ugly,\" replied Candide, \"I am a man of honour, and it\nis my duty to love her still. But how came she to be reduced to so\nabject a state with the five or six millions that you took to her?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Cacambo, \"was I not to give two millions to Senor Don\nFernando d'Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza,\nGovernor of Buenos Ayres, for permitting Miss Cunegonde to come away?\nAnd did not a corsair bravely rob us of all the rest? Did not this\ncorsair carry us to Cape Matapan, to Milo, to Nicaria, to Samos, to\nPetra, to the Dardanelles, to Marmora, to Scutari? Cunegonde and the old\nwoman serve the prince I now mentioned to you, and I am slave to the\ndethroned Sultan.\"\n\n\"What a series of shocking calamities!\" cried Candide. \"But after all, I\nhave some diamonds left; and I may easily pay Cunegonde's ransom. Yet it\nis a pity that she is grown so ugly.\"\n\nThen, turning towards Martin: \"Who do you think,\" said he, \"is most to\nbe pitied--the Sultan Achmet, the Emperor Ivan, King Charles Edward, or\nI?\"\n\n\"How should I know!\" answered Martin. \"I must see into your hearts to be\nable to tell.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Candide, \"if Pangloss were here, he could tell.\"\n\n\"I know not,\" said Martin, \"in what sort of scales your Pangloss would\nweigh the misfortunes of mankind and set a just estimate on their\nsorrows. All that I can presume to say is, that there are millions of\npeople upon earth who have a hundred times more to complain of than King\nCharles Edward, the Emperor Ivan, or the Sultan Achmet.\"\n\n\"That may well be,\" said Candide.\n\nIn a few days they reached the Bosphorus, and Candide began by paying a\nvery high ransom for Cacambo. Then without losing time, he and his\ncompanions went on board a galley, in order to search on the banks of\nthe Propontis for his Cunegonde, however ugly she might have become.\n\nAmong the crew there were two slaves who rowed very badly, and to whose\nbare shoulders the Levantine captain would now and then apply blows from\na bull's pizzle. Candide, from a natural impulse, looked at these two\nslaves more attentively than at the other oarsmen, and approached them\nwith pity. Their features though greatly disfigured, had a slight\nresemblance to those of Pangloss and the unhappy Jesuit and Westphalian\nBaron, brother to Miss Cunegonde. This moved and saddened him. He looked\nat them still more attentively.\n\n\"Indeed,\" said he to Cacambo, \"if I had not seen Master Pangloss hanged,\nand if I had not had the misfortune to kill the Baron, I should think it\nwas they that were rowing.\"\n\nAt the names of the Baron and of Pangloss, the two galley-slaves uttered\na loud cry, held fast by the seat, and let drop their oars. The captain\nran up to them and redoubled his blows with the bull's pizzle.\n\n\"Stop! stop! sir,\" cried Candide. \"I will give you what money you\nplease.\"\n\n\"What! it is Candide!\" said one of the slaves.\n\n\"What! it is Candide!\" said the other.\n\n\"Do I dream?\" cried Candide; \"am I awake? or am I on board a galley? Is\nthis the Baron whom I killed? Is this Master Pangloss whom I saw\nhanged?\"\n\n\"It is we! it is we!\" answered they.\n\n\"Well! is this the great philosopher?\" said Martin.\n\n\"Ah! captain,\" said Candide, \"what ransom will you take for Monsieur de\nThunder-ten-Tronckh, one of the first barons of the empire, and for\nMonsieur Pangloss, the profoundest metaphysician in Germany?\"\n\n\"Dog of a Christian,\" answered the Levantine captain, \"since these two\ndogs of Christian slaves are barons and metaphysicians, which I doubt\nnot are high dignities in their country, you shall give me fifty\nthousand sequins.\"\n\n\"You shall have them, sir. Carry me back at once to Constantinople, and\nyou shall receive the money directly. But no; carry me first to Miss\nCunegonde.\"\n\nUpon the first proposal made by Candide, however, the Levantine captain\nhad already tacked about, and made the crew ply their oars quicker than\na bird cleaves the air.\n\nCandide embraced the Baron and Pangloss a hundred times.\n\n\"And how happened it, my dear Baron, that I did not kill you? And, my\ndear Pangloss, how came you to life again after being hanged? And why\nare you both in a Turkish galley?\"\n\n\"And it is true that my dear sister is in this country?\" said the Baron.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Cacambo.\n\n\"Then I behold, once more, my dear Candide,\" cried Pangloss.\n\nCandide presented Martin and Cacambo to them; they embraced each other,\nand all spoke at once. The galley flew; they were already in the port.\nInstantly Candide sent for a Jew, to whom he sold for fifty thousand\nsequins a diamond worth a hundred thousand, though the fellow swore to\nhim by Abraham that he could give him no more. He immediately paid the\nransom for the Baron and Pangloss. The latter threw himself at the feet\nof his deliverer, and bathed them with his tears; the former thanked him\nwith a nod, and promised to return him the money on the first\nopportunity.\n\n\"But is it indeed possible that my sister can be in Turkey?\" said he.\n\n\"Nothing is more possible,\" said Cacambo, \"since she scours the dishes\nin the service of a Transylvanian prince.\"\n\nCandide sent directly for two Jews and sold them some more diamonds, and\nthen they all set out together in another galley to deliver Cunegonde\nfrom slavery.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Now boarding the ship, the relentless Candide again tries to resurrect Pangloss' optimism in front of Martin, asserting that since his circumstances might be worse, all must be for the best. Martin, of course, is skeptical. Next speaking to Cacambo, Candide learns that Cunegonde too is a slave, working as a dishwasher, and ugly to boot. Candide, however, says that he doesn't care what she looks like, as long as he can see her again. Walking about on ship, Candide spies two convicts who bear a remarkable resemblance to Cunegonde's brother, the baron, and Dr. Pangloss, both thought to be dead. Getting closer, he realizes that indeed it is them, alive, though not well. Motioning to the captain, Candide arranges to pay for their release"}, {"": "131", "document": "SCENE VI    ORGON, DAMIS, TARTUFFE\n\n\n  ORGON\n  Just Heaven! Can what I hear be credited?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Yes, brother, I am wicked, I am guilty,\n  A miserable sinner, steeped in evil,\n  The greatest criminal that ever lived.\n  Each moment of my life is stained with soilures;\n  And all is but a mass of crime and filth;\n  Heaven, for my punishment, I see it plainly,\n  Would mortify me now. Whatever wrong\n  They find to charge me with, I'll not deny it\n  But guard against the pride of self-defence.\n  Believe their stories, arm your wrath against me,\n  And drive me like a villain from your house;\n  I cannot have so great a share of shame\n  But what I have deserved a greater still.\n\n  ORGON (to his son)\n  You miscreant, can you dare, with such a falsehood,\n  To try to stain the whiteness of his virtue?\n\n  DAMIS\n  What! The feigned meekness of this hypocrite\n  Makes you discredit ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Silence, cursed plague!\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Ah! Let him speak; you chide him wrongfully;\n  You'd do far better to believe his tales.\n  Why favour me so much in such a matter?\n  How can you know of what I'm capable?\n  And should you trust my outward semblance, brother,\n  Or judge therefrom that I'm the better man?\n  No, no; you let appearances deceive you;\n  I'm anything but what I'm thought to be,\n  Alas! and though all men believe me godly,\n  The simple truth is, I'm a worthless creature.\n\n  (To Damis)\n  Yes, my dear son, say on, and call me traitor,\n  Abandoned scoundrel, thief, and murderer;\n  Heap on me names yet more detestable,\n  And I shall not gainsay you; I've deserved them;\n  I'll bear this ignominy on my knees,\n  To expiate in shame the crimes I've done.\n\n  ORGON (to Tartuffe)\n  Ah, brother, 'tis too much!\n\n  (To his son)\n  You'll not relent,\n  You blackguard?\n\n  DAMIS\n  What! His talk can so deceive you ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Silence, you scoundrel!\n\n  (To Tartuffe)\n  Brother, rise, I beg you.\n\n  (To his son)\n  Infamous villain!\n\n  DAMIS\n  Can he ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Silence!\n\n  DAMIS\n  What ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Another word, I'll break your every bone.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Brother, in God's name, don't be angry with him!\n  I'd rather bear myself the bitterest torture\n  Than have him get a scratch on my account.\n\n  ORGON (to his son)\n  Ungrateful monster!\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Stop. Upon my knees\n  I beg you pardon him ...\n\n  ORGON (throwing himself on his knees too, and embracing Tartuffe)\n  Alas! How can you?\n\n  (To his son)\n  Villain! Behold his goodness!\n\n  DAMIS\n  So ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Be still.\n\n  DAMIS\n  What! I ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Be still, I say. I know your motives\n  For this attack. You hate him, all of you;\n  Wife, children, servants, all let loose upon him,\n  You have recourse to every shameful trick\n  To drive this godly man out of my house;\n  The more you strive to rid yourselves of him,\n  The more I'll strive to make him stay with me;\n  I'll have him straightway married to my daughter,\n  Just to confound the pride of all of you.\n\n  DAMIS\n  What! Will you force her to accept his hand?\n\n  ORGON\n  Yes, and this very evening, to enrage you,\n  Young rascal! Ah! I'll brave you all, and show you\n  That I'm the master, and must be obeyed.\n  Now, down upon your knees this instant, rogue,\n  And take back what you said, and ask his pardon.\n\n  DAMIS\n  Who? I? Ask pardon of that cheating scoundrel ... ?\n\n  ORGON\n  Do you resist, you beggar, and insult him?\n  A cudgel, here! a cudgel!\n\n  (To Tartuffe)\n  Don't restrain me.\n\n  (To his son)\n  Off with you! Leave my house this instant, sirrah,\n  And never dare set foot in it again.\n\n  DAMIS\n  Yes, I will leave your house, but ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Leave it quickly.\n  You reprobate, I disinherit you,\n  And give you, too, my curse into the bargain.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Orgon immediately asks Tartuffe if what Damis is saying is true. . Tartuffe tells Orgon that he is, in fact a bad guy, that he's awful, sinful, terrible, the worst person this side of Judas. He tells Orgon to believe what he has just been told, and to kick him to the curb, please. No, really. Orgon doesn't seem to hear what Tartuffe has said. He screams at Damis and calls him a liar. Damis can't believe it; he can't believe Tartuffe's little reverse psychology trick has worked. When he goes to reason with Orgon he's cut off. Tartuffe steps in to defend Damis. He reiterates that he, Tartuffe, is full of it, a liar, a hypocrite, an awful human being. He turns to Damis, kneels before him, and asks him to accuse him some more; he says that he deserves every last bit of punishment. Orgon comforts Tartuffe then turns and insults Damis. Damis tries to talk some sense into him. Orgon insults his son, asks Tartuffe to stand up, then insults him again. This cycle repeats itself a few times until Tartuffe finally falls to his knees again and asks Orgon to pardon Damis. Orgon is, of course, blown away by Tartuffe's kindness. He insults Damis some more, then declares that he'll have Mariane marry Tartuffe this night. He then asks Damis to kneel down and beg Tartuffe for forgiveness. When Damis refuses to do this, Orgon threatens to beat him, then tells him to scram, for good, and never come back. Oh, and he disinherits him too."}, {"": "132", "document": "\nPhileas Fogg was in prison.  He had been shut up in the Custom House,\nand he was to be transferred to London the next day.\n\nPassepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon\nFix had he not been held back by some policemen.  Aouda was\nthunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not\nunderstand.  Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest\nand courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber.  The young woman's heart\nrevolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could\nattempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly.\n\nAs for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether\nMr. Fogg were guilty or not.\n\nThe thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new\nmisfortune!  Had he not concealed Fix's errand from his master?  When\nFix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr.\nFogg?  If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix\nproof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix\nwould not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of\nhis master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil.\nPassepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains\nout.\n\nAouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the\nCustom House.  Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to\nsee Mr. Fogg again.\n\nThat gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was\nabout to attain his end.  This arrest was fatal.  Having arrived at\nLiverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he\nhad till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club,\nthat is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London\nwas six hours.\n\nIf anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have\nfound Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger,\nupon a wooden bench.  He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last\nblow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion.  Was\nhe being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible\nbecause contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible\nforce, at the last moment?  No one could tell.  There he sat, calmly\nwaiting--for what?  Did he still cherish hope?  Did he still believe,\nnow that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would\nsucceed?\n\nHowever that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the\ntable, and observed its advancing hands.  Not a word escaped his lips,\nbut his look was singularly set and stern.  The situation, in any\nevent, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg\nwas honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught.\n\nDid escape occur to him?  Did he examine to see if there were any\npracticable outlet from his prison?  Did he think of escaping from it?\nPossibly; for once he walked slowly around the room.  But the door was\nlocked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods.  He sat down\nagain, and drew his journal from his pocket.  On the line where these\nwords were written, \"21st December, Saturday, Liverpool,\" he added,\n\"80th day, 11.40 a.m.,\" and waited.\n\nThe Custom House clock struck one.  Mr. Fogg observed that his watch\nwas two hours too fast.\n\nTwo hours!  Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express\ntrain, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before\nnine, p.m.  His forehead slightly wrinkled.\n\nAt thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside,\nthen a hasty opening of doors.  Passepartout's voice was audible, and\nimmediately after that of Fix.  Phileas Fogg's eyes brightened for an\ninstant.\n\nThe door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who\nhurried towards him.\n\nFix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder.  He could not\nspeak.  \"Sir,\" he stammered, \"sir--forgive me--most--unfortunate\nresemblance--robber arrested three days ago--you are free!\"\n\nPhileas Fogg was free!  He walked to the detective, looked him steadily\nin the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his\nlife, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the\nprecision of a machine knocked Fix down.\n\n\"Well hit!\" cried Passepartout, \"Parbleu! that's what you might call a\ngood application of English fists!\"\n\nFix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word.  He had only\nreceived his deserts.  Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the\nCustom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments\ndescended at the station.\n\nPhileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for\nLondon.  It was forty minutes past two.  The express train had left\nthirty-five minutes before.  Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.\n\nThere were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway\narrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three\no'clock.\n\nAt that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer\nof a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his\nfaithful servant.\n\nIt was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this\nwould have been easy on a clear road throughout.  But there were forced\ndelays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all\nthe clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine.\n\nHaving made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes.  He\nhad lost the wager!\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Fogg is in the prison. He is confined in the Custom House lock up. Aouda is shocked by Fogg's arrest whereas, Passepartout feels guilty. While Fogg sits in prison, Passepartout calmly watches the hands of a watch move ahead. The thought of trying to escape the prison does cross his mind but there is no way out. While everything seems against him, suddenly Fix and Passepartout come inside his cell. Fix apologizes to Fogg, saying that the real robber was found three days ago and that Fogg is free to go. Fogg gives Fix a punch that knocks the latter down. Passepartout, Fogg and Aouda then go to Liverpool Station. Since the Express train to London had already left, Fogg hires a special train and gives the driver an incentive to reach England as fast as possible. But, the train faces all kinds of insurmountable delays and when Fogg reaches England he thinks he has reached five minutes late. He thinks he has lost his wager."}, {"": "133", "document": "SCENE VII.\n\nVerona. JULIA'S house\n\nEnter JULIA and LUCETTA\n\n  JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;\n    And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee,\n    Who art the table wherein all my thoughts\n    Are visibly character'd and engrav'd,\n    To lesson me and tell me some good mean\n    How, with my honour, I may undertake\n    A journey to my loving Proteus.\n  LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long!\n  JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary\n    To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;\n    Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,\n    And when the flight is made to one so dear,\n    Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.\n  LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return.\n  JULIA. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?\n    Pity the dearth that I have pined in\n    By longing for that food so long a time.\n    Didst thou but know the inly touch of love.\n    Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow\n    As seek to quench the fire of love with words.\n  LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,\n    But qualify the fire's extreme rage,\n    Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.\n  JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns.\n    The current that with gentle murmur glides,\n    Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;\n    But when his fair course is not hindered,\n    He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,\n    Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge\n    He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;\n    And so by many winding nooks he strays,\n    With willing sport, to the wild ocean.\n    Then let me go, and hinder not my course.\n    I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,\n    And make a pastime of each weary step,\n    Till the last step have brought me to my love;\n    And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil,\n    A blessed soul doth in Elysium.\n  LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along?\n  JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent\n    The loose encounters of lascivious men;\n    Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds\n    As may beseem some well-reputed page.\n  LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair.\n  JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings\n    With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots-\n    To be fantastic may become a youth\n    Of greater time than I shall show to be.\n  LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?\n  JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,\n    What compass will you wear your farthingale.'\n    Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta.\n  LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.\n  JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd.\n  LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,\n    Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.\n  JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have\n    What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly.\n    But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me\n    For undertaking so unstaid a journey?\n    I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd.\n  LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not.\n  JULIA. Nay, that I will not.\n  LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go.\n    If Proteus like your journey when you come,\n    No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone.\n    I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal.\n  JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:\n    A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,\n    And instances of infinite of love,\n    Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.\n  LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men.\n  JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect!\n    But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth;\n    His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,\n    His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,\n    His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,\n    His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.\n  LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him.\n  JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong\n    To bear a hard opinion of his truth;\n    Only deserve my love by loving him.\n    And presently go with me to my chamber,\n    To take a note of what I stand in need of\n    To furnish me upon my longing journey.\n    All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,\n    My goods, my lands, my reputation;\n    Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.\n    Come, answer not, but to it presently;\n    I am impatient of my tarriance.                       Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Back in Verona, Julia and Lucetta brainstorm about ways for Julia to travel to Milan without losing her \"honour.\" Lucetta advises Julia to stay home and wait it out - Proteus will be back eventually. Julia's not hearing any of this. She's in love and wants to be with Proteus, pronto. Julia decides to dress up like a boy to \"prevent\" any unwanted encounters with \"lascivious men\" . She'll tie up her hair in fashionable knots to make her appear older and Lucetta will make her a pair of pants. Lucetta advises Julia to also wear a codpiece. Julia worries that travelling alone and cross-dressing will ruin her reputation, but she decides that it's worth it because Proteus is the most faithful and loyal guy in the world. Julia and Lucetta make preparations for the journey."}, {"": "134", "document": "\n\nWith more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the\nnext day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the\nmorning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile\nwas demanded--Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath,\nexcept himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the\nfashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and\nout, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody\nwanted to see; and he only was absent. \"What a delightful place Bath\nis,\" said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after\nparading the room till they were tired; \"and how pleasant it would be if\nwe had any acquaintance here.\"\n\nThis sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no\nparticular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;\nbut we are told to \"despair of nothing we would attain,\" as \"unwearied\ndiligence our point would gain\"; and the unwearied diligence with which\nshe had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its\njust reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of\nabout her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her\nattentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance\nin these words: \"I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time\nsince I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?\"\nThis question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers\nto be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of\na former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since\ntheir respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this\nmeeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented\nto know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments\non good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away\nsince they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in\nBath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to\nmake inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and\ncousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive\ninformation, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs.\nThorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen,\nin a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her\nsons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different\nsituations and views--that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant\nTaylors', and William at sea--and all of them more beloved and respected\nin their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.\nAllen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press\non the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to\nsit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling\nherself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that\nthe lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on\nher own.\n\n\"Here come my dear girls,\" cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three\nsmart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. \"My\ndear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted\nto see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young\nwoman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is\nthe handsomest.\"\n\nThe Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a\nshort time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike\nthem all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest\nyoung lady observed aloud to the rest, \"How excessively like her brother\nMiss Morland is!\"\n\n\"The very picture of him indeed!\" cried the mother--and \"I should have\nknown her anywhere for his sister!\" was repeated by them all, two or\nthree times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe\nand her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance\nwith Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother\nhad lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of\nthe name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas\nvacation with his family, near London.\n\nThe whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss\nThorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being\nconsidered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers,\netc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the\npretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity,\nshe was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and\ntake a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this\nextension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while\nshe talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for\nthe pangs of disappointed love.\n\nTheir conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free\ndiscussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy\nbetween two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and\nquizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland,\nand at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in\ndiscussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those\nof Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify\nthe opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire;\ncould discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only\nsmiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a\ncrowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they\nwere entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might\nhave been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss\nThorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this\nacquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left\nnothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be\nsatisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when\nthey all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss\nMorland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house; and that they should\nthere part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after\nlearning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across\nthe theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next\nmorning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe's\nprogress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the\ngraceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and\ndress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had\nprocured her such a friend.\n\nMrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a\ngood-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her\neldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by\npretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and\ndressing in the same style, did very well.\n\nThis brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity\nof a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past\nadventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy\nthe three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of\nlords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had\npassed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Catherine hopes her new crush Henry is at the Pump-room , but he totally doesn't show and Catherine is bummed out. She's stuck talking to Mrs. Allen again. But then a random lady comes up and says she remembers Mrs. Allen from school. It turns out this is Mrs. Allen's old friend Mrs. Thorpe, who totally tracked her down on Facebook. Oh, wait. Mrs. Thorpe brags about her sons and Mrs. Allen can only fake interest since she has no kids. Luckily for Catherine, Mrs. Thorpe has three daughters around Catherine's age. The eldest, Isabella, is twenty-one, and is introduced as the best looking by Mrs. Thorpe. Isabella is thus the Marcia Brady of her family. In a remarkable coincidence, Isabella's brother John is best friends with Catherine's brother James at Oxford. So Catherine and Isabella promptly become best friends too. Catherine and Isabella gossip about fashion, boys, dances, and London, which Isabella knows all about since she's visited like two times or something. Isabella is four years older and dazzles Catherine with all her worldly experience and Catherine is a bit awed by her at first. The two new friends are thrilled to find out that they are both attending the theater tonight and will be attending the same church the next day. The narrator closes the chapter by telling us that Mrs. Thorpe is a widow and the family does not have much money."}, {"": "135", "document": "\n\n|IT was not until the next Friday that Marilla heard the story of the\nflower-wreathed hat. She came home from Mrs. Lynde's and called Anne to\naccount.\n\n\"Anne, Mrs. Rachel says you went to church last Sunday with your hat\nrigged out ridiculous with roses and buttercups. What on earth put you\nup to such a caper? A pretty-looking object you must have been!\"\n\n\"Oh. I know pink and yellow aren't becoming to me,\" began Anne.\n\n\"Becoming fiddlesticks! It was putting flowers on your hat at all,\nno matter what color they were, that was ridiculous. You are the most\naggravating child!\"\n\n\"I don't see why it's any more ridiculous to wear flowers on your hat\nthan on your dress,\" protested Anne. \"Lots of little girls there had\nbouquets pinned on their dresses. What's the difference?\"\n\nMarilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete into dubious paths of\nthe abstract.\n\n\"Don't answer me back like that, Anne. It was very silly of you to do\nsuch a thing. Never let me catch you at such a trick again. Mrs. Rachel\nsays she thought she would sink through the floor when she saw you come\nin all rigged out like that. She couldn't get near enough to tell you\nto take them off till it was too late. She says people talked about it\nsomething dreadful. Of course they would think I had no better sense\nthan to let you go decked out like that.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so sorry,\" said Anne, tears welling into her eyes. \"I never\nthought you'd mind. The roses and buttercups were so sweet and pretty\nI thought they'd look lovely on my hat. Lots of the little girls had\nartificial flowers on their hats. I'm afraid I'm going to be a dreadful\ntrial to you. Maybe you'd better send me back to the asylum. That would\nbe terrible; I don't think I could endure it; most likely I would go\ninto consumption; I'm so thin as it is, you see. But that would be\nbetter than being a trial to you.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Marilla, vexed at herself for having made the child\ncry. \"I don't want to send you back to the asylum, I'm sure. All I want\nis that you should behave like other little girls and not make yourself\nridiculous. Don't cry any more. I've got some news for you. Diana Barry\ncame home this afternoon. I'm going up to see if I can borrow a skirt\npattern from Mrs. Barry, and if you like you can come with me and get\nacquainted with Diana.\"\n\nAnne rose to her feet, with clasped hands, the tears still glistening on\nher cheeks; the dish towel she had been hemming slipped unheeded to the\nfloor.\n\n\"Oh, Marilla, I'm frightened--now that it has come I'm actually\nfrightened. What if she shouldn't like me! It would be the most tragical\ndisappointment of my life.\"\n\n\"Now, don't get into a fluster. And I do wish you wouldn't use such long\nwords. It sounds so funny in a little girl. I guess Diana 'll like you\nwell enough. It's her mother you've got to reckon with. If she doesn't\nlike you it won't matter how much Diana does. If she has heard about\nyour outburst to Mrs. Lynde and going to church with buttercups round\nyour hat I don't know what she'll think of you. You must be polite and\nwell behaved, and don't make any of your startling speeches. For pity's\nsake, if the child isn't actually trembling!\"\n\nAnne _was_ trembling. Her face was pale and tense.\n\n\"Oh, Marilla, you'd be excited, too, if you were going to meet a little\ngirl you hoped to be your bosom friend and whose mother mightn't like\nyou,\" she said as she hastened to get her hat.\n\nThey went over to Orchard Slope by the short cut across the brook and up\nthe firry hill grove. Mrs. Barry came to the kitchen door in answer to\nMarilla's knock. She was a tall black-eyed, black-haired woman, with a\nvery resolute mouth. She had the reputation of being very strict with\nher children.\n\n\"How do you do, Marilla?\" she said cordially. \"Come in. And this is the\nlittle girl you have adopted, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, this is Anne Shirley,\" said Marilla.\n\n\"Spelled with an E,\" gasped Anne, who, tremulous and excited as she was,\nwas determined there should be no misunderstanding on that important\npoint.\n\nMrs. Barry, not hearing or not comprehending, merely shook hands and\nsaid kindly:\n\n\"How are you?\"\n\n\"I am well in body although considerable rumpled up in spirit, thank you\nma'am,\" said Anne gravely. Then aside to Marilla in an audible whisper,\n\"There wasn't anything startling in that, was there, Marilla?\"\n\nDiana was sitting on the sofa, reading a book which she dropped when the\ncallers entered. She was a very pretty little girl, with her mother's\nblack eyes and hair, and rosy cheeks, and the merry expression which was\nher inheritance from her father.\n\n\"This is my little girl Diana,\" said Mrs. Barry. \"Diana, you might take\nAnne out into the garden and show her your flowers. It will be better\nfor you than straining your eyes over that book. She reads entirely\ntoo much--\" this to Marilla as the little girls went out--\"and I can't\nprevent her, for her father aids and abets her. She's always poring over\na book. I'm glad she has the prospect of a playmate--perhaps it will\ntake her more out-of-doors.\"\n\nOutside in the garden, which was full of mellow sunset light streaming\nthrough the dark old firs to the west of it, stood Anne and Diana,\ngazing bashfully at each other over a clump of gorgeous tiger lilies.\n\nThe Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of flowers which would have\ndelighted Anne's heart at any time less fraught with destiny. It was\nencircled by huge old willows and tall firs, beneath which flourished\nflowers that loved the shade. Prim, right-angled paths neatly bordered\nwith clamshells, intersected it like moist red ribbons and in the beds\nbetween old-fashioned flowers ran riot. There were rosy bleeding-hearts\nand great splendid crimson peonies; white, fragrant narcissi and thorny,\nsweet Scotch roses; pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted\nBouncing Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon grass and mint; purple\nAdam-and-Eve, daffodils, and masses of sweet clover white with its\ndelicate, fragrant, feathery sprays; scarlet lightning that shot\nits fiery lances over prim white musk-flowers; a garden it was where\nsunshine lingered and bees hummed, and winds, beguiled into loitering,\npurred and rustled.\n\n\"Oh, Diana,\" said Anne at last, clasping her hands and speaking almost\nin a whisper, \"oh, do you think you can like me a little--enough to be\nmy bosom friend?\"\n\nDiana laughed. Diana always laughed before she spoke.\n\n\"Why, I guess so,\" she said frankly. \"I'm awfully glad you've come to\nlive at Green Gables. It will be jolly to have somebody to play with.\nThere isn't any other girl who lives near enough to play with, and I've\nno sisters big enough.\"\n\n\"Will you swear to be my friend forever and ever?\" demanded Anne\neagerly.\n\nDiana looked shocked.\n\n\"Why it's dreadfully wicked to swear,\" she said rebukingly.\n\n\"Oh no, not my kind of swearing. There are two kinds, you know.\"\n\n\"I never heard of but one kind,\" said Diana doubtfully.\n\n\"There really is another. Oh, it isn't wicked at all. It just means\nvowing and promising solemnly.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't mind doing that,\" agreed Diana, relieved. \"How do you do\nit?\"\n\n\"We must join hands--so,\" said Anne gravely. \"It ought to be over\nrunning water. We'll just imagine this path is running water. I'll\nrepeat the oath first. I solemnly swear to be faithful to my bosom\nfriend, Diana Barry, as long as the sun and moon shall endure. Now you\nsay it and put my name in.\"\n\nDiana repeated the \"oath\" with a laugh fore and aft. Then she said:\n\n\"You're a queer girl, Anne. I heard before that you were queer. But I\nbelieve I'm going to like you real well.\"\n\nWhen Marilla and Anne went home Diana went with them as far as the log\nbridge. The two little girls walked with their arms about each other.\nAt the brook they parted with many promises to spend the next afternoon\ntogether.\n\n\"Well, did you find Diana a kindred spirit?\" asked Marilla as they went\nup through the garden of Green Gables.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" sighed Anne, blissfully unconscious of any sarcasm on\nMarilla's part. \"Oh Marilla, I'm the happiest girl on Prince Edward\nIsland this very moment. I assure you I'll say my prayers with a right\ngood-will tonight. Diana and I are going to build a playhouse in Mr.\nWilliam Bell's birch grove tomorrow. Can I have those broken pieces of\nchina that are out in the woodshed? Diana's birthday is in February and\nmine is in March. Don't you think that is a very strange coincidence?\nDiana is going to lend me a book to read. She says it's perfectly\nsplendid and tremendously exciting. She's going to show me a place back\nin the woods where rice lilies grow. Don't you think Diana has got very\nsoulful eyes? I wish I had soulful eyes. Diana is going to teach me to\nsing a song called 'Nelly in the Hazel Dell.' She's going to give me a\npicture to put up in my room; it's a perfectly beautiful picture, she\nsays--a lovely lady in a pale blue silk dress. A sewing-machine agent\ngave it to her. I wish I had something to give Diana. I'm an inch taller\nthan Diana, but she is ever so much fatter; she says she'd like to be\nthin because it's so much more graceful, but I'm afraid she only said\nit to soothe my feelings. We're going to the shore some day to gather\nshells. We have agreed to call the spring down by the log bridge the\nDryad's Bubble. Isn't that a perfectly elegant name? I read a story\nonce about a spring called that. A dryad is sort of a grown-up fairy, I\nthink.\"\n\n\"Well, all I hope is you won't talk Diana to death,\" said Marilla. \"But\nremember this in all your planning, Anne. You're not going to play all\nthe time nor most of it. You'll have your work to do and it'll have to\nbe done first.\"\n\nAnne's cup of happiness was full, and Matthew caused it to overflow. He\nhad just got home from a trip to the store at Carmody, and he sheepishly\nproduced a small parcel from his pocket and handed it to Anne, with a\ndeprecatory look at Marilla.\n\n\"I heard you say you liked chocolate sweeties, so I got you some,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Humph,\" sniffed Marilla. \"It'll ruin her teeth and stomach. There,\nthere, child, don't look so dismal. You can eat those, since Matthew\nhas gone and got them. He'd better have brought you peppermints. They're\nwholesomer. Don't sicken yourself eating all them at once now.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, indeed, I won't,\" said Anne eagerly. \"I'll just eat one\ntonight, Marilla. And I can give Diana half of them, can't I? The\nother half will taste twice as sweet to me if I give some to her. It's\ndelightful to think I have something to give her.\"\n\n\"I will say it for the child,\" said Marilla when Anne had gone to\nher gable, \"she isn't stingy. I'm glad, for of all faults I detest\nstinginess in a child. Dear me, it's only three weeks since she came,\nand it seems as if she'd been here always. I can't imagine the place\nwithout her. Now, don't be looking I told-you-so, Matthew. That's bad\nenough in a woman, but it isn't to be endured in a man. I'm perfectly\nwilling to own up that I'm glad I consented to keep the child and that\nI'm getting fond of her, but don't you rub it in, Matthew Cuthbert.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Marilla hears about Anne's flower crown at church and scolds Anne about it. Anne's upset because she had no idea that would have made Marilla mad. Marilla takes Anne next door to visit a girl her age, Diana Barry. Anne's nervous Diana won't like her but Marilla says it's Diana's strict mother that Anne should be worried about. When they arrive, Mrs. Barry sends Diana and Anne outside into their gorgeous flower garden. Anne immediately asks Diana if she will swear to be her friend forever. Wow, Anne. Get to know a girl first. After Anne explaining that swearing an oath is not the same thing as cursing, Diana agrees. They say their oath, and Diana says that Anne is \"queer\" , but she likes her anyway. On the walk home, Anne happily tells Marilla about the many plans she and Diana have made. Then Matthew shows up with chocolates from the store. Jackpot! Marilla's annoyed but lets Anne have them. Anne asks Marilla if she can give half of them to Diana. That night, Marilla tells Matthew that she's glad Anne's generous, because she hates stingy children. And she grudgingly admits she's getting fond of Anne."}, {"": "136", "document": "Scene 4.\n\nEnter Leonato, Bene. Marg. Vrsula, old man, Frier, Hero.\n\n  Frier. Did I not tell you she was innocent?\n  Leo. So are the Prince and Claudio who accus'd her,\nVpon the errour that you heard debated:\nBut Margaret was in some fault for this,\nAlthough against her will as it appeares,\nIn the true course of all the question\n\n   Old. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well\n\n   Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd\nTo call young Claudio to a reckoning for it\n\n   Leo. Well daughter, and you gentlewomen all,\nWithdraw into a chamber by your selues,\nAnd when I send for you, come hither mask'd:\nThe Prince and Claudio promis'd by this howre\nTo visit me, you know your office Brother,\nYou must be father to your brothers daughter,\nAnd giue her to young Claudio.\n\nExeunt. Ladies.\n\n  Old. Which I will doe with confirm'd countenance\n\n   Bene. Frier, I must intreat your paines, I thinke\n\n   Frier. To doe what Signior?\n  Bene. To binde me, or vndoe me, one of them:\nSignior Leonato, truth it is good Signior,\nYour neece regards me with an eye of fauour\n\n   Leo. That eye my daughter lent her, 'tis most true\n\n   Bene. And I doe with an eye of loue requite her\n\n   Leo. The sight whereof I thinke you had from me,\nFrom Claudio, and the Prince, but what's your will?\n  Bened. Your answer sir is Enigmaticall,\nBut for my will, my will is, your good will\nMay stand with ours, this day to be conioyn'd,\nIn the state of honourable marriage,\nIn which (good Frier) I shall desire your helpe\n\n   Leon. My heart is with your liking\n\n   Frier. And my helpe.\nEnter Prince and Claudio, with attendants.\n\n  Prin. Good morrow to this faire assembly\n\n   Leo. Good morrow Prince, good morrow Claudio:\nWe heere attend you, are you yet determin'd,\nTo day to marry with my brothers daughter?\n  Claud. Ile hold my minde were she an Ethiope\n\n   Leo. Call her forth brother, heres the Frier ready\n\n   Prin. Good morrow Benedicke, why what's the matter?\nThat you haue such a Februarie face,\nSo full of frost, of storme, and clowdinesse\n\n   Claud. I thinke he thinkes vpon the sauage bull:\nTush, feare not man, wee'll tip thy hornes with gold,\nAnd all Europa shall reioyce at thee,\nAs once Europa did at lusty Ioue,\nWhen he would play the noble beast in loue\n\n   Ben. Bull Ioue sir, had an amiable low,\nAnd some such strange bull leapt your fathers Cow,\nA got a Calfe in that same noble feat,\nMuch like to you, for you haue iust his bleat.\nEnter brother, Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, Vrsula.\n\n  Cla. For this I owe you: here comes other recknings.\nWhich is the Lady I must seize vpon?\n  Leo. This same is she, and I doe giue you her\n\n   Cla. Why then she's mine, sweet let me see your face\n\n   Leon. No that you shal not, till you take her hand,\nBefore this Frier, and sweare to marry her\n\n   Clau. Giue me your hand before this holy Frier,\nI am your husband if you like of me\n\n   Hero. And when I liu'd I was your other wife,\nAnd when you lou'd, you were my other husband\n\n   Clau. Another Hero?\n  Hero. Nothing certainer.\nOne Hero died, but I doe liue,\nAnd surely as I liue, I am a maid\n\n   Prin. The former Hero, Hero that is dead\n\n   Leon. Shee died my Lord, but whiles her slander liu'd\n\n   Frier. All this amazement can I qualifie,\nWhen after that the holy rites are ended,\nIle tell you largely of faire Heroes death:\nMeane time let wonder seeme familiar,\nAnd to the chappell let vs presently\n\n   Ben. Soft and faire Frier, which is Beatrice?\n  Beat. I answer to that name, what is your will?\n  Bene. Doe not you loue me?\n  Beat. Why no, no more then reason\n\n   Bene. Why then your Vncle, and the Prince, & Claudio,\nhaue beene deceiued, they swore you did\n\n   Beat. Doe not you loue mee?\n  Bene. Troth no, no more then reason\n\n   Beat. Why then my Cosin Margaret and Vrsula\nAre much deceiu'd, for they did sweare you did\n\n   Bene. They swore you were almost sicke for me\n\n   Beat. They swore you were wel-nye dead for me\n\n   Bene. 'Tis no matter, then you doe not loue me?\n  Beat. No truly, but in friendly recompence\n\n   Leon. Come Cosin, I am sure you loue the gentlema[n]\n\n   Clau. And Ile be sworne vpon't, that he loues her,\nFor heres a paper written in his hand,\nA halting sonnet of his owne pure braine,\nFashioned to Beatrice\n\n   Hero. And heeres another,\nWrit in my cosins hand, stolne from her pocket,\nContaining her affection vnto Benedicke\n\n   Bene. A miracle, here's our owne hands against our\nhearts: come I will haue thee, but by this light I take\nthee for pittie\n\n   Beat. I would not denie you, but by this good day, I\nyeeld vpon great perswasion, & partly to saue your life,\nfor I was told, you were in a consumption\n\n   Leon. Peace I will stop your mouth\n\n   Prin. How dost thou Benedicke the married man?\n  Bene. Ile tell thee what Prince: a Colledge of witte-crackers\ncannot flout mee out of my humour, dost thou\nthink I care for a Satyre or an Epigram? no, if a man will\nbe beaten with braines, a shall weare nothing handsome\nabout him: in briefe, since I do purpose to marry, I will\nthinke nothing to any purpose that the world can say against\nit, and therefore neuer flout at me, for I haue said\nagainst it: for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion:\nfor thy part Claudio, I did thinke to haue beaten\nthee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, liue vnbruis'd,\nand loue my cousin\n\n   Cla. I had well hop'd y wouldst haue denied Beatrice, y\nI might haue cudgel'd thee out of thy single life, to make\nthee a double dealer, which out of questio[n] thou wilt be,\nif my Cousin do not looke exceeding narrowly to thee\n\n   Bene. Come, come, we are friends, let's haue a dance\nere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts,\nand our wiues heeles\n\n   Leon. Wee'll haue dancing afterward\n\n   Bene. First, of my word, therfore play musick. Prince,\nthou art sad, get thee a wife, get thee a wife, there is no\nstaff more reuerend then one tipt with horn.\nEnter. Mes.\n\n  Messen. My Lord, your brother Iohn is tane in flight,\nAnd brought with armed men backe to Messina\n\n   Bene. Thinke not on him till to morrow, ile deuise\nthee braue punishments for him: strike vp Pipers.\n\nDance.\n\n\n\nFINIS. Much adoe about Nothing.\n", "summary": "Beadles enter dragging Hostess Quickly and Doll Tearsheet. Doll is to be whipped for prostitution. She is also being blamed because a man was killed in the Boar's Head tavern either in a fight over her, or while she was present. Doll protests loudly, pretending that she is pregnant, and she warns the beadles that they will be in trouble if she should miscarry as a result of the whipping. ."}, {"": "137", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\nThe same. The FRENCH KING's tent.\n\n[Enter KING PHILIP, LOUIS, PANDULPH, and Attendants.]\n\nKING PHILIP.\nSo, by a roaring tempest on the flood\nA whole armado of convicted sail\nIs scattered and disjoin'd from fellowship.\n\nPANDULPH.\nCourage and comfort! all shall yet go well.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nWhat can go well, when we have run so ill.\nAre we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?\nArthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?\nAnd bloody England into England gone,\nO'erbearing interruption, spite of France?\n\nLOUIS.\nWhat he hath won, that hath he fortified:\nSo hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,\nSuch temperate order in so fierce a cause,\nDoth want example: who hath read or heard\nOf any kindred action like to this?\n\nKING PHILIP.\nWell could I bear that England had this praise,\nSo we could find some pattern of our shame.--\nLook who comes here! a grave unto a soul;\nHolding the eternal spirit, against her will,\nIn the vile prison of afflicted breath.\n\n[Enter CONSTANCE.]\n\nI pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nLo, now! now see the issue of your peace!\n\nKING PHILIP.\nPatience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!\n\nCONSTANCE.\nNo, I defy all counsel, all redress,\nBut that which ends all counsel, true redress,\nDeath, death:--O amiable lovely death!\nThou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!\nArise forth from the couch of lasting night,\nThou hate and terror to prosperity,\nAnd I will kiss thy detestable bones;\nAnd put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows;\nAnd ring these fingers with thy household worms;\nAnd stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,\nAnd be a carrion monster like thyself:\nCome, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,\nAnd buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,\nO, come to me!\n\nKING PHILIP.\nO fair affliction, peace!\n\nCONSTANCE.\nNo, no, I will not, having breath to cry:--\nO, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!\nThen with a passion would I shake the world;\nAnd rouse from sleep that fell anatomy\nWhich cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,\nWhich scorns a modern invocation.\n\nPANDULPH.\nLady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nThou art not holy to belie me so;\nI am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;\nMy name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;\nYoung Arthur is my son, and he is lost:\nI am not mad:--I would to heaven I were!\nFor then, 'tis like I should forget myself:\nO, if I could, what grief should I forget!--\nPreach some philosophy to make me mad,\nAnd thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;\nFor, being not mad, but sensible of grief,\nMy reasonable part produces reason\nHow I may be deliver'd of these woes,\nAnd teaches me to kill or hang myself:\nIf I were mad I should forget my son,\nOr madly think a babe of clouts were he:\nI am not mad; too well, too well I feel\nThe different plague of each calamity.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nBind up those tresses.--O, what love I note\nIn the fair multitude of those her hairs!\nWhere but by a chance a silver drop hath fallen,\nEven to that drop ten thousand wiry friends\nDo glue themselves in sociable grief;\nLike true, inseparable, faithful loves,\nSticking together in calamity.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nTo England, if you will.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nBind up your hairs.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nYes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?\nI tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud,\n'O that these hands could so redeem my son,\nAs they have given these hairs their liberty!'\nBut now I envy at their liberty,\nAnd will again commit them to their bonds,\nBecause my poor child is a prisoner.--\nAnd, father cardinal, I have heard you say\nThat we shall see and know our friends in heaven:\nIf that be true, I shall see my boy again;\nFor since the birth of Cain, the first male child,\nTo him that did but yesterday suspire,\nThere was not such a gracious creature born.\nBut now will canker sorrow eat my bud,\nAnd chase the native beauty from his cheek,\nAnd he will look as hollow as a ghost,\nAs dim and meagre as an ague's fit;\nAnd so he'll die; and, rising so again,\nWhen I shall meet him in the court of heaven\nI shall not know him: therefore never, never\nMust I behold my pretty Arthur more!\n\nPANDULPH.\nYou hold too heinous a respect of grief.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nHe talks to me that never had a son.\n\nKING PHILIP.\nYou are as fond of grief as of your child.\n\nCONSTANCE.\nGrief fills the room up of my absent child,\nLies in his bed, walks up and down with me,\nPuts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,\nRemembers me of all his gracious parts,\nStuffs out his vacant garments with his form;\nThen have I reason to be fond of grief.\nFare you well: had you such a loss as I,\nI could give better comfort than you do.--\nI will not keep this form upon my head,\n\n[Tearing off her head-dress.]\n\nWhen there is such disorder in my wit.\nO Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!\nMy life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!\nMy widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!\n\n[Exit.]\n\nKING PHILIP.\nI fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nLOUIS.\nThere's nothing in this world can make me joy:\nLife is as tedious as a twice-told tale\nVexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;\nAnd bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste,\nThat it yields nought but shame and bitterness.\n\nPANDULPH.\nBefore the curing of a strong disease,\nEven in the instant of repair and health,\nThe fit is strongest; evils that take leave\nOn their departure most of all show evil;\nWhat have you lost by losing of this day?\n\nLOUIS.\nAll days of glory, joy, and happiness.\n\nPANDULPH.\nIf you had won it, certainly you had.\nNo, no; when Fortune means to men most good,\nShe looks upon them with a threatening eye.\n'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost\nIn this which he accounts so clearly won.\nAre not you griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner?\n\nLouIS.\nAs heartily as he is glad he hath him.\n\nPANDULPH.\nYour mind is all as youthful as your blood.\nNow hear me speak with a prophetic spirit;\nFor even the breath of what I mean to speak\nShall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,\nOut of the path which shall directly lead\nThy foot to England's throne; and therefore mark.\nJohn hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be\nThat, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,\nThe misplac'd John should entertain an hour,\nOne minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:\nA sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand\nMust be boisterously maintain'd as gain'd:\nAnd he that stands upon a slippery place\nMakes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:\nThat John may stand then, Arthur needs must fall:\nSo be it, for it cannot be but so.\n\nLOUIS.\nBut what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?\n\nPANDULPH.\nYou, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,\nMay then make all the claim that Arthur did.\n\nLOUIS.\nAnd lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.\n\nPANDULPH.\nHow green you are, and fresh in this old world!\nJohn lays you plots; the times conspire with you;\nFor he that steeps his safety in true blood\nShall find but bloody safety and untrue.\nThis act, so evilly borne, shall cool the hearts\nOf all his people, and freeze up their zeal,\nThat none so small advantage shall step forth\nTo check his reign, but they will cherish it;\nNo natural exhalation in the sky,\nNo scope of nature, no distemper'd day,\nNo common wind, no customed event,\nBut they will pluck away his natural cause\nAnd call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,\nAbortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,\nPlainly denouncing vengeance upon John.\n\nLOUIS.\nMay be he will not touch young Arthur's life,\nBut hold himself safe in his prisonment.\n\nPANDULPH.\nO, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,\nIf that young Arthur be not gone already,\nEven at that news he dies; and then the hearts\nOf all his people shall revolt from him,\nAnd kiss the lips of unacquainted change;\nAnd pick strong matter of revolt and wrath\nOut of the bloody fingers' ends of john.\nMethinks I see this hurly all on foot:\nAnd, O, what better matter breeds for you\nThan I have nam'd!--The bastard Falconbridge\nIs now in England, ransacking the church,\nOffending charity: if but a dozen French\nWere there in arms, they would be as a call\nTo train ten thousand English to their side:\nOr as a little snow, tumbled about\nAnon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,\nGo with me to the king:--'tis wonderful\nWhat may be wrought out of their discontent,\nNow that their souls are topful of offence:\nFor England go:--I will whet on the king.\n\nLOUIS.\nStrong reasons makes strong actions: let us go:\nIf you say ay, the king will not say no.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At the beginning of this scene, King Philip, Louis, and Pandolf walk out onto the stage. King Philip is ticked off because his entire naval fleet has just been destroyed by a crazy storm. Brain Snack: This is a not-so-subtle shout-out to the Spanish Armada. You know, that giant naval fleet that tried to attack England in 1588 but got scattered by strong winds. More on Shakespeare's political shout-outs in \"Themes: Memory and the Past.\" Pandolf tells King Philip to cheer up. King Philip thinks Pandolf is nuts. \"Can't you see that everything's going bad for us? We lost the battle, we lost the city of Angers, and Arthur's been taken prisoner!\" Louis the Dauphin agrees with his dad. Things aren't looking so great for the French. Just when things couldn't get any more depressing, in walks the most depressing sight of all: Constance, frantic and tearing out her hair because she's lost her little boy, Arthur. Ignoring everyone who tries to calm her down, Constance calls on Death to come for her. Constance offers to kiss Death's \"detestable bones\" and imagines placing her \"eyeballs\" in the skull of Death's corpse. Brain Snack: Some critics think Constance's famous speech was inspired by the death of Shakespeare's 11 year-old-son, Hamnet . But that's debatable, especially since the play may have been written as early as 1594. Pandolf tells Constance she's crazy. Constance lights up Pandolf for being insensitive and then threatens to kill herself. King Philip tells her that she loves her grief just as much as she loves her child. Constance replies that her grief is all she has left. Then she lets her hair down and says she's going crazy with grief. When Constance leaves the room, King Philip worries that she'll hurt herself, so he runs after her. That leaves Louis and Pandolf onstage. Louis is pretty bummed, but Pandolf tells him not to worry, because King John is definitely going to kill Arthur. Then, thanks to Louis's marriage to Blanche, Louis will be next in line to the English throne. Louis is worried that King John will come after him next, but Pandolf tells him not to worry, because 1) the English people aren't going to tolerate a guy who runs around snuffing out little kids, and 2) the English people aren't going to like the fact that King John has got the Bastard running around robbing all the churches. Pandolf encourages Louis to slap together some forces and invade England. Then Pandolf and Louis run off to get permission from Louis's dad to invade England."}, {"": "138", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\nA room in DOCTOR CAIUS'S house.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, and SIMPLE.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nWhat, John Rugby! \n\n[Enter RUGBY.]\n\nI pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master,\nMaster Doctor Caius, coming: if he do, i' faith, and find anybody\nin the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the\nKing's English.\n\nRUGBY.\nI'll go watch.\n\nQUICKLY.\nGo; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in faith, at the\nlatter end of a sea-coal fire.\n\n[Exit RUGBY.]\n\nAn honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house\nwithal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate; his worst\nfault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that\nway; but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple\nyou say your name is?\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, for fault of a better.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAnd Master Slender's your master?\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nQUICKLY.\nDoes he not wear a great round beard, like a glover's paring-knife?\n\nSIMPLE.\nNo, forsooth; he hath but a little whey face, with a little yellow\nbeard--a cane-coloured beard.\n\nQUICKLY.\nA softly-sprighted man, is he not?\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, forsooth; but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between\nthis and his head; he hath fought with a warrener.\n\nQUICKLY.\nHow say you?--O! I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head,\nas it were, and strut in his gait?\n\nSIMPLE.\nYes, indeed, does he.\n\nQUICKLY.\nWell, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson\nEvans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl,\nand I wish--\n\n[Re-enter RUGBY.]\n\nRUGBY.\nOut, alas! here comes my master.\n\nQUICKLY.\nWe shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this\ncloset. [Shuts SIMPLE in the closet.] He will not stay long. What,\nJohn Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my\nmaster; I doubt he be not well that he comes not home. \n\n[Exit Rugby.]\n\n[Sings.] And down, down, adown-a, &c.\n\n[Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.]\n\nCAIUS.\nVat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me\nin my closet une boitine verde--a box, a green-a box: do intend vat\nI speak? a green-a box.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAy, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in\nhimself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.\n\nCAIUS.\nFe, fe, fe fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour--\nla grande affaire.\n\nQUICKLY.\nIs it this, sir?\n\nCAIUS.\nOui; mettez le au mon pocket: depechez, quickly--Vere is dat knave,\nRugby?\n\nQUICKLY.\nWhat, John Rugby? John!\n\n[Re-enter Rugby.]\n\nRUGBY.\nHere, sir.\n\nCAIUS.\nYou are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby: come, take-a your rapier,\nand come after my heel to de court.\n\nRUGBY.\n'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy my trot, I tarry too long--Od's me! Qu'ay j'oublie? Dere is some\nsimples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.\n\nQUICKLY.\n[Aside.] Ay me, he'll find the young man there, and be mad!\n\nCAIUS.\nO diable, diable! vat is in my closet?--Villainy! larron!\n[Pulling SIMPLE out.]  Rugby, my rapier!\n\nQUICKLY.\nGood master, be content.\n\nCAIUS.\nVerefore shall I be content-a?\n\nQUICKLY.\nThe young man is an honest man.\n\nCAIUS.\nWhat shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat\nshall come in my closet.\n\nQUICKLY.\nI beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of\nan errand to me from Parson Hugh.\n\nCAIUS.\nVell.\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, forsooth, to desire her to--\n\nQUICKLY.\nPeace, I pray you.\n\nCAIUS.\nPeace-a your tongue!--Speak-a your tale.\n\nSIMPLE.\nTo desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to\nMistress Anne Page for my master, in the way of marriage.\n\nQUICKLY.\nThis is all, indeed, la! but I'll ne'er put my finger in the fire,\nand need not.\n\nCAIUS.\nSir Hugh send-a you?--Rugby, baillez me some paper: tarry you a\nlittle-a while. [Writes.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nI am glad he is so quiet: if he had been throughly moved, you should\nhave heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man,\nI'll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no\nis, the French doctor, my master--I may call him my master, look you,\nfor I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress\nmeat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself--\n\nSIMPLE.\n'Tis a great charge to come under one body's hand.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAre you avis'd o' that? You shall find it a great charge; and to be\nup early and down late; but notwithstanding,--to tell you in your\near,--I would have no words of it--my master himself is in love with\nMistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind,\nthat's neither here nor there.\n\nCAIUS.\nYou jack'nape; give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a\nshallenge: I will cut his troat in de Park; and I will teach a scurvy\njack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good\nyou tarry here: by gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he\nshall not have a stone to throw at his dog.\n\n[Exit SIMPLE.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nAlas, he speaks but for his friend.\n\nCAIUS.\nIt is no matter-a ver dat:--do not you tell-a me dat I shall have\nAnne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have\nappointed mine host of de Jartiere to measure our weapon. By gar, I\nvill myself have Anne Page.\n\nQUICKLY.\nSir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks\nleave to prate: what, the good-jer!\n\nCAIUS.\nRugby, come to the court vit me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page,\nI shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby.\n\n[Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nYou shall have An fool's-head of your own. No, I know Anne's mind for\nthat: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do;\nnor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven.\n\nFENTON.\n[Within.] Who's within there? ho!\n\nQUICKLY.\nWho's there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you.\n\n[Enter FENTON.]\n\nFENTON.\nHow now, good woman! how dost thou?\n\nQUICKLY.\nThe better, that it pleases your good worship to ask.\n\nFENTON.\nWhat news? how does pretty Mistress Anne?\n\nQUICKLY.\nIn truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that\nis your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it.\n\nFENTON.\nShall I do any good, thinkest thou? Shall I not lose my suit?\n\nQUICKLY.\nTroth, sir, all is in His hands above; but notwithstanding, Master\nFenton, I'll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship\na wart above your eye?\n\nFENTON.\nYes, marry, have I; what of that?\n\nQUICKLY.\nWell, thereby hangs a tale; good faith, it is such another Nan; but,\nI detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour's talk\nof that wart; I shall never laugh but in that maid's company;--but,\nindeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you\n--well, go to.\n\nFENTON.\nWell, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money for thee; let me\nhave thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me.\n\nQUICKLY.\nWill I? i' faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of\nthe wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers.\n\nFENTON.\nWell, farewell; I am in great haste now.\n\nQUICKLY.\nFarewell to your worship.--[Exit FENTON.] Truly, an honest gentleman;\nbut Anne loves him not; for I know Anne's mind as well as another\ndoes. Out upon 't, what have I forgot?\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Dr. Caius's house, Mistress Quickly has received the letter from Evans, and she questions Simple about who Slender is, as she is having difficulty remembering him. She then instructs him to tell Evans that she will do what she can to further Slender's cause with Anne Page. . Dr. Caius's servant John Rugby warns Quickly that Caius is on his way home. She shuts Simple in the closet, because she knows Caius will be angry if he finds him in the house. . Caius enters, speaking almost unintelligible English in a French accent. He summons Rugby and then goes to the closet, where he discovers Simple. He is furious and tells Rugby to fetch his rapier. Quickly tries to calm him down by explaining that Simple came on an errand from Evans. She explains what the errand was, and then tells Simple in an aside that she will do what she can to advance Slender's cause with Anne Page, even though she knows that Caius is also in love with the girl. In the meantime, Caius writes a challenge to Evans  and reproaches Quickly who, he says, promised that he would be able to have Anne. Quickly assures him that Anne loves him. . After Caius exits, with Rugby in tow, Quickly in a soliloquy says that Caius has no chance with Anne. Quickly claims to knows Anne's mind better than anyone, and also has more influence on her than anyone. . Fenton enters, inquiring about Anne, whom he wants to marry. Quickly assures him that Anne loves him. Fenton gives Quickly some money, and asks her to put in a good word for him to Anne. Quickly agrees, but after Fenton leaves, she lets on that Anne does not love him. ."}, {"": "139", "document": "SCENE IV.\nAnother part of the forest\n\nEnter the Empress' sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA,\nher hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravish'd\n\n  DEMETRIUS. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,\n    Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.\n  CHIRON. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,\n    An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.\n  DEMETRIUS. See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.\n  CHIRON. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.\n  DEMETRIUS. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;\n    And so let's leave her to her silent walks.\n  CHIRON. An 'twere my cause, I should go hang myself.\n  DEMETRIUS. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.\n                                     Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON\n\n           Wind horns. Enter MARCUS, from hunting\n\n  MARCUS. Who is this?- my niece, that flies away so fast?\n    Cousin, a word: where is your husband?\n    If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!\n    If I do wake, some planet strike me down,\n    That I may slumber an eternal sleep!\n    Speak, gentle niece. What stern ungentle hands\n    Hath lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body bare\n    Of her two branches- those sweet ornaments\n    Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,\n    And might not gain so great a happiness\n    As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me?\n    Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,\n    Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,\n    Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,\n    Coming and going with thy honey breath.\n    But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee,\n    And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.\n    Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame!\n    And notwithstanding all this loss of blood-\n    As from a conduit with three issuing spouts-\n    Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face\n    Blushing to be encount'red with a cloud.\n    Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say 'tis so?\n    O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast,\n    That I might rail at him to ease my mind!\n    Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,\n    Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.\n    Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue,\n    And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind;\n    But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee.\n    A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,\n    And he hath cut those pretty fingers off\n    That could have better sew'd than Philomel.\n    O, had the monster seen those lily hands\n    Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute\n    And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,\n    He would not then have touch'd them for his life!\n    Or had he heard the heavenly harmony\n    Which that sweet tongue hath made,\n    He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep,\n    As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.\n    Come, let us go, and make thy father blind,\n    For such a sight will blind a father's eye;\n    One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads,\n    What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?\n    Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee;\n    O, could our mourning case thy misery!                Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Demetrius and Chiron set Lavinia free. She has been ravished and they have cut off her tongue and hands. Marcius comes upon his niece and exclaims on her condition and then takes her to Titus."}, {"": "140", "document": "The detective and Passepartout met often on deck after this interview,\nthough Fix was reserved, and did not attempt to induce his companion to\ndivulge any more facts concerning Mr. Fogg.  He caught a glimpse of\nthat mysterious gentleman once or twice; but Mr. Fogg usually confined\nhimself to the cabin, where he kept Aouda company, or, according to his\ninveterate habit, took a hand at whist.\n\nPassepartout began very seriously to conjecture what strange chance\nkept Fix still on the route that his master was pursuing.  It was\nreally worth considering why this certainly very amiable and complacent\nperson, whom he had first met at Suez, had then encountered on board\nthe Mongolia, who disembarked at Bombay, which he announced as his\ndestination, and now turned up so unexpectedly on the Rangoon, was\nfollowing Mr. Fogg's tracks step by step.  What was Fix's object?\nPassepartout was ready to wager his Indian shoes--which he religiously\npreserved--that Fix would also leave Hong Kong at the same time with\nthem, and probably on the same steamer.\n\nPassepartout might have cudgelled his brain for a century without\nhitting upon the real object which the detective had in view.  He never\ncould have imagined that Phileas Fogg was being tracked as a robber\naround the globe.  But, as it is in human nature to attempt the\nsolution of every mystery, Passepartout suddenly discovered an\nexplanation of Fix's movements, which was in truth far from\nunreasonable.  Fix, he thought, could only be an agent of Mr. Fogg's\nfriends at the Reform Club, sent to follow him up, and to ascertain\nthat he really went round the world as had been agreed upon.\n\n\"It's clear!\" repeated the worthy servant to himself, proud of his\nshrewdness.  \"He's a spy sent to keep us in view!  That isn't quite the\nthing, either, to be spying Mr. Fogg, who is so honourable a man!  Ah,\ngentlemen of the Reform, this shall cost you dear!\"\n\nPassepartout, enchanted with his discovery, resolved to say nothing to\nhis master, lest he should be justly offended at this mistrust on the\npart of his adversaries.  But he determined to chaff Fix, when he had\nthe chance, with mysterious allusions, which, however, need not betray\nhis real suspicions.\n\nDuring the afternoon of Wednesday, 30th October, the Rangoon entered\nthe Strait of Malacca, which separates the peninsula of that name from\nSumatra.  The mountainous and craggy islets intercepted the beauties of\nthis noble island from the view of the travellers.  The Rangoon weighed\nanchor at Singapore the next day at four a.m., to receive coal, having\ngained half a day on the prescribed time of her arrival.  Phileas Fogg\nnoted this gain in his journal, and then, accompanied by Aouda, who\nbetrayed a desire for a walk on shore, disembarked.\n\nFix, who suspected Mr. Fogg's every movement, followed them cautiously,\nwithout being himself perceived; while Passepartout, laughing in his\nsleeve at Fix's manoeuvres, went about his usual errands.\n\nThe island of Singapore is not imposing in aspect, for there are no\nmountains; yet its appearance is not without attractions.  It is a park\ncheckered by pleasant highways and avenues.  A handsome carriage, drawn\nby a sleek pair of New Holland horses, carried Phileas Fogg and Aouda\ninto the midst of rows of palms with brilliant foliage, and of\nclove-trees, whereof the cloves form the heart of a half-open flower.\nPepper plants replaced the prickly hedges of European fields;\nsago-bushes, large ferns with gorgeous branches, varied the aspect of\nthis tropical clime; while nutmeg-trees in full foliage filled the air\nwith a penetrating perfume.  Agile and grinning bands of monkeys\nskipped about in the trees, nor were tigers wanting in the jungles.\n\nAfter a drive of two hours through the country, Aouda and Mr. Fogg\nreturned to the town, which is a vast collection of heavy-looking,\nirregular houses, surrounded by charming gardens rich in tropical\nfruits and plants; and at ten o'clock they re-embarked, closely\nfollowed by the detective, who had kept them constantly in sight.\n\nPassepartout, who had been purchasing several dozen mangoes--a fruit\nas large as good-sized apples, of a dark-brown colour outside and a\nbright red within, and whose white pulp, melting in the mouth, affords\ngourmands a delicious sensation--was waiting for them on deck.  He was\nonly too glad to offer some mangoes to Aouda, who thanked him very\ngracefully for them.\n\nAt eleven o'clock the Rangoon rode out of Singapore harbour, and in a\nfew hours the high mountains of Malacca, with their forests, inhabited\nby the most beautifully-furred tigers in the world, were lost to view.\nSingapore is distant some thirteen hundred miles from the island of\nHong Kong, which is a little English colony near the Chinese coast.\nPhileas Fogg hoped to accomplish the journey in six days, so as to be\nin time for the steamer which would leave on the 6th of November for\nYokohama, the principal Japanese port.\n\nThe Rangoon had a large quota of passengers, many of whom disembarked\nat Singapore, among them a number of Indians, Ceylonese, Chinamen,\nMalays, and Portuguese, mostly second-class travellers.\n\nThe weather, which had hitherto been fine, changed with the last\nquarter of the moon.  The sea rolled heavily, and the wind at intervals\nrose almost to a storm, but happily blew from the south-west, and thus\naided the steamer's progress.  The captain as often as possible put up\nhis sails, and under the double action of steam and sail the vessel\nmade rapid progress along the coasts of Anam and Cochin China.  Owing\nto the defective construction of the Rangoon, however, unusual\nprecautions became necessary in unfavourable weather; but the loss of\ntime which resulted from this cause, while it nearly drove Passepartout\nout of his senses, did not seem to affect his master in the least.\nPassepartout blamed the captain, the engineer, and the crew, and\nconsigned all who were connected with the ship to the land where the\npepper grows.  Perhaps the thought of the gas, which was remorselessly\nburning at his expense in Saville Row, had something to do with his hot\nimpatience.\n\n\"You are in a great hurry, then,\" said Fix to him one day, \"to reach\nHong Kong?\"\n\n\"A very great hurry!\"\n\n\"Mr. Fogg, I suppose, is anxious to catch the steamer for Yokohama?\"\n\n\"Terribly anxious.\"\n\n\"You believe in this journey around the world, then?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.  Don't you, Mr. Fix?\"\n\n\"I?  I don't believe a word of it.\"\n\n\"You're a sly dog!\" said Passepartout, winking at him.\n\nThis expression rather disturbed Fix, without his knowing why.  Had the\nFrenchman guessed his real purpose?  He knew not what to think.  But\nhow could Passepartout have discovered that he was a detective?  Yet,\nin speaking as he did, the man evidently meant more than he expressed.\n\nPassepartout went still further the next day; he could not hold his\ntongue.\n\n\"Mr. Fix,\" said he, in a bantering tone, \"shall we be so unfortunate as\nto lose you when we get to Hong Kong?\"\n\n\"Why,\" responded Fix, a little embarrassed, \"I don't know; perhaps--\"\n\n\"Ah, if you would only go on with us!  An agent of the Peninsular\nCompany, you know, can't stop on the way!  You were only going to\nBombay, and here you are in China.  America is not far off, and from\nAmerica to Europe is only a step.\"\n\nFix looked intently at his companion, whose countenance was as serene\nas possible, and laughed with him.  But Passepartout persisted in\nchaffing him by asking him if he made much by his present occupation.\n\n\"Yes, and no,\" returned Fix; \"there is good and bad luck in such\nthings.  But you must understand that I don't travel at my own expense.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am quite sure of that!\" cried Passepartout, laughing heartily.\n\nFix, fairly puzzled, descended to his cabin and gave himself up to his\nreflections.  He was evidently suspected; somehow or other the\nFrenchman had found out that he was a detective.  But had he told his\nmaster?  What part was he playing in all this: was he an accomplice or\nnot?  Was the game, then, up?  Fix spent several hours turning these\nthings over in his mind, sometimes thinking that all was lost, then\npersuading himself that Fogg was ignorant of his presence, and then\nundecided what course it was best to take.\n\nNevertheless, he preserved his coolness of mind, and at last resolved\nto deal plainly with Passepartout.  If he did not find it practicable\nto arrest Fogg at Hong Kong, and if Fogg made preparations to leave\nthat last foothold of English territory, he, Fix, would tell\nPassepartout all.  Either the servant was the accomplice of his master,\nand in this case the master knew of his operations, and he should fail;\nor else the servant knew nothing about the robbery, and then his\ninterest would be to abandon the robber.\n\nSuch was the situation between Fix and Passepartout.  Meanwhile Phileas\nFogg moved about above them in the most majestic and unconscious\nindifference.  He was passing methodically in his orbit around the\nworld, regardless of the lesser stars which gravitated around him.  Yet\nthere was near by what the astronomers would call a disturbing star,\nwhich might have produced an agitation in this gentleman's heart.  But\nno! the charms of Aouda failed to act, to Passepartout's great\nsurprise; and the disturbances, if they existed, would have been more\ndifficult to calculate than those of Uranus which led to the discovery\nof Neptune.\n\nIt was every day an increasing wonder to Passepartout, who read in\nAouda's eyes the depths of her gratitude to his master.  Phileas Fogg,\nthough brave and gallant, must be, he thought, quite heartless.  As to\nthe sentiment which this journey might have awakened in him, there was\nclearly no trace of such a thing; while poor Passepartout existed in\nperpetual reveries.\n\nOne day he was leaning on the railing of the engine-room, and was\nobserving the engine, when a sudden pitch of the steamer threw the\nscrew out of the water.  The steam came hissing out of the valves; and\nthis made Passepartout indignant.\n\n\"The valves are not sufficiently charged!\" he exclaimed.  \"We are not\ngoing.  Oh, these English!  If this was an American craft, we should\nblow up, perhaps, but we should at all events go faster!\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Passepartout is wondering what has kept Detective Fix on their tail the whole time since he met the man en route to Suez. He decides the detective is a spy sent by the Reform club to keep track of Fogg's whereabouts. The Rangoon docks at Singapore to take on coal, and Fogg and Aouda go for a walk. Fix follows them and Passepartout runs some errands, sightsees, and grabs some tasty fruit. The ship then continues on its journey to Hong Kong. The travel is rough and Passepartout becomes pretty impatient. He decides to joke with Fix, asking him why he's always around and \"traveling\" with them. Fix is now wondering if Passepartout is onto him. Passepartout begins to realize that Aouda is falling in love with Phileas Fogg."}, {"": "141", "document": "\nThe Carnatic, setting sail from Hong Kong at half-past six on the 7th\nof November, directed her course at full steam towards Japan.  She\ncarried a large cargo and a well-filled cabin of passengers.  Two\nstate-rooms in the rear were, however, unoccupied--those which had been\nengaged by Phileas Fogg.\n\nThe next day a passenger with a half-stupefied eye, staggering gait,\nand disordered hair, was seen to emerge from the second cabin, and to\ntotter to a seat on deck.\n\nIt was Passepartout; and what had happened to him was as follows:\nShortly after Fix left the opium den, two waiters had lifted the\nunconscious Passepartout, and had carried him to the bed reserved for\nthe smokers.  Three hours later, pursued even in his dreams by a fixed\nidea, the poor fellow awoke, and struggled against the stupefying\ninfluence of the narcotic.  The thought of a duty unfulfilled shook off\nhis torpor, and he hurried from the abode of drunkenness.  Staggering\nand holding himself up by keeping against the walls, falling down and\ncreeping up again, and irresistibly impelled by a kind of instinct, he\nkept crying out, \"The Carnatic! the Carnatic!\"\n\nThe steamer lay puffing alongside the quay, on the point of starting.\nPassepartout had but few steps to go; and, rushing upon the plank, he\ncrossed it, and fell unconscious on the deck, just as the Carnatic was\nmoving off.  Several sailors, who were evidently accustomed to this\nsort of scene, carried the poor Frenchman down into the second cabin,\nand Passepartout did not wake until they were one hundred and fifty\nmiles away from China.  Thus he found himself the next morning on the\ndeck of the Carnatic, and eagerly inhaling the exhilarating sea-breeze.\nThe pure air sobered him.  He began to collect his sense, which he\nfound a difficult task; but at last he recalled the events of the\nevening before, Fix's revelation, and the opium-house.\n\n\"It is evident,\" said he to himself, \"that I have been abominably\ndrunk!  What will Mr. Fogg say?  At least I have not missed the\nsteamer, which is the most important thing.\"\n\nThen, as Fix occurred to him: \"As for that rascal, I hope we are well\nrid of him, and that he has not dared, as he proposed, to follow us on\nboard the Carnatic.  A detective on the track of Mr. Fogg, accused of\nrobbing the Bank of England!  Pshaw!  Mr. Fogg is no more a robber than\nI am a murderer.\"\n\nShould he divulge Fix's real errand to his master?  Would it do to tell\nthe part the detective was playing?  Would it not be better to wait\nuntil Mr. Fogg reached London again, and then impart to him that an\nagent of the metropolitan police had been following him round the\nworld, and have a good laugh over it?  No doubt; at least, it was worth\nconsidering.  The first thing to do was to find Mr. Fogg, and apologise\nfor his singular behaviour.\n\nPassepartout got up and proceeded, as well as he could with the rolling\nof the steamer, to the after-deck.  He saw no one who resembled either\nhis master or Aouda.  \"Good!\"  muttered he; \"Aouda has not got up yet,\nand Mr. Fogg has probably found some partners at whist.\"\n\nHe descended to the saloon.  Mr. Fogg was not there.  Passepartout had\nonly, however, to ask the purser the number of his master's state-room.\nThe purser replied that he did not know any passenger by the name of\nFogg.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said Passepartout persistently.  \"He is a tall\ngentleman, quiet, and not very talkative, and has with him a young\nlady--\"\n\n\"There is no young lady on board,\" interrupted the purser.  \"Here is a\nlist of the passengers; you may see for yourself.\"\n\nPassepartout scanned the list, but his master's name was not upon it.\nAll at once an idea struck him.\n\n\"Ah! am I on the Carnatic?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"On the way to Yokohama?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\nPassepartout had for an instant feared that he was on the wrong boat;\nbut, though he was really on the Carnatic, his master was not there.\n\nHe fell thunderstruck on a seat.  He saw it all now.  He remembered\nthat the time of sailing had been changed, that he should have informed\nhis master of that fact, and that he had not done so.  It was his\nfault, then, that Mr. Fogg and Aouda had missed the steamer.  Yes, but\nit was still more the fault of the traitor who, in order to separate\nhim from his master, and detain the latter at Hong Kong, had inveigled\nhim into getting drunk!  He now saw the detective's trick; and at this\nmoment Mr. Fogg was certainly ruined, his bet was lost, and he himself\nperhaps arrested and imprisoned!  At this thought Passepartout tore his\nhair.  Ah, if Fix ever came within his reach, what a settling of\naccounts there would be!\n\nAfter his first depression, Passepartout became calmer, and began to\nstudy his situation.  It was certainly not an enviable one.  He found\nhimself on the way to Japan, and what should he do when he got there?\nHis pocket was empty; he had not a solitary shilling, not so much as a\npenny.  His passage had fortunately been paid for in advance; and he\nhad five or six days in which to decide upon his future course.  He\nfell to at meals with an appetite, and ate for Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and\nhimself.  He helped himself as generously as if Japan were a desert,\nwhere nothing to eat was to be looked for.\n\nAt dawn on the 13th the Carnatic entered the port of Yokohama.  This is\nan important port of call in the Pacific, where all the mail-steamers,\nand those carrying travellers between North America, China, Japan, and\nthe Oriental islands put in.  It is situated in the bay of Yeddo, and\nat but a short distance from that second capital of the Japanese\nEmpire, and the residence of the Tycoon, the civil Emperor, before the\nMikado, the spiritual Emperor, absorbed his office in his own.  The\nCarnatic anchored at the quay near the custom-house, in the midst of a\ncrowd of ships bearing the flags of all nations.\n\nPassepartout went timidly ashore on this so curious territory of the\nSons of the Sun.  He had nothing better to do than, taking chance for\nhis guide, to wander aimlessly through the streets of Yokohama.  He\nfound himself at first in a thoroughly European quarter, the houses\nhaving low fronts, and being adorned with verandas, beneath which he\ncaught glimpses of neat peristyles.  This quarter occupied, with its\nstreets, squares, docks, and warehouses, all the space between the\n\"promontory of the Treaty\" and the river.  Here, as at Hong Kong and\nCalcutta, were mixed crowds of all races, Americans and English,\nChinamen and Dutchmen, mostly merchants ready to buy or sell anything.\nThe Frenchman felt himself as much alone among them as if he had\ndropped down in the midst of Hottentots.\n\nHe had, at least, one resource,--to call on the French and English\nconsuls at Yokohama for assistance.  But he shrank from telling the\nstory of his adventures, intimately connected as it was with that of\nhis master; and, before doing so, he determined to exhaust all other\nmeans of aid.  As chance did not favour him in the European quarter, he\npenetrated that inhabited by the native Japanese, determined, if\nnecessary, to push on to Yeddo.\n\nThe Japanese quarter of Yokohama is called Benten, after the goddess of\nthe sea, who is worshipped on the islands round about.  There\nPassepartout beheld beautiful fir and cedar groves, sacred gates of a\nsingular architecture, bridges half hid in the midst of bamboos and\nreeds, temples shaded by immense cedar-trees, holy retreats where were\nsheltered Buddhist priests and sectaries of Confucius, and interminable\nstreets, where a perfect harvest of rose-tinted and red-cheeked\nchildren, who looked as if they had been cut out of Japanese screens,\nand who were playing in the midst of short-legged poodles and yellowish\ncats, might have been gathered.\n\nThe streets were crowded with people.  Priests were passing in\nprocessions, beating their dreary tambourines; police and custom-house\nofficers with pointed hats encrusted with lac and carrying two sabres\nhung to their waists; soldiers, clad in blue cotton with white stripes,\nand bearing guns; the Mikado's guards, enveloped in silken doubles,\nhauberks and coats of mail; and numbers of military folk of all\nranks--for the military profession is as much respected in Japan as it\nis despised in China--went hither and thither in groups and pairs.\nPassepartout saw, too, begging friars, long-robed pilgrims, and simple\ncivilians, with their warped and jet-black hair, big heads, long busts,\nslender legs, short stature, and complexions varying from copper-colour\nto a dead white, but never yellow, like the Chinese, from whom the\nJapanese widely differ.  He did not fail to observe the curious\nequipages--carriages and palanquins, barrows supplied with sails, and\nlitters made of bamboo; nor the women--whom he thought not especially\nhandsome--who took little steps with their little feet, whereon they\nwore canvas shoes, straw sandals, and clogs of worked wood, and who\ndisplayed tight-looking eyes, flat chests, teeth fashionably blackened,\nand gowns crossed with silken scarfs, tied in an enormous knot behind\nan ornament which the modern Parisian ladies seem to have borrowed from\nthe dames of Japan.\n\nPassepartout wandered for several hours in the midst of this motley\ncrowd, looking in at the windows of the rich and curious shops, the\njewellery establishments glittering with quaint Japanese ornaments, the\nrestaurants decked with streamers and banners, the tea-houses, where\nthe odorous beverage was being drunk with saki, a liquor concocted from\nthe fermentation of rice, and the comfortable smoking-houses, where\nthey were puffing, not opium, which is almost unknown in Japan, but a\nvery fine, stringy tobacco.  He went on till he found himself in the\nfields, in the midst of vast rice plantations.  There he saw dazzling\ncamellias expanding themselves, with flowers which were giving forth\ntheir last colours and perfumes, not on bushes, but on trees, and\nwithin bamboo enclosures, cherry, plum, and apple trees, which the\nJapanese cultivate rather for their blossoms than their fruit, and\nwhich queerly-fashioned, grinning scarecrows protected from the\nsparrows, pigeons, ravens, and other voracious birds.  On the branches\nof the cedars were perched large eagles; amid the foliage of the\nweeping willows were herons, solemnly standing on one leg; and on every\nhand were crows, ducks, hawks, wild birds, and a multitude of cranes,\nwhich the Japanese consider sacred, and which to their minds symbolise\nlong life and prosperity.\n\nAs he was strolling along, Passepartout espied some violets among the\nshrubs.\n\n\"Good!\" said he; \"I'll have some supper.\"\n\nBut, on smelling them, he found that they were odourless.\n\n\"No chance there,\" thought he.\n\nThe worthy fellow had certainly taken good care to eat as hearty a\nbreakfast as possible before leaving the Carnatic; but, as he had been\nwalking about all day, the demands of hunger were becoming importunate.\nHe observed that the butchers stalls contained neither mutton, goat,\nnor pork; and, knowing also that it is a sacrilege to kill cattle,\nwhich are preserved solely for farming, he made up his mind that meat\nwas far from plentiful in Yokohama--nor was he mistaken; and, in\ndefault of butcher's meat, he could have wished for a quarter of wild\nboar or deer, a partridge, or some quails, some game or fish, which,\nwith rice, the Japanese eat almost exclusively.  But he found it\nnecessary to keep up a stout heart, and to postpone the meal he craved\ntill the following morning.  Night came, and Passepartout re-entered\nthe native quarter, where he wandered through the streets, lit by\nvari-coloured lanterns, looking on at the dancers, who were executing\nskilful steps and boundings, and the astrologers who stood in the open\nair with their telescopes.  Then he came to the harbour, which was lit\nup by the resin torches of the fishermen, who were fishing from their\nboats.\n\nThe streets at last became quiet, and the patrol, the officers of\nwhich, in their splendid costumes, and surrounded by their suites,\nPassepartout thought seemed like ambassadors, succeeded the bustling\ncrowd.  Each time a company passed, Passepartout chuckled, and said to\nhimself: \"Good! another Japanese embassy departing for Europe!\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Passepartout awakens in the opium den still under the effects of being drugged. He stumbles his way onto the Carnatic, which is bound for Yokohama. When he awakens, Fogg and Aouda aren't there, and he realizes he has been tricked by Fix. It was his fault that everyone missed the steamer--and now that Passepartout realizes the extent of Fix's plan, he is really mad. Passepartout has no money, so he eats everything he can aboard the ship as it makes its way to Japan and thinks about how he might survive when he gets there."}, {"": "142", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\n                      AUVERGNE. The Castle\n\n               Enter the COUNTESS and her PORTER\n\n  COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge;\n    And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.\n  PORTER. Madam, I will.\n  COUNTESS. The plot is laid; if all things fall out right,\n    I shall as famous be by this exploit.\n    As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death.\n    Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,\n    And his achievements of no less account.\n    Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears\n    To give their censure of these rare reports.\n\n    Enter MESSENGER and TALBOT.\n\n  MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd,\n    By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come.\n  COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What! is this the man?\n  MESSENGER. Madam, it is.\n  COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France?\n    Is this Talbot, so much fear'd abroad\n    That with his name the mothers still their babes?\n    I see report is fabulous and false.\n    I thought I should have seen some Hercules,\n    A second Hector, for his grim aspect\n    And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.\n    Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!\n    It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp\n    Should strike such terror to his enemies.\n  TALBOT. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;\n    But since your ladyship is not at leisure,\n    I'll sort some other time to visit you.              [Going]\n  COUNTESS. What means he now? Go ask him whither he\n    goes.\n  MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves\n    To know the cause of your abrupt departure.\n  TALBOT. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief,\n    I go to certify her Talbot's here.\n\n                      Re-enter PORTER With keys\n\n  COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.\n  TALBOT. Prisoner! To whom?\n  COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord\n    And for that cause I train'd thee to my house.\n    Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,\n    For in my gallery thy picture hangs;\n    But now the substance shall endure the like\n    And I will chain these legs and arms of thine\n    That hast by tyranny these many years\n    Wasted our country, slain our citizens,\n    And sent our sons and husbands captivate.\n  TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha!\n  COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to\n    moan.\n  TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond\n    To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow\n    Whereon to practise your severity.\n  COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man?\n  TALBOT. I am indeed.\n  COUNTESS. Then have I substance too.\n  TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself.\n    You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here;\n    For what you see is but the smallest part\n    And least proportion of humanity.\n    I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,\n    It is of such a spacious lofty pitch\n    Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't.\n  COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;\n    He will be here, and yet he is not here.\n    How can these contrarieties agree?\n  TALBOT. That will I show you presently.\n\n                   Winds his horn; drums strike up;\n                  a peal of ordnance. Enter soldiers\n\n    How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded\n    That Talbot is but shadow of himself?\n    These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength,\n    With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,\n    Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns,\n    And in a moment makes them desolate.\n  COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse.\n    I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited,\n    And more than may be gathered by thy shape.\n    Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath,\n    For I am sorry that with reverence\n    I did not entertain thee as thou art.\n  TALBOT. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconster\n    The mind of Talbot as you did mistake\n    The outward composition of his body.\n    What you have done hath not offended me.\n    Nor other satisfaction do I crave\n    But only, with your patience, that we may\n    Taste of your wine and see what cates you have,\n    For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well.\n  COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured\n    To feast so great a warrior in my house.              Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Countess of Avergne enters and reminds her servant of the order she has given him. In a soliloquy, she reveals that she has laid a plot against Talbot, adding that if it comes off, she will be famous. Talbot is shown in, The Countess says she cannot believe that this is Talbot, as she was expecting an impressive, strong man, whereas Talbot is small and puny-looking. Talbot goes to leave, but she calls him back. When he confirms that he is indeed Talbot, she declares that he is her prisoner. Talbot laughs and says that what she sees before her is only a tiny part of him. If the whole were there, it would not fit into her castle. The Countess is mystified. Talbot sounds a horn, and English soldiers enter. Talbot explains that his men form the rest of him. The Countess apologizes, admitting that he lives up to his great reputation. Talbot insists that he is not offended and asks in recompense only that she feed him and his soldiers. ."}, {"": "143", "document": "The same.  De Guiche.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  It smells good here.\n\nA CADET (humming):\n  Lo!  Lo-lo!\n\nDE GUICHE (looking at him):\n  What is the matter?--You are very red.\n\nTHE CADET:\n  The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming\nbattle!\n\nANOTHER:\n  Poum, poum--poum. . .\n\nDE GUICHE (turning round):\n  What's that?\n\nTHE CADET (slightly drunk):\n  Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You are merry, my friend!\n\nTHE CADET:\n  The approach of danger is intoxicating!\n\nDE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order):\n  Captain!  I. . .\n(He stops short on seeing him):\n  Plague take me! but you look bravely, too!\n\nCARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive\nmovement):\n  Oh!. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there--\n(he points behind the scenes):\n  --in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need.\n\nA CADET (reeling slightly):\n  Charming attention!\n\nANOTHER (with a gracious smile):\n  Kind solicitude!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  How? they are all gone crazy?\n(Drily):\n As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil.\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  Pooh!\n\nDE GUICHE (furious, going up to him):\n  But. . .\n\nTHE CADET:\n  Gascon cannons never recoil!\n\nDE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him):\n  You are tipsy!--but what with?\n\nTHE CADET (grandiloquently):\n  --With the smell of powder!\n\nDE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to\nRoxane):\n  Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take?\n\nROXANE:\n  I stay here.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You must fly!\n\nROXANE:\n  No! I will stay.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you!\n\nCARBON:\n  Wherefore?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Because I too--mean to remain.\n\nCYRANO:\n  At last!  This is true valor, Sir!\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar?\n\nROXANE:\n  What is all this?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I leave no woman in peril.\n\nSECOND CADET (to the first):\n  Hark you!  Think you not we might give him something to eat?\n\n(All the viands reappear as if by magic.)\n\nDE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle):\n  Victuals!\n\nTHE THIRD CADET:\n  Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat!\n\nDE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily):\n  Do you think I will eat your leavings?\n\nCYRANO (saluting him):\n  You make progress.\n\nDE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'):\n  I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast!\n\nFIRST CADET (with wild delight):\n  Br-r-r-eaking!  He has got the accent!\n\nDE GUICHE (laughing):\n  I?\n\nTHE CADET:\n  'Tis a Gascon!\n\n(All begin to dance.)\n\nCARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing\non the ridge):\n  I have drawn my pikemen up in line.  They are a resolute troop.\n\n(He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.)\n\nDE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane):\n  Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them?\n\n(She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart.  All uncover and follow\nthem.)\n\nCHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly):\n  Tell me quickly!\n\n(As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for\nthe salute, and a shout is raised.  She bows.)\n\nTHE PIKEMEN (outside):\n  Vivat!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What is this secret?\n\nCYRANO:\n  If Roxane should. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Should?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Speak of the letters?. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Yes, I know!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  At what?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to-\nday on seeing her.  You have. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Tell quickly!\n\nCYRANO:\n  You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  How so?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Thus, 'faith!  I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At\ntimes I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!'\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Tis simple enough!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  . . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN (folding his arms):\n  That was simple, too?  And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in\nthe week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  More often still.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What!  Every day?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Yes, every day,--twice.\n\nCHRISTIAN (violently):\n  And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . .\n\nCYRANO (seeing Roxane returning):\n  Hush!  Not before her!\n\n(He goes hurriedly into his tent.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "When Carbon introduces Roxane to the Cadets, he asks her to give up her lace handkerchief to serve as the banner of the cadets; she gladly obliges. When one of the men mentions his hunger to her, she tells them that she has brought food and sends them to the carriage. While Ragueneau, serving as the coachman, takes out the edible delicacies, Roxane distributes them to the cadets. Cyrano urgently draws Christian aside to talk to him, but the latter is called away to help with the food. While he carves the meat, he presses Roxane about her real reason for coming; however, she will not talk to him until after the feast is over. When De Guiche re-enters the camp, the food is quickly hidden from view. As a result, he is amazed by the gaiety that he perceives. He has come to bring the cadets a cannon, but he warns them about its recoil action. He also asks Roxane if she really intends to stay on at the camp. When she gives her positive response, he calls for a musket and says that he will stay and protect her. The cadets are so impressed by his offer that they give him the remaining food from the feast. Although he is tempted by his hunger, De Guiche is too proud to accept it. He is then applauded by all as a true Gascon. When Carbon asks De Guiche to inspect the pikeman, he asks Roxane to accompany him. This gives Cyrano the opportunity to warn Christian that he must acknowledge having written the letters that Roxane has received. Christian is amazed at the news and questions him about the letters and their dispatch. When Cyrano explains how he has crossed enemy lines to get the letters to Roxane, Christian sarcastically remarks that writing them must have been an intoxicating experience, for Cyrano was willing to risk death for them; there is a touch of jealousy in his criticism. Roxane's return, however, suspends their conversation."}, {"": "144", "document": "INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW\n\nIT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk\nwith Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the\nby-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both\nstopped to gaze on it.\n\n\"Well,\" said Enfield, \"that story's at an end at least. We shall\nnever see more of Mr. Hyde.\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" said Utterson. \"Did I ever tell you that I once saw\nhim, and shared your feeling of repulsion?\"\n\n\"It was impossible to do the one without the other,\" returned\nEnfield. \"And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me,\nnot to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was\npartly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did.\"\n\n\"So you found it out, did you?\" said Utterson. \"But if that be\nso, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To\ntell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even\noutside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him\ngood.\"\n\n49)\n\nThe court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature\ntwilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright\nwith sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way\nopen; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an\ninfinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner,\nUtterson saw Dr. Jekyll.\n\n\"What! Jekyll!\" he cried. \"I trust you are better.\"\n\n\"I am very low, Utterson,\" replied the doctor, drearily, \"very\nlow. It will not last long, thank God.\"\n\n\"You stay too much indoors,\" said the lawyer. \"You should be out,\nwhipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my\n        cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and\ntake a quick turn with us.\"\n\n\"You are very good,\" sighed the other. \"I should like to very\nmuch; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But\nindeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a\ngreat pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place\nis really not fit.\"\n\n\"Why then,\" said the lawyer, good-naturedly, \"the best thing we\ncan do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we\nare.\"\n\n\"That is just what I was about to venture to propose,\" returned\nthe doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered,\nbefore the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded\n\n50)\n\nby an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the\nvery blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a\nglimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that\nglimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court\nwithout a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street;\nand it was not until they had come into a neighbouring\nthoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some\nstirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at\nhis companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering\nhorror in their eyes.\n\n\"God forgive us, God forgive us,\" said Mr. Utterson.\n\nBut Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on\nonce more in silence.\n\n51)\n\n\n\n", "summary": "\"Incident at the Window\" The following Sunday, Utterson and Enfield are taking their regular stroll. Passing the door where Enfield once saw Hyde enter to retrieve Jekyll's check, Enfield remarks on the murder case. He notes that the story that began with the trampling has reached an end, as London will never again see Mr. Hyde. Enfield mentions that in the intervening weeks he has learned that the run-down laboratory they pass is physically connected to Jekyll's house, and they both stop to peer into the house's windows, with Utterson noting his concern for Jekyll's health. To their surprise, the two men find Jekyll at the window, enjoying the fresh air. Jekyll complains that he feels \"very low,\" and Utterson suggests that he join them for a walk, to help his circulation. Jekyll refuses, saying that he cannot go out. Then, just as they resume polite conversation, a look of terror seizes his face, and he quickly shuts the window and vanishes. Utterson and Enfield depart in shocked silence."}, {"": "145", "document": "\nThe next morning poor, jaded, famished Passepartout said to himself\nthat he must get something to eat at all hazards, and the sooner he did\nso the better.  He might, indeed, sell his watch; but he would have\nstarved first.  Now or never he must use the strong, if not melodious\nvoice which nature had bestowed upon him.  He knew several French and\nEnglish songs, and resolved to try them upon the Japanese, who must be\nlovers of music, since they were for ever pounding on their cymbals,\ntam-tams, and tambourines, and could not but appreciate European talent.\n\nIt was, perhaps, rather early in the morning to get up a concert, and\nthe audience prematurely aroused from their slumbers, might not\npossibly pay their entertainer with coin bearing the Mikado's features.\nPassepartout therefore decided to wait several hours; and, as he was\nsauntering along, it occurred to him that he would seem rather too well\ndressed for a wandering artist.  The idea struck him to change his\ngarments for clothes more in harmony with his project; by which he\nmight also get a little money to satisfy the immediate cravings of\nhunger.  The resolution taken, it remained to carry it out.\n\nIt was only after a long search that Passepartout discovered a native\ndealer in old clothes, to whom he applied for an exchange.  The man\nliked the European costume, and ere long Passepartout issued from his\nshop accoutred in an old Japanese coat, and a sort of one-sided turban,\nfaded with long use.  A few small pieces of silver, moreover, jingled\nin his pocket.\n\n\"Good!\" thought he.  \"I will imagine I am at the Carnival!\"\n\nHis first care, after being thus \"Japanesed,\" was to enter a tea-house\nof modest appearance, and, upon half a bird and a little rice, to\nbreakfast like a man for whom dinner was as yet a problem to be solved.\n\n\"Now,\" thought he, when he had eaten heartily, \"I mustn't lose my head.\nI can't sell this costume again for one still more Japanese.  I must\nconsider how to leave this country of the Sun, of which I shall not\nretain the most delightful of memories, as quickly as possible.\"\n\nIt occurred to him to visit the steamers which were about to leave for\nAmerica.  He would offer himself as a cook or servant, in payment of\nhis passage and meals.  Once at San Francisco, he would find some means\nof going on.  The difficulty was, how to traverse the four thousand\nseven hundred miles of the Pacific which lay between Japan and the New\nWorld.\n\nPassepartout was not the man to let an idea go begging, and directed\nhis steps towards the docks.  But, as he approached them, his project,\nwhich at first had seemed so simple, began to grow more and more\nformidable to his mind.  What need would they have of a cook or servant\non an American steamer, and what confidence would they put in him,\ndressed as he was?  What references could he give?\n\nAs he was reflecting in this wise, his eyes fell upon an immense\nplacard which a sort of clown was carrying through the streets.  This\nplacard, which was in English, read as follows:\n\n          ACROBATIC JAPANESE TROUPE,\n   HONOURABLE WILLIAM BATULCAR, PROPRIETOR,\n           LAST REPRESENTATIONS,\nPRIOR TO THEIR DEPARTURE TO THE UNITED STATES,\n                  OF THE\n        LONG NOSES!   LONG NOSES!\nUNDER THE DIRECT PATRONAGE OF THE GOD TINGOU!\n           GREAT ATTRACTION!\n\n\"The United States!\" said Passepartout; \"that's just what I want!\"\n\nHe followed the clown, and soon found himself once more in the Japanese\nquarter.  A quarter of an hour later he stopped before a large cabin,\nadorned with several clusters of streamers, the exterior walls of which\nwere designed to represent, in violent colours and without perspective,\na company of jugglers.\n\nThis was the Honourable William Batulcar's establishment.  That\ngentleman was a sort of Barnum, the director of a troupe of\nmountebanks, jugglers, clowns, acrobats, equilibrists, and gymnasts,\nwho, according to the placard, was giving his last performances before\nleaving the Empire of the Sun for the States of the Union.\n\nPassepartout entered and asked for Mr. Batulcar, who straightway\nappeared in person.\n\n\"What do you want?\" said he to Passepartout, whom he at first took for\na native.\n\n\"Would you like a servant, sir?\" asked Passepartout.\n\n\"A servant!\" cried Mr. Batulcar, caressing the thick grey beard which\nhung from his chin.  \"I already have two who are obedient and faithful,\nhave never left me, and serve me for their nourishment and here they\nare,\" added he, holding out his two robust arms, furrowed with veins as\nlarge as the strings of a bass-viol.\n\n\"So I can be of no use to you?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"The devil!  I should so like to cross the Pacific with you!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the Honourable Mr. Batulcar.  \"You are no more a Japanese\nthan I am a monkey!  Who are you dressed up in that way?\"\n\n\"A man dresses as he can.\"\n\n\"That's true.  You are a Frenchman, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes; a Parisian of Paris.\"\n\n\"Then you ought to know how to make grimaces?\"\n\n\"Why,\" replied Passepartout, a little vexed that his nationality should\ncause this question, \"we Frenchmen know how to make grimaces, it is\ntrue but not any better than the Americans do.\"\n\n\"True.  Well, if I can't take you as a servant, I can as a clown.  You\nsee, my friend, in France they exhibit foreign clowns, and in foreign\nparts French clowns.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"You are pretty strong, eh?\"\n\n\"Especially after a good meal.\"\n\n\"And you can sing?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Passepartout, who had formerly been wont to sing in the\nstreets.\n\n\"But can you sing standing on your head, with a top spinning on your\nleft foot, and a sabre balanced on your right?\"\n\n\"Humph!  I think so,\" replied Passepartout, recalling the exercises of\nhis younger days.\n\n\"Well, that's enough,\" said the Honourable William Batulcar.\n\nThe engagement was concluded there and then.\n\nPassepartout had at last found something to do.  He was engaged to act\nin the celebrated Japanese troupe.  It was not a very dignified\nposition, but within a week he would be on his way to San Francisco.\n\nThe performance, so noisily announced by the Honourable Mr. Batulcar,\nwas to commence at three o'clock, and soon the deafening instruments of\na Japanese orchestra resounded at the door.  Passepartout, though he\nhad not been able to study or rehearse a part, was designated to lend\nthe aid of his sturdy shoulders in the great exhibition of the \"human\npyramid,\" executed by the Long Noses of the god Tingou.  This \"great\nattraction\" was to close the performance.\n\nBefore three o'clock the large shed was invaded by the spectators,\ncomprising Europeans and natives, Chinese and Japanese, men, women and\nchildren, who precipitated themselves upon the narrow benches and into\nthe boxes opposite the stage.  The musicians took up a position inside,\nand were vigorously performing on their gongs, tam-tams, flutes, bones,\ntambourines, and immense drums.\n\nThe performance was much like all acrobatic displays; but it must be\nconfessed that the Japanese are the first equilibrists in the world.\n\nOne, with a fan and some bits of paper, performed the graceful trick of\nthe butterflies and the flowers; another traced in the air, with the\nodorous smoke of his pipe, a series of blue words, which composed a\ncompliment to the audience; while a third juggled with some lighted\ncandles, which he extinguished successively as they passed his lips,\nand relit again without interrupting for an instant his juggling.\nAnother reproduced the most singular combinations with a spinning-top;\nin his hands the revolving tops seemed to be animated with a life of\ntheir own in their interminable whirling; they ran over pipe-stems, the\nedges of sabres, wires and even hairs stretched across the stage; they\nturned around on the edges of large glasses, crossed bamboo ladders,\ndispersed into all the corners, and produced strange musical effects by\nthe combination of their various pitches of tone.  The jugglers tossed\nthem in the air, threw them like shuttlecocks with wooden battledores,\nand yet they kept on spinning; they put them into their pockets, and\ntook them out still whirling as before.\n\nIt is useless to describe the astonishing performances of the acrobats\nand gymnasts.  The turning on ladders, poles, balls, barrels, &c., was\nexecuted with wonderful precision.\n\nBut the principal attraction was the exhibition of the Long Noses, a\nshow to which Europe is as yet a stranger.\n\nThe Long Noses form a peculiar company, under the direct patronage of\nthe god Tingou.  Attired after the fashion of the Middle Ages, they\nbore upon their shoulders a splendid pair of wings; but what especially\ndistinguished them was the long noses which were fastened to their\nfaces, and the uses which they made of them.  These noses were made of\nbamboo, and were five, six, and even ten feet long, some straight,\nothers curved, some ribboned, and some having imitation warts upon\nthem.  It was upon these appendages, fixed tightly on their real noses,\nthat they performed their gymnastic exercises.  A dozen of these\nsectaries of Tingou lay flat upon their backs, while others, dressed to\nrepresent lightning-rods, came and frolicked on their noses, jumping\nfrom one to another, and performing the most skilful leapings and\nsomersaults.\n\nAs a last scene, a \"human pyramid\" had been announced, in which fifty\nLong Noses were to represent the Car of Juggernaut.  But, instead of\nforming a pyramid by mounting each other's shoulders, the artists were\nto group themselves on top of the noses.  It happened that the\nperformer who had hitherto formed the base of the Car had quitted the\ntroupe, and as, to fill this part, only strength and adroitness were\nnecessary, Passepartout had been chosen to take his place.\n\nThe poor fellow really felt sad when--melancholy reminiscence of his\nyouth!--he donned his costume, adorned with vari-coloured wings, and\nfastened to his natural feature a false nose six feet long.  But he\ncheered up when he thought that this nose was winning him something to\neat.\n\nHe went upon the stage, and took his place beside the rest who were to\ncompose the base of the Car of Juggernaut.  They all stretched\nthemselves on the floor, their noses pointing to the ceiling.  A second\ngroup of artists disposed themselves on these long appendages, then a\nthird above these, then a fourth, until a human monument reaching to\nthe very cornices of the theatre soon arose on top of the noses.  This\nelicited loud applause, in the midst of which the orchestra was just\nstriking up a deafening air, when the pyramid tottered, the balance was\nlost, one of the lower noses vanished from the pyramid, and the human\nmonument was shattered like a castle built of cards!\n\nIt was Passepartout's fault.  Abandoning his position, clearing the\nfootlights without the aid of his wings, and, clambering up to the\nright-hand gallery, he fell at the feet of one of the spectators,\ncrying, \"Ah, my master! my master!\"\n\n\"You here?\"\n\n\"Myself.\"\n\n\"Very well; then let us go to the steamer, young man!\"\n\nMr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout passed through the lobby of the\ntheatre to the outside, where they encountered the Honourable Mr.\nBatulcar, furious with rage.  He demanded damages for the \"breakage\" of\nthe pyramid; and Phileas Fogg appeased him by giving him a handful of\nbanknotes.\n\nAt half-past six, the very hour of departure, Mr. Fogg and Aouda,\nfollowed by Passepartout, who in his hurry had retained his wings, and\nnose six feet long, stepped upon the American steamer.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Starving and having no shelter, Passepartout joins a troupe of actors, clowns, and acrobats. The troupe is hired to construct a human pyramid at one of the great performance halls. Passepartout is one of the bases, but by chance sees his master passing by and runs out from under the pyramid toward him. The whole structure of acrobats comes tumbling down. The owner of the acting troupe is furious, but Phileas throws some banknotes at him and he is silenced. The group, once again united, boards a boat bound for America."}, {"": "146", "document": "III. The Night Shadows\n\n\nA wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is\nconstituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A\nsolemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every\none of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every\nroom in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating\nheart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of\nits imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the\nawfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I\nturn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time\nto read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable\nwater, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses\nof buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the\nbook should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read\nbut a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an\neternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood\nin ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,\nmy love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable\nconsolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that\nindividuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In\nany of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there\na sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their\ninnermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?\n\nAs to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the\nmessenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the\nfirst Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the\nthree passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail\ncoach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had\nbeen in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the\nbreadth of a county between him and the next.\n\nThe messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at\nale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his\nown counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that\nassorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with\nno depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they\nwere afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too\nfar apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like\na three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and\nthroat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped\nfor drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he\npoured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he\nmuffled again.\n\n\"No, Jerry, no!\" said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.\n\"It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't\nsuit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd\nbeen a drinking!\"\n\nHis message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several\ntimes, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,\nwhich was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all\nover it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was\nso like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked\nwall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might\nhave declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.\n\nWhile he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night\nwatchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who\nwas to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the\nnight took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such\nshapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.\nThey seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.\n\nWhat time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon\nits tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,\nlikewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms\ntheir dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.\n\nTellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank\npassenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what\nlay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,\nand driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special\njolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little\ncoach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the\nbulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great\nstroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,\nand more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with\nall its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then\nthe strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable\nstores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a\nlittle that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among\nthem with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them\nsafe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.\n\nBut, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach\n(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was\nalways with him, there was another current of impression that never\nceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one\nout of a grave.\n\nNow, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him\nwas the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did\nnot indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by\nyears, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,\nand in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,\ndefiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;\nso did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands\nand figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was\nprematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this\nspectre:\n\n\"Buried how long?\"\n\nThe answer was always the same: \"Almost eighteen years.\"\n\n\"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?\"\n\n\"Long ago.\"\n\n\"You know that you are recalled to life?\"\n\n\"They tell me so.\"\n\n\"I hope you care to live?\"\n\n\"I can't say.\"\n\n\"Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?\"\n\nThe answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes\nthe broken reply was, \"Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.\"\nSometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,\n\"Take me to her.\" Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it\nwas, \"I don't know her. I don't understand.\"\n\nAfter such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,\nand dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his\nhands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth\nhanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The\npassenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the\nreality of mist and rain on his cheek.\n\nYet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving\npatch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating\nby jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train\nof the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the\nreal business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express\nsent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out\nof the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost\nit again.\n\n\"Buried how long?\"\n\n\"Almost eighteen years.\"\n\n\"I hope you care to live?\"\n\n\"I can't say.\"\n\nDig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two\npassengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm\nsecurely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two\nslumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again\nslid away into the bank and the grave.\n\n\"Buried how long?\"\n\n\"Almost eighteen years.\"\n\n\"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?\"\n\n\"Long ago.\"\n\nThe words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in\nhis hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary\npassenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the\nshadows of the night were gone.\n\nHe lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a\nridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left\nlast night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,\nin which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained\nupon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,\nand the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.\n\n\"Eighteen years!\" said the passenger, looking at the sun. \"Gracious\nCreator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The messenger, Jerry Cruncher, trots off into the darkness to deliver the message to the night watchman of Tellson's Bank. On the way, he stops a number of times to scratch his head and think about the perplexing message. In the coach, Mr. Lorry dozes and dreams about the man who has been all but buried alive in a prison for the last eighteen years."}, {"": "147", "document": "\n\nThe resolutions passed at the last meeting produced a great\neffect out of doors.  Timid people took fright at the idea of\na shot weighing 20,000 pounds being launched into space; they\nasked what cannon could ever transmit a sufficient velocity to\nsuch a mighty mass.  The minutes of the second meeting were\ndestined triumphantly to answer such questions.  The following\nevening the discussion was renewed.\n\n\"My dear colleagues,\" said Barbicane, without further preamble,\n\"the subject now before us is the construction of the engine,\nits length, its composition, and its weight.  It is probable\nthat we shall end by giving it gigantic dimensions; but however\ngreat may be the difficulties in the way, our mechanical genius\nwill readily surmount them.  Be good enough, then, to give me\nyour attention, and do not hesitate to make objections at the close.\nI have no fear of them.  The problem before us is how to communicate\nan initial force of 12,000 yards per second to a shell of 108\ninches in diameter, weighing 20,000 pounds.  Now when a projectile\nis launched into space, what happens to it?  It is acted upon by\nthree independent forces:  the resistance of the air, the attraction\nof the earth, and the force of impulsion with which it is endowed.\nLet us examine these three forces.  The resistance of the air is of\nlittle importance.  The atmosphere of the earth does not exceed\nforty miles.  Now, with the given rapidity, the projectile will\nhave traversed this in five seconds, and the period is too brief\nfor the resistance of the medium to be regarded otherwise than\nas insignificant.  Proceding, then, to the attraction of the earth,\nthat is, the weight of the shell, we know that this weight will\ndiminish in the inverse ratio of the square of the distance.\nWhen a body left to itself falls to the surface of the earth, it\nfalls five feet in the first second; and if the same body were\nremoved 257,542 miles further off, in other words, to the distance\nof the moon, its fall would be reduced to about half a line in the\nfirst second.  That is almost equivalent to a state of perfect rest.\nOur business, then, is to overcome progressively this action\nof gravitation.  The mode of accomplishing that is by the force\nof impulsion.\"\n\n\"There's the difficulty,\" broke in the major.\n\n\"True,\" replied the president; \"but we will overcome that, for\nthe force of impulsion will depend on the length of the engine\nand the powder employed, the latter being limited only by the\nresisting power of the former.  Our business, then, to-day is\nwith the dimensions of the cannon.\"\n\n\"Now, up to the present time,\" said Barbicane, \"our longest guns\nhave not exceeded twenty-five feet in length.  We shall\ntherefore astonish the world by the dimensions we shall be\nobliged to adopt.  It must evidently be, then, a gun of great\nrange, since the length of the piece will increase the detention\nof the gas accumulated behind the projectile; but there is no\nadvantage in passing certain limits.\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" said the major.  \"What is the rule in such a case?\"\n\n\"Ordinarily the length of a gun is twenty to twenty-five times\nthe diameter of the shot, and its weight two hundred and\nthirty-five to two hundred and forty times that of the shot.\"\n\n\"That is not enough,\" cried J. T. Maston impetuously.\n\n\"I agree with you, my good friend; and, in fact, following this\nproportion for a projectile nine feet in diameter, weighing 30,000\npounds, the gun would only have a length of two hundred and twenty-\nfive feet, and a weight of 7,200,000 pounds.\"\n\n\"Ridiculous!\" rejoined Maston.  \"As well take a pistol.\"\n\n\"I think so too,\" replied Barbicane; \"that is why I propose to\nquadruple that length, and to construct a gun of nine hundred feet.\"\n\nThe general and the major offered some objections; nevertheless,\nthe proposition, actively supported by the secretary, was\ndefinitely adopted.\n\n\"But,\" said Elphinstone, \"what thickness must we give it?\"\n\n\"A thickness of six feet,\" replied Barbicane.\n\n\"You surely don't think of mounting a mass like that upon a\ncarriage?\" asked the major.\n\n\"It would be a superb idea, though,\" said Maston.\n\n\"But impracticable,\" replied Barbicane.  \"No, I think of sinking\nthis engine in the earth alone, binding it with hoops of wrought\niron, and finally surrounding it with a thick mass of masonry of\nstone and cement.  The piece once cast, it must be bored with\ngreat precision, so as to preclude any possible windage.  So there\nwill be no loss whatever of gas, and all the expansive force of\nthe powder will be employed in the propulsion.\"\n\n\"One simple question,\" said Elphinstone:  \"is our gun to be rifled?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not,\" replied Barbicane; \"we require an enormous\ninitial velocity; and you are well aware that a shot quits a\nrifled gun less rapidly than it does a smooth-bore.\"\n\n\"True,\" rejoined the major.\n\nThe committee here adjourned for a few minutes to tea and sandwiches.\n\nOn the discussion being renewed, \"Gentlemen,\" said Barbicane,\n\"we must now take into consideration the metal to be employed.\nOur cannon must be possessed of great tenacity, great hardness,\nbe infusible by heat, indissoluble, and inoxidable by the\ncorrosive action of acids.\"\n\n\"There is no doubt about that,\" replied the major; \"and as we\nshall have to employ an immense quantity of metal, we shall not\nbe at a loss for choice.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Morgan, \"I propose the best alloy hitherto\nknown, which consists of one hundred parts of copper, twelve of\ntin, and six of brass.\"\n\n\"I admit,\" replied the president, \"that this composition has\nyielded excellent results, but in the present case it would be\ntoo expensive, and very difficult to work.  I think, then, that\nwe ought to adopt a material excellent in its way and of low\nprice, such as cast iron.  What is your advice, major?\"\n\n\"I quite agree with you,\" replied Elphinstone.\n\n\"In fact,\" continued Barbicane, \"cast iron costs ten times less\nthan bronze; it is easy to cast, it runs readily from the moulds\nof sand, it is easy of manipulation, it is at once economical of\nmoney and of time.  In addition, it is excellent as a material,\nand I well remember that during the war, at the siege of\nAtlanta, some iron guns fired one thousand rounds at intervals\nof twenty minutes without injury.\"\n\n\"Cast iron is very brittle, though,\" replied Morgan.\n\n\"Yes, but it possesses great resistance.  I will now ask our\nworthy secretary to calculate the weight of a cast-iron gun with\na bore of nine feet and a thickness of six feet of metal.\"\n\n\"In a moment,\" replied Maston.  Then, dashing off some\nalgebraical formulae with marvelous facility, in a minute or two\nhe declared the following result:\n\n\"The cannon will weigh 68,040 tons.  And, at two cents a pound,\nit will cost----\"\n\n\"Two million five hundred and ten thousand seven hundred and\none dollars.\"\n\nMaston, the major, and the general regarded Barbicane with\nuneasy looks.\n\n\"Well, gentlemen,\" replied the president, \"I repeat what I\nsaid yesterday.  Make yourselves easy; the millions will not\nbe wanting.\"\n\nWith this assurance of their president the committee separated,\nafter having fixed their third meeting for the following evening.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The next day, the crew gathers again to discuss the cannon itself. Maston immediately suggests that the cannon be \"half a mile long at least\" . At least. Barbicane, on the other hand, thinks that the cannon should run about nine hundred feet. To limit resistance, he plans to forge the cannon directly into the ground. Clever. The plan sounds great, but everyone agrees that this will be one pricey experiment. Despite the group's concerns, however, Barbicane's confidence is unflappable."}, {"": "148", "document": "Cyrano, Christian.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Embrace me now!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Sir. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  You are brave.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh! but. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Nay, I insist.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Pray tell me. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Come, embrace!  I am her brother.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Whose brother?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Hers i' faith!  Roxane's!\n\nCHRISTIAN (rushing up to him):\n  O heavens!\n  Her brother. . .?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Cousin--brother!. . .the same thing!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  And she has told you. . .?\n\nCYRANO:\n  All!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  She loves me? say!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Maybe!\n\nCHRISTIAN (taking his hands):\n  How glad I am to meet you, Sir!\n\nCYRANO:\n  That may be called a sudden sentiment!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I ask your pardon. . .\n\nCYRANO (looking at him, with his hand on his shoulder):\n  True, he's fair, the villain!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ah, Sir!  If you but knew my admiration!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  But all those noses?. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh!  I take them back!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Roxane expects a letter.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Woe the day!\n\nCYRANO:\n  How?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I am lost if I but ope my lips!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Why so?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I am a fool--could die for shame!\n\nCYRANO:\n  None is a fool who knows himself a fool.\n  And you did not attack me like a fool.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Bah!  One finds battle-cry to lead th' assault!\n  I have a certain military wit,\n  But, before women, can but hold my tongue.\n  Their eyes!  True, when I pass, their eyes are kind. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  And, when you stay, their hearts, methinks, are kinder?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  No! for I am one of those men--tongue-tied,\n  I know it--who can never tell their love.\n\nCYRANO:\n  And I, meseems, had Nature been more kind,\n  More careful, when she fashioned me,--had been\n  One of those men who well could speak their love!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh, to express one's thoughts with facile grace!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  . . .To be a musketeer, with handsome face!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Roxane is precieuse.  I'm sure to prove\n  A disappointment to her!\n\nCYRANO (looking at him):\n  Had I but\n  Such an interpreter to speak my soul!\n\nCHRISTIAN (with despair):\n  Eloquence!  Where to find it?\n\nCYRANO (abruptly):\n  That I lend,\n  If you lend me your handsome victor-charms;\n  Blended, we make a hero of romance!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  How so?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Think you you can repeat what things\n  I daily teach your tongue?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What do you mean?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Roxane shall never have a disillusion!\n  Say, wilt thou that we woo her, double-handed?\n  Wilt thou that we two woo her, both together?\n  Feel'st thou, passing from my leather doublet,\n  Through thy laced doublet, all my soul inspiring?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But, Cyrano!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Will you, I say?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I fear!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Since, by yourself, you fear to chill her heart,\n  Will you--to kindle all her heart to flame--\n  Wed into one my phrases and your lips?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Your eyes flash!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Will you?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Will it please you so?\n  --Give you such pleasure?\n\nCYRANO (madly):\n  It!. . .\n(Then calmly, business-like):\n  It would amuse me!\n  It is an enterprise to tempt a poet.\n  Will you complete me, and let me complete you?\n  You march victorious,--I go in your shadow;\n  Let me be wit for you, be you my beauty!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  The letter, that she waits for even now!\n  I never can. . .\n\nCYRANO (taking out the letter he had written):\n  See!  Here it is--your letter!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Take it!  Look, it wants but the address.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But I. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Fear nothing.  Send it.  It will suit.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But have you. . .?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh!  We have our pockets full,\n  We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes,\n  Daphnes--creations of our noddle-heads.\n  Our lady-loves,--phantasms of our brains,\n  --Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles!  Come!\n  Take it, and change feigned love-words into true;\n  I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise;\n  Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest.\n  You'll see that I was in these lettered lines,\n  --Eloquent all the more, the less sincere!\n  --Take it, and make an end!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Were it not well\n  To change some words?  Written haphazard-wise,\n  Will it fit Roxane?\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Twill fit like a glove!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah, credulity of love!  Roxane\n  Will think each word inspired by herself!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  My friend!\n\n(He throws himself into Cyrano's arms.  They remain thus.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano commends Christian's bravery and, to Christian's astonishment, embraces him. Cyrano tells Christian that he is Roxane's cousin and that she loves him. Christian apologizes to Cyrano for insulting him. Christian fears that Roxane will lose interest in him as soon as he speaks to her, as he is so stupid. Cyrano proposes that he join his eloquence to Christian's good looks to create the perfect lover for Roxane. He will write some eloquent speeches for Christian to deliver to Roxane as his own. Cyrano claims that he only wants to do this to practise his literary skills. From his pocket, he produces the letter he wrote earlier to Roxane and hands it to Christian to give to her. Christian embraces Cyrano in gratitude. The other Guards, Lise, and the Musketeer enter and are astonished to see Cyrano embracing Christian. The Musketeer believes that Cyrano must have undergone a transformation that means it is safe to talk about his nose. He impudently stares at Cyrano's nose, asking what the smell could be. Cyrano cries, \"It's pigshit. and floors the Musketeer with a blow."}, {"": "149", "document": "\nFor many days, Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the marks out\nof the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought\nhome,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described: which\nthe two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length,\nhe began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of\nearnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work\nwith his two companions.\n\nOliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what\nhe had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman's character.\nWhenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed,\nhe would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy\nhabits; and would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by\nsending them supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went\nso far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was\ncarrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.\n\nAt length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so\neagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two\nor three days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these\nwere reasons for the old gentleman's giving his assent; but, whether\nthey were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the\njoint guardianship of Charley Bates, and his friend the Dodger.\n\nThe three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up,\nand his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his\nhands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they\nwere going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in,\nfirst.\n\nThe pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter,\nthat Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive\nthe old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a\nvicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small\nboys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some\nvery loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering\ndivers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and\nthrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that\nthey seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.\nThese things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring\nhis intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when\nhis thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very\nmysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.\n\nThey were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open\nsquare in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion\nof terms, 'The Green': when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying\nhis finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the\ngreatest caution and circumspection.\n\n'What's the matter?' demanded Oliver.\n\n'Hush!' replied the Dodger. 'Do you see that old cove at the\nbook-stall?'\n\n'The old gentleman over the way?' said Oliver. 'Yes, I see him.'\n\n'He'll do,' said the Dodger.\n\n'A prime plant,' observed Master Charley Bates.\n\nOliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he\nwas not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked\nstealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman\ntowards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces\nafter them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood\nlooking on in silent amazement.\n\nThe old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a\npowdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green\ncoat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a\nsmart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall,\nand there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his\nelbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied\nhimself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he\nsaw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short,\nanything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through:\nturning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at\nthe top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest\ninterest and eagerness.\n\nWhat was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking\non with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the\nDodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman's pocket, and draw from\nthence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and\nfinally to behold them, both running away round the corner at full\nspeed!\n\nIn an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches,\nand the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind.\n\nHe stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his\nveins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then,\nconfused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he\ndid, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.\n\nThis was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when Oliver\nbegan to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and\nmissing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding\naway at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the\ndepredator; and shouting 'Stop thief!' with all his might, made off\nafter him, book in hand.\n\nBut the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the\nhue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public\nattention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the\nvery first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and\nsaw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they\nissued forth with great promptitude; and, shouting 'Stop thief!' too,\njoined in the pursuit like good citizens.\n\nAlthough Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not\ntheoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that\nself-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps\nhe would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it\nalarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old\ngentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.\n\n'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman\nleaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down\nhis tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy\nhis parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the\nchild his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter,\nslap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as\nthey turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls:\nand streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.\n\n'Stop thief! Stop thief!' The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and\nthe crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through\nthe mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run\nthe people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the\nvery thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the\nshout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, 'Stop thief! Stop thief!'\n\n'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a passion FOR _hunting_ _something_\ndeeply implanted in the human breast.  One wretched breathless child,\npanting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large\ndrops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to\nmake head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain\nupon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy.\n'Stop thief!'  Ay, stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy!\n\nStopped at last!  A clever blow.  He is down upon the pavement; and the\ncrowd eagerly gather round him:  each new comer, jostling and\nstruggling with the others to catch a glimpse.  'Stand aside!'  'Give\nhim a little air!'  'Nonsense! he don't deserve it.'  'Where's the\ngentleman?'  'Here his is, coming down the street.'  'Make room there\nfor the gentleman!' 'Is this the boy, sir!'  'Yes.'\n\nOliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,\nlooking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when\nthe old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by\nthe foremost of the pursuers.\n\n'Yes,' said the gentleman, 'I am afraid it is the boy.'\n\n'Afraid!' murmured the crowd.  'That's a good 'un!'\n\n'Poor fellow!' said the gentleman, 'he has hurt himself.'\n\n'_I_ did that, sir,' said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward;\n'and preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth.  I stopped him, sir.'\n\nThe fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his\npains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of\ndislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away\nhimself:  which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and\nthus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is\ngenerally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made\nhis way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.\n\n'Come, get up,' said the man, roughly.\n\n'It wasn't me indeed, sir.  Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,'\nsaid Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round.  'They\nare here somewhere.'\n\n'Oh no, they ain't,' said the officer.  He meant this to be ironical,\nbut it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off\ndown the first convenient court they came to.\n\n'Come, get up!'\n\n'Don't hurt him,' said the old gentleman, compassionately.\n\n'Oh no, I won't hurt him,' replied the officer, tearing his jacket half\noff his back, in proof thereof.  'Come, I know you; it won't do.  Will\nyou stand upon your legs, you young devil?'\n\nOliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his\nfeet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at\na rapid pace.  The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side;\nand as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead,\nand stared back at Oliver from time to time.  The boys shouted in\ntriumph; and on they went.\n\n\n", "summary": "Oliver spent more time with the Jew, and the other boys each day learning more and more of how to unmark handkerchiefs, and playing the game of picking Fagin's pockets. After a while, Oliver wanted to go out with the boys and do the work they do, and finally Fagin allowed it. On their first day out, Oliver began to get annoyed because the boys weren't doing anything constructive. Then they spotted a gentleman leaning over a bookstall and Oliver watched as they went up to him. They took a handkerchief out of his pocket and Oliver was horrified that they were stealing from him. The man realized that it was missing and turned to see Oliver running away. The other boys screamed 'stop thief' as the gentleman did and watched as he chased Oliver through the streets. Eventually a man knocked Oliver down and the gentleman whose pocket had been picked accosted him. Oliver swore to his innocence but was not believe and a police officer came and dragged Oliver away"}, {"": "150", "document": "Scene 3.\n\nEnter Claudio, Prince, and three or foure with Tapers.\n\n  Clau. Is this the monument of Leonato?\n  Lord. It is my Lord.\n\nEpitaph.\n\nDone to death by slanderous tongues,\nWas the Hero that here lies:\nDeath in guerdon of her wrongs,\nGiues her fame which neuer dies:\nSo the life that dyed with shame,\nLiues in death with glorious fame.\nHang thou there vpon the tombe,\nPraising her when I am dombe\n\n   Clau. Now musick sound & sing your solemn hymne\n\nSong.\n\nPardon goddesse of the night,\nThose that slew thy virgin knight,\nFor the which with songs of woe,\nRound about her tombe they goe:\nMidnight assist our mone, helpe vs to sigh and grone.\nHeauily, heauily.\nGraues yawne and yeelde your dead,\nTill death be vttered,\nHeauenly, heauenly\n\n   Lo. Now vnto thy bones good night, yeerely will I do this right\n\n   Prin. Good morrow masters, put your Torches out,\nThe wolues haue preied, and looke, the gentle day\nBefore the wheeles of Phoebus, round about\nDapples the drowsie East with spots of grey:\nThanks to you all, and leaue vs, fare you well\n\n   Clau. Good morrow masters, each his seuerall way\n\n   Prin. Come let vs hence, and put on other weedes,\nAnd then to Leonatoes we will goe\n\n   Clau. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds,\nThen this for whom we rendred vp this woe.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\nScene 4.\n\nEnter Leonato, Bene. Marg. Vrsula, old man, Frier, Hero.\n\n  Frier. Did I not tell you she was innocent?\n  Leo. So are the Prince and Claudio who accus'd her,\nVpon the errour that you heard debated:\nBut Margaret was in some fault for this,\nAlthough against her will as it appeares,\nIn the true course of all the question\n\n   Old. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well\n\n   Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd\nTo call young Claudio to a reckoning for it\n\n   Leo. Well daughter, and you gentlewomen all,\nWithdraw into a chamber by your selues,\nAnd when I send for you, come hither mask'd:\nThe Prince and Claudio promis'd by this howre\nTo visit me, you know your office Brother,\nYou must be father to your brothers daughter,\nAnd giue her to young Claudio.\n\nExeunt. Ladies.\n\n  Old. Which I will doe with confirm'd countenance\n\n   Bene. Frier, I must intreat your paines, I thinke\n\n   Frier. To doe what Signior?\n  Bene. To binde me, or vndoe me, one of them:\nSignior Leonato, truth it is good Signior,\nYour neece regards me with an eye of fauour\n\n   Leo. That eye my daughter lent her, 'tis most true\n\n   Bene. And I doe with an eye of loue requite her\n\n   Leo. The sight whereof I thinke you had from me,\nFrom Claudio, and the Prince, but what's your will?\n  Bened. Your answer sir is Enigmaticall,\nBut for my will, my will is, your good will\nMay stand with ours, this day to be conioyn'd,\nIn the state of honourable marriage,\nIn which (good Frier) I shall desire your helpe\n\n   Leon. My heart is with your liking\n\n   Frier. And my helpe.\nEnter Prince and Claudio, with attendants.\n\n  Prin. Good morrow to this faire assembly\n\n   Leo. Good morrow Prince, good morrow Claudio:\nWe heere attend you, are you yet determin'd,\nTo day to marry with my brothers daughter?\n  Claud. Ile hold my minde were she an Ethiope\n\n   Leo. Call her forth brother, heres the Frier ready\n\n   Prin. Good morrow Benedicke, why what's the matter?\nThat you haue such a Februarie face,\nSo full of frost, of storme, and clowdinesse\n\n   Claud. I thinke he thinkes vpon the sauage bull:\nTush, feare not man, wee'll tip thy hornes with gold,\nAnd all Europa shall reioyce at thee,\nAs once Europa did at lusty Ioue,\nWhen he would play the noble beast in loue\n\n   Ben. Bull Ioue sir, had an amiable low,\nAnd some such strange bull leapt your fathers Cow,\nA got a Calfe in that same noble feat,\nMuch like to you, for you haue iust his bleat.\nEnter brother, Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, Vrsula.\n\n  Cla. For this I owe you: here comes other recknings.\nWhich is the Lady I must seize vpon?\n  Leo. This same is she, and I doe giue you her\n\n   Cla. Why then she's mine, sweet let me see your face\n\n   Leon. No that you shal not, till you take her hand,\nBefore this Frier, and sweare to marry her\n\n   Clau. Giue me your hand before this holy Frier,\nI am your husband if you like of me\n\n   Hero. And when I liu'd I was your other wife,\nAnd when you lou'd, you were my other husband\n\n   Clau. Another Hero?\n  Hero. Nothing certainer.\nOne Hero died, but I doe liue,\nAnd surely as I liue, I am a maid\n\n   Prin. The former Hero, Hero that is dead\n\n   Leon. Shee died my Lord, but whiles her slander liu'd\n\n   Frier. All this amazement can I qualifie,\nWhen after that the holy rites are ended,\nIle tell you largely of faire Heroes death:\nMeane time let wonder seeme familiar,\nAnd to the chappell let vs presently\n\n   Ben. Soft and faire Frier, which is Beatrice?\n  Beat. I answer to that name, what is your will?\n  Bene. Doe not you loue me?\n  Beat. Why no, no more then reason\n\n   Bene. Why then your Vncle, and the Prince, & Claudio,\nhaue beene deceiued, they swore you did\n\n   Beat. Doe not you loue mee?\n  Bene. Troth no, no more then reason\n\n   Beat. Why then my Cosin Margaret and Vrsula\nAre much deceiu'd, for they did sweare you did\n\n   Bene. They swore you were almost sicke for me\n\n   Beat. They swore you were wel-nye dead for me\n\n   Bene. 'Tis no matter, then you doe not loue me?\n  Beat. No truly, but in friendly recompence\n\n   Leon. Come Cosin, I am sure you loue the gentlema[n]\n\n   Clau. And Ile be sworne vpon't, that he loues her,\nFor heres a paper written in his hand,\nA halting sonnet of his owne pure braine,\nFashioned to Beatrice\n\n   Hero. And heeres another,\nWrit in my cosins hand, stolne from her pocket,\nContaining her affection vnto Benedicke\n\n   Bene. A miracle, here's our owne hands against our\nhearts: come I will haue thee, but by this light I take\nthee for pittie\n\n   Beat. I would not denie you, but by this good day, I\nyeeld vpon great perswasion, & partly to saue your life,\nfor I was told, you were in a consumption\n\n   Leon. Peace I will stop your mouth\n\n   Prin. How dost thou Benedicke the married man?\n  Bene. Ile tell thee what Prince: a Colledge of witte-crackers\ncannot flout mee out of my humour, dost thou\nthink I care for a Satyre or an Epigram? no, if a man will\nbe beaten with braines, a shall weare nothing handsome\nabout him: in briefe, since I do purpose to marry, I will\nthinke nothing to any purpose that the world can say against\nit, and therefore neuer flout at me, for I haue said\nagainst it: for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion:\nfor thy part Claudio, I did thinke to haue beaten\nthee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, liue vnbruis'd,\nand loue my cousin\n\n   Cla. I had well hop'd y wouldst haue denied Beatrice, y\nI might haue cudgel'd thee out of thy single life, to make\nthee a double dealer, which out of questio[n] thou wilt be,\nif my Cousin do not looke exceeding narrowly to thee\n\n   Bene. Come, come, we are friends, let's haue a dance\nere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts,\nand our wiues heeles\n\n   Leon. Wee'll haue dancing afterward\n\n   Bene. First, of my word, therfore play musick. Prince,\nthou art sad, get thee a wife, get thee a wife, there is no\nstaff more reuerend then one tipt with horn.\nEnter. Mes.\n\n  Messen. My Lord, your brother Iohn is tane in flight,\nAnd brought with armed men backe to Messina\n\n   Bene. Thinke not on him till to morrow, ile deuise\nthee braue punishments for him: strike vp Pipers.\n\nDance.\n\n\n\nFINIS. Much adoe about Nothing.\n", "summary": "Still in Gloucestershire, Falstaff eats a merry dinner with Justice Shallow and Justice Silence, as well as Bardolph, Davy, and Falstaff's page. The group enjoys itself enormously, devouring good country fruit and meat, drinking wine, and laughing. Justice Silence surprises Falstaff by becoming very noisy: he is tipsy, and as a result sings snatches of hearty, old-fashioned songs throughout the meal. When Falstaff comments on this approvingly, Silence tells him that there is nothing to be surprised at--he has been cheerful three times already in his life. An unexpected messenger arrives: Ancient Pistol enters, bringing news from the court in London. As usual, his meaning is buried under elaborate but muddled dramatic references. But his news finally comes out: old King Henry IV is dead, and Prince Hal is now King Henry V. Naturally, Falstaff and his friends assume that Falstaff will now be in a position of great comfort and power, since he is the closest friend of the former Prince. Falstaff generously offers all his friends high positions in the court, and he calls for his horse: he, Pistol, Bardolph, and Shallow will ride all night to reach London as soon as they can. Justice Silence, who seems to have succumbed to the effects of the wine, is dragged off to bed. Meanwhile, on a street in London, two beadles  appear, dragging with them the prostitute Doll Tearsheet and Mistress Quickly from the Boar's Head Tavern. The Hostess and Doll are struggling against the lawmen and cursing them; Doll's insults are especially impressive and seem to come close to unmanning the beadles. Apparently, a man whom Pistol beat up while in their company has died, so they are being dragged off to jail--probably for a punishment such as whipping but possibly for execution. Doll claims to be pregnant , but the beadle answers that she is lying and has merely padded her belly with a cushion. The Hostess wishes that Falstaff were there, since he would show those beadles a thing or two. But the women cannot free themselves and are dragged off to see a justice."}, {"": "151", "document": "SCENE II.\nRome. The house of CORIOLANUS\n\nEnter CORIOLANUS with NOBLES\n\n  CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears, present me\n    Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels;\n    Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock,\n    That the precipitation might down stretch\n    Below the beam of sight; yet will I still\n    Be thus to them.\n  FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler.\n  CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother\n    Does not approve me further, who was wont\n    To call them woollen vassals, things created\n    To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads\n    In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder,\n    When one but of my ordinance stood up\n    To speak of peace or war.\n\n                          Enter VOLUMNIA\n\n    I talk of you:\n    Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me\n    False to my nature? Rather say I play\n    The man I am.\n  VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir,\n    I would have had you put your power well on\n    Before you had worn it out.\n  CORIOLANUS. Let go.\n  VOLUMNIA. You might have been enough the man you are\n    With striving less to be so; lesser had been\n    The thwartings of your dispositions, if\n    You had not show'd them how ye were dispos'd,\n    Ere they lack'd power to cross you.\n  CORIOLANUS. Let them hang.\n  VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too.\n\n                    Enter MENENIUS with the SENATORS\n\n  MENENIUS. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too\nrough;\n    You must return and mend it.\n  FIRST SENATOR. There's no remedy,\n    Unless, by not so doing, our good city\n    Cleave in the midst and perish.\n  VOLUMNIA. Pray be counsell'd;\n    I have a heart as little apt as yours,\n    But yet a brain that leads my use of anger\n    To better vantage.\n  MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman!\n    Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that\n    The violent fit o' th' time craves it as physic\n    For the whole state, I would put mine armour on,\n    Which I can scarcely bear.\n  CORIOLANUS. What must I do?\n  MENENIUS. Return to th' tribunes.\n  CORIOLANUS. Well, what then, what then?\n  MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke.\n  CORIOLANUS. For them! I cannot do it to the gods;\n    Must I then do't to them?\n  VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute;\n    Though therein you can never be too noble\n    But when extremities speak. I have heard you say\n    Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends,\n    I' th' war do grow together; grant that, and tell me\n    In peace what each of them by th' other lose\n    That they combine not there.\n  CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush!\n  MENENIUS. A good demand.\n  VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem\n    The same you are not, which for your best ends\n    You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse\n    That it shall hold companionship in peace\n    With honour as in war; since that to both\n    It stands in like request?\n  CORIOLANUS. Why force you this?\n  VOLUMNIA. Because that now it lies you on to speak\n    To th' people, not by your own instruction,\n    Nor by th' matter which your heart prompts you,\n    But with such words that are but roted in\n    Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables\n    Of no allowance to your bosom's truth.\n    Now, this no more dishonours you at all\n    Than to take in a town with gentle words,\n    Which else would put you to your fortune and\n    The hazard of much blood.\n    I would dissemble with my nature where\n    My fortunes and my friends at stake requir'd\n    I should do so in honour. I am in this\n    Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles;\n    And you will rather show our general louts\n    How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 'em\n    For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard\n    Of what that want might ruin.\n  MENENIUS. Noble lady!\n    Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so,\n    Not what is dangerous present, but the loss\n    Of what is past.\n  VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, my son,\n    Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand;\n    And thus far having stretch'd it- here be with them-\n    Thy knee bussing the stones- for in such busines\n    Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant\n    More learned than the ears- waving thy head,\n    Which often thus correcting thy stout heart,\n    Now humble as the ripest mulberry\n    That will not hold the handling. Or say to them\n    Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils,\n    Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess,\n    Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim,\n    In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame\n    Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far\n    As thou hast power and person.\n  MENENIUS. This but done\n    Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours;\n    For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free\n    As words to little purpose.\n  VOLUMNIA. Prithee now,\n    Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou hadst rather\n    Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf\n    Than flatter him in a bower.\n\n                           Enter COMINIUS\n\n    Here is Cominius.\n  COMINIUS. I have been i' th' market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit\n    You make strong party, or defend yourself\n    By calmness or by absence; all's in anger.\n  MENENIUS. Only fair speech.\n  COMINIUS. I think 'twill serve, if he\n    Can thereto frame his spirit.\n  VOLUMNIA. He must and will.\n    Prithee now, say you will, and go about it.\n  CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must I\n    With my base tongue give to my noble heart\n    A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't;\n    Yet, were there but this single plot to lose,\n    This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it,\n    And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place!\n    You have put me now to such a part which never\n    I shall discharge to th' life.\n  COMINIUS. Come, come, we'll prompt you.\n  VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said\n    My praises made thee first a soldier, so,\n    To have my praise for this, perform a part\n    Thou hast not done before.\n  CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do't.\n    Away, my disposition, and possess me\n    Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turn'd,\n    Which quier'd with my drum, into a pipe\n    Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice\n    That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves\n    Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up\n    The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue\n    Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees,\n    Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his\n    That hath receiv'd an alms! I will not do't,\n    Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,\n    And by my body's action teach my mind\n    A most inherent baseness.\n  VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then.\n    To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour\n    Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let\n    Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear\n    Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death\n    With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list.\n    Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me;\n    But owe thy pride thyself.\n  CORIOLANUS. Pray be content.\n    Mother, I am going to the market-place;\n    Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves,\n    Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd\n    Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going.\n    Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul,\n    Or never trust to what my tongue can do\n    I' th' way of flattery further.\n  VOLUMNIA. Do your will.                                   Exit\n  COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself\n    To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd\n    With accusations, as I hear, more strong\n    Than are upon you yet.\n  CORIOLANUS. The word is 'mildly.' Pray you let us go.\n    Let them accuse me by invention; I\n    Will answer in mine honour.\n  MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly.\n  CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it then- mildly.            Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Coriolanus' house, our hero is all worked up because the pesky mob of plebeians just tried to kill him. He says he'd rather be tortured and killed than apologize to them. Next he blames his mom, Volumnia, for all his problems. He says it was her idea for him to act like a phony politician in the first place. But Volumnia's not having it. She chews him out for being a giant political failure. Menenius rushes in and begs Coriolanus to go back and apologize to the people. Then mom chimes in that Coriolanus needs to go to the people and tell them what they want to hear--i.e. that he's sorry and didn't mean what he said, even if, you know, he doesn't really mean it. Coriolanus waffles but then finally agrees to do it and tells everyone he's not happy about it."}, {"": "152", "document": "\nCacambo expressed his curiosity to the landlord, who made answer:\n\n\"I am very ignorant, but not the worse on that account. However, we have\nin this neighbourhood an old man retired from Court who is the most\nlearned and most communicative person in the kingdom.\"\n\nAt once he took Cacambo to the old man. Candide acted now only a second\ncharacter, and accompanied his valet. They entered a very plain house,\nfor the door was only of silver, and the ceilings were only of gold, but\nwrought in so elegant a taste as to vie with the richest. The\nantechamber, indeed, was only encrusted with rubies and emeralds, but\nthe order in which everything was arranged made amends for this great\nsimplicity.\n\nThe old man received the strangers on his sofa, which was stuffed with\nhumming-birds' feathers, and ordered his servants to present them with\nliqueurs in diamond goblets; after which he satisfied their curiosity\nin the following terms:\n\n\"I am now one hundred and seventy-two years old, and I learnt of my late\nfather, Master of the Horse to the King, the amazing revolutions of\nPeru, of which he had been an eyewitness. The kingdom we now inhabit is\nthe ancient country of the Incas, who quitted it very imprudently to\nconquer another part of the world, and were at length destroyed by the\nSpaniards.\n\n\"More wise by far were the princes of their family, who remained in\ntheir native country; and they ordained, with the consent of the whole\nnation, that none of the inhabitants should ever be permitted to quit\nthis little kingdom; and this has preserved our innocence and happiness.\nThe Spaniards have had a confused notion of this country, and have\ncalled it _El Dorado_; and an Englishman, whose name was Sir Walter\nRaleigh, came very near it about a hundred years ago; but being\nsurrounded by inaccessible rocks and precipices, we have hitherto been\nsheltered from the rapaciousness of European nations, who have an\ninconceivable passion for the pebbles and dirt of our land, for the sake\nof which they would murder us to the last man.\"\n\nThe conversation was long: it turned chiefly on their form of\ngovernment, their manners, their women, their public entertainments,\nand the arts. At length Candide, having always had a taste for\nmetaphysics, made Cacambo ask whether there was any religion in that\ncountry.\n\nThe old man reddened a little.\n\n\"How then,\" said he, \"can you doubt it? Do you take us for ungrateful\nwretches?\"\n\nCacambo humbly asked, \"What was the religion in El Dorado?\"\n\nThe old man reddened again.\n\n\"Can there be two religions?\" said he. \"We have, I believe, the religion\nof all the world: we worship God night and morning.\"\n\n\"Do you worship but one God?\" said Cacambo, who still acted as\ninterpreter in representing Candide's doubts.\n\n\"Surely,\" said the old man, \"there are not two, nor three, nor four. I\nmust confess the people from your side of the world ask very\nextraordinary questions.\"\n\nCandide was not yet tired of interrogating the good old man; he wanted\nto know in what manner they prayed to God in El Dorado.\n\n\"We do not pray to Him,\" said the worthy sage; \"we have nothing to ask\nof Him; He has given us all we need, and we return Him thanks without\nceasing.\"\n\nCandide having a curiosity to see the priests asked where they were.\nThe good old man smiled.\n\n\"My friend,\" said he, \"we are all priests. The King and all the heads of\nfamilies sing solemn canticles of thanksgiving every morning,\naccompanied by five or six thousand musicians.\"\n\n\"What! have you no monks who teach, who dispute, who govern, who cabal,\nand who burn people that are not of their opinion?\"\n\n\"We must be mad, indeed, if that were the case,\" said the old man; \"here\nwe are all of one opinion, and we know not what you mean by monks.\"\n\nDuring this whole discourse Candide was in raptures, and he said to\nhimself:\n\n\"This is vastly different from Westphalia and the Baron's castle. Had\nour friend Pangloss seen El Dorado he would no longer have said that the\ncastle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh was the finest upon earth. It is evident\nthat one must travel.\"\n\nAfter this long conversation the old man ordered a coach and six sheep\nto be got ready, and twelve of his domestics to conduct the travellers\nto Court.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" said he, \"if my age deprives me of the honour of\naccompanying you. The King will receive you in a manner that cannot\ndisplease you; and no doubt you will make an allowance for the customs\nof the country, if some things should not be to your liking.\"\n\nCandide and Cacambo got into the coach, the six sheep flew, and in less\nthan four hours they reached the King's palace situated at the extremity\nof the capital. The portal was two hundred and twenty feet high, and one\nhundred wide; but words are wanting to express the materials of which it\nwas built. It is plain such materials must have prodigious superiority\nover those pebbles and sand which we call gold and precious stones.\n\nTwenty beautiful damsels of the King's guard received Candide and\nCacambo as they alighted from the coach, conducted them to the bath, and\ndressed them in robes woven of the down of humming-birds; after which\nthe great crown officers, of both sexes, led them to the King's\napartment, between two files of musicians, a thousand on each side. When\nthey drew near to the audience chamber Cacambo asked one of the great\nofficers in what way he should pay his obeisance to his Majesty; whether\nthey should throw themselves upon their knees or on their stomachs;\nwhether they should put their hands upon their heads or behind their\nbacks; whether they should lick the dust off the floor; in a word, what\nwas the ceremony?\n\n\"The custom,\" said the great officer, \"is to embrace the King, and to\nkiss him on each cheek.\"\n\nCandide and Cacambo threw themselves round his Majesty's neck. He\nreceived them with all the goodness imaginable, and politely invited\nthem to supper.\n\nWhile waiting they were shown the city, and saw the public edifices\nraised as high as the clouds, the market places ornamented with a\nthousand columns, the fountains of spring water, those of rose water,\nthose of liqueurs drawn from sugar-cane, incessantly flowing into the\ngreat squares, which were paved with a kind of precious stone, which\ngave off a delicious fragrancy like that of cloves and cinnamon. Candide\nasked to see the court of justice, the parliament. They told him they\nhad none, and that they were strangers to lawsuits. He asked if they had\nany prisons, and they answered no. But what surprised him most and gave\nhim the greatest pleasure was the palace of sciences, where he saw a\ngallery two thousand feet long, and filled with instruments employed in\nmathematics and physics.\n\nAfter rambling about the city the whole afternoon, and seeing but a\nthousandth part of it, they were reconducted to the royal palace, where\nCandide sat down to table with his Majesty, his valet Cacambo, and\nseveral ladies. Never was there a better entertainment, and never was\nmore wit shown at a table than that which fell from his Majesty. Cacambo\nexplained the King's _bon-mots_ to Candide, and notwithstanding they\nwere translated they still appeared to be _bon-mots_. Of all the things\nthat surprised Candide this was not the least.\n\nThey spent a month in this hospitable place. Candide frequently said to\nCacambo:\n\n\"I own, my friend, once more that the castle where I was born is nothing\nin comparison with this; but, after all, Miss Cunegonde is not here, and\nyou have, without doubt, some mistress in Europe. If we abide here we\nshall only be upon a footing with the rest, whereas, if we return to our\nold world, only with twelve sheep laden with the pebbles of El Dorado,\nwe shall be richer than all the kings in Europe. We shall have no more\nInquisitors to fear, and we may easily recover Miss Cunegonde.\"\n\nThis speech was agreeable to Cacambo; mankind are so fond of roving, of\nmaking a figure in their own country, and of boasting of what they have\nseen in their travels, that the two happy ones resolved to be no longer\nso, but to ask his Majesty's leave to quit the country.\n\n\"You are foolish,\" said the King. \"I am sensible that my kingdom is but\na small place, but when a person is comfortably settled in any part he\nshould abide there. I have not the right to detain strangers. It is a\ntyranny which neither our manners nor our laws permit. All men are free.\nGo when you wish, but the going will be very difficult. It is impossible\nto ascend that rapid river on which you came as by a miracle, and which\nruns under vaulted rocks. The mountains which surround my kingdom are\nten thousand feet high, and as steep as walls; they are each over ten\nleagues in breadth, and there is no other way to descend them than by\nprecipices. However, since you absolutely wish to depart, I shall give\norders to my engineers to construct a machine that will convey you very\nsafely. When we have conducted you over the mountains no one can\naccompany you further, for my subjects have made a vow never to quit the\nkingdom, and they are too wise to break it. Ask me besides anything that\nyou please.\"\n\n\"We desire nothing of your Majesty,\" says Candide, \"but a few sheep\nladen with provisions, pebbles, and the earth of this country.\"\n\nThe King laughed.\n\n\"I cannot conceive,\" said he, \"what pleasure you Europeans find in our\nyellow clay, but take as much as you like, and great good may it do\nyou.\"\n\nAt once he gave directions that his engineers should construct a machine\nto hoist up these two extraordinary men out of the kingdom. Three\nthousand good mathematicians went to work; it was ready in fifteen days,\nand did not cost more than twenty million sterling in the specie of that\ncountry. They placed Candide and Cacambo on the machine. There were two\ngreat red sheep saddled and bridled to ride upon as soon as they were\nbeyond the mountains, twenty pack-sheep laden with provisions, thirty\nwith presents of the curiosities of the country, and fifty with gold,\ndiamonds, and precious stones. The King embraced the two wanderers very\ntenderly.\n\nTheir departure, with the ingenious manner in which they and their sheep\nwere hoisted over the mountains, was a splendid spectacle. The\nmathematicians took their leave after conveying them to a place of\nsafety, and Candide had no other desire, no other aim, than to present\nhis sheep to Miss Cunegonde.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, \"we are able to pay the Governor of Buenos Ayres if Miss\nCunegonde can be ransomed. Let us journey towards Cayenne. Let us\nembark, and we will afterwards see what kingdom we shall be able to\npurchase.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cacambo and Candide are directed to the oldest man in the kingdom to ask questions. The Old Man explains that the land, called El Dorado, was formerly the land of the Incas and had been shielded from European conquest by its fortunate positioning between massive mountains. The Old Man explains the systems of government, religion, and culture to the visitors. They learn that the country has no prisons and no courts, and the residents practice one religion. This is good, as it cuts down on crusades, bigotry, and religious persecution. The men are taken to the king, who kindly receives them. Although El Dorado profoundly impresses the men, they ask the king permission to leave. Cacambo feels restless and Candide feels eager to be with Cunegonde. Both men also desire to become rich, impressive men in Europe. The king does not understand why they would want to go, or why they are interested in taking the mud and rocks of El Dorado with them. However, he commissions scientists to build a machine to help transport them to the peak of the mountains surrounding El Dorado. The El Doradans send the men on their way with 102 jewel-carrying sheep. Also, the sheep are red."}, {"": "153", "document": "Scaena Secunda.\n\n\nEnter Henry Prince of Wales, Sir Iohn Falstaffe, and Pointz.\n\n  Fal. Now Hal, what time of day is it Lad?\n  Prince. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of olde\nSacke, and vnbuttoning thee after Supper, and sleeping\nvpon Benches in the afternoone, that thou hast forgotten\nto demand that truely, which thou wouldest truly know.\nWhat a diuell hast thou to do with the time of the day?\nvnlesse houres were cups of Sacke, and minutes Capons,\nand clockes the tongues of Bawdes, and dialls the signes\nof Leaping-houses, and the blessed Sunne himselfe a faire\nhot Wench in Flame-coloured Taffata; I see no reason,\nwhy thou shouldest bee so superfluous, to demaund the\ntime of the day\n\n   Fal. Indeed you come neere me now Hal, for we that\ntake Purses, go by the Moone and seuen Starres, and not\nby Phoebus hee, that wand'ring Knight so faire. And I\nprythee sweet Wagge, when thou art King, as God saue\nthy Grace, Maiesty I should say, for Grace thou wilte\nhaue none\n\n   Prin. What, none?\n  Fal. No, not so much as will serue to be Prologue to\nan Egge and Butter\n\n   Prin. Well, how then? Come roundly, roundly\n\n   Fal. Marry then, sweet Wagge, when thou art King,\nlet not vs that are Squires of the Nights bodie, bee call'd\nTheeues of the Dayes beautie. Let vs be Dianaes Forresters,\nGentlemen of the Shade, Minions of the Moone;\nand let men say, we be men of good Gouernment, being\ngouerned as the Sea, by our noble and chast mistris the\nMoone, vnder whose countenance we steale\n\n   Prin. Thou say'st well, and it holds well too: for the\nfortune of vs that are the Moones men, doeth ebbe and\nflow like the Sea, beeing gouerned as the Sea is, by the\nMoone: as for proofe. Now a Purse of Gold most resolutely\nsnatch'd on Monday night, and most dissolutely\nspent on Tuesday Morning; got with swearing, Lay by:\nand spent with crying, Bring in: now, in as low an ebbe\nas the foot of the Ladder, and by and by in as high a flow\nas the ridge of the Gallowes\n\n   Fal. Thou say'st true Lad: and is not my Hostesse of\nthe Tauerne a most sweet Wench?\n  Prin. As is the hony, my old Lad of the Castle: and is\nnot a Buffe Ierkin a most sweet robe of durance?\n  Fal. How now? how now mad Wagge? What in thy\nquips and thy quiddities? What a plague haue I to doe\nwith a Buffe-Ierkin?\n  Prin. Why, what a poxe haue I to doe with my Hostesse\nof the Tauerne?\n  Fal. Well, thou hast call'd her to a reck'ning many a\ntime and oft\n\n   Prin. Did I euer call for thee to pay thy part?\n  Fal. No, Ile giue thee thy due, thou hast paid al there\n\n   Prin. Yea and elsewhere, so farre as my Coine would\nstretch, and where it would not, I haue vs'd my credit\n\n   Fal. Yea, and so vs'd it, that were it heere apparant,\nthat thou art Heire apparant. But I prythee sweet Wag,\nshall there be Gallowes standing in England when thou\nart King? and resolution thus fobb'd as it is, with the rustie\ncurbe of old Father Anticke the Law? Doe not thou\nwhen thou art a King, hang a Theefe\n\n   Prin. No, thou shalt\n\n   Fal. Shall I? O rare! Ile be a braue Iudge\n\n   Prin. Thou iudgest false already. I meane, thou shalt\nhaue the hanging of the Theeues, and so become a rare\nHangman\n\n   Fal. Well Hal, well: and in some sort it iumpes with\nmy humour, as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell\nyou\n\n   Prin. For obtaining of suites?\n  Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suites, whereof the Hangman\nhath no leane Wardrobe. I am as Melancholly as a\nGyb-Cat, or a lugg'd Beare\n\n   Prin. Or an old Lyon, or a Louers Lute\n\n   Fal. Yea, or the Drone of a Lincolnshire Bagpipe\n\n   Prin. What say'st thou to a Hare, or the Melancholly\nof Moore Ditch?\n  Fal. Thou hast the most vnsauoury smiles, and art indeed\nthe most comparatiue rascallest sweet yong Prince.\nBut Hal, I prythee trouble me no more with vanity, I wold\nthou and I knew, where a Commodity of good names\nwere to be bought: an olde Lord of the Councell rated\nme the other day in the street about you sir; but I mark'd\nhim not, and yet hee talk'd very wisely, but I regarded\nhim not, and yet he talkt wisely, and in the street too\n\n   Prin. Thou didst well: for no man regards it\n\n   Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeede\nable to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much harme vnto\nme Hall, God forgiue thee for it. Before I knew thee\nHal, I knew nothing: and now I am (if a man shold speake\ntruly) little better then one of the wicked. I must giue ouer\nthis life, and I will giue it ouer: and I do not, I am a\nVillaine. Ile be damn'd for neuer a Kings sonne in Christendome\n\n   Prin. Where shall we take a purse to morrow, Iacke?\n  Fal. Where thou wilt Lad, Ile make one: and I doe\nnot, call me Villaine, and baffle me\n\n   Prin. I see a good amendment of life in thee: From\nPraying, to Purse-taking\n\n   Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my Vocation Hal: 'Tis no sin for a\nman to labour in his Vocation\n\n   Pointz. Now shall wee know if Gads hill haue set a\nWatch. O, if men were to be saued by merit, what hole\nin Hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent\nVillaine, that euer cryed, Stand, to a true man\n\n   Prin. Good morrow Ned\n\n   Poines. Good morrow sweet Hal. What saies Monsieur\nremorse? What sayes Sir Iohn Sacke and Sugar:\nIacke? How agrees the Diuell and thee about thy Soule,\nthat thou soldest him on Good-Friday last, for a Cup of\nMadera, and a cold Capons legge?\n  Prin. Sir Iohn stands to his word, the diuel shall haue\nhis bargaine, for he was neuer yet a Breaker of Prouerbs:\nHe will giue the diuell his due\n\n   Poin. Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with\nthe diuell\n\n   Prin. Else he had damn'd cozening the diuell\n\n   Poy. But my Lads, my Lads, to morrow morning, by\nfoure a clocke early at Gads hill, there are Pilgrimes going\nto Canterbury with rich Offerings, and Traders riding\nto London with fat Purses. I haue vizards for you\nall; you haue horses for your selues: Gads-hill lyes to\nnight in Rochester, I haue bespoke Supper to morrow in\nEastcheape; we may doe it as secure as sleepe: if you will\ngo, I will stuffe your Purses full of Crownes: if you will\nnot, tarry at home and be hang'd\n\n   Fal. Heare ye Yedward, if I tarry at home and go not,\nIle hang you for going\n\n   Poy. You will chops\n\n   Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one?\n  Prin. Who, I rob? I a Theefe? Not I\n\n   Fal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship\nin thee, nor thou cam'st not of the blood-royall,\nif thou dar'st not stand for ten shillings\n\n   Prin. Well then, once in my dayes Ile be a mad-cap\n\n   Fal. Why, that's well said\n\n   Prin. Well, come what will, Ile tarry at home\n\n   Fal. Ile be a Traitor then, when thou art King\n\n   Prin. I care not\n\n   Poyn. Sir Iohn, I prythee leaue the Prince & me alone,\nI will lay him downe such reasons for this aduenture, that\nhe shall go\n\n   Fal. Well, maist thou haue the Spirit of perswasion;\nand he the eares of profiting, that what thou speakest,\nmay moue; and what he heares may be beleeued, that the\ntrue Prince, may (for recreation sake) proue a false theefe;\nfor the poore abuses of the time, want countenance. Farwell,\nyou shall finde me in Eastcheape\n\n   Prin. Farwell the latter Spring. Farewell Alhollown\nSummer\n\n   Poy. Now, my good sweet Hony Lord, ride with vs\nto morrow. I haue a iest to execute, that I cannot mannage\nalone. Falstaffe, Haruey, Rossill, and Gads-hill, shall\nrobbe those men that wee haue already way-layde, your\nselfe and I, wil not be there: and when they haue the booty,\nif you and I do not rob them, cut this head from my\nshoulders\n\n   Prin. But how shal we part with them in setting forth?\n  Poyn. Why, we wil set forth before or after them, and\nappoint them a place of meeting, wherin it is at our pleasure\nto faile; and then will they aduenture vppon the exploit\nthemselues, which they shall haue no sooner atchieued,\nbut wee'l set vpon them\n\n   Prin. I, but tis like that they will know vs by our\nhorses, by our habits, and by euery other appointment to\nbe our selues\n\n   Poy. Tut our horses they shall not see, Ile tye them in\nthe wood, our vizards wee will change after wee leaue\nthem: and sirrah, I haue Cases of Buckram for the nonce,\nto immaske our noted outward garments\n\n   Prin. But I doubt they will be too hard for vs\n\n   Poin. Well, for two of them, I know them to bee as\ntrue bred Cowards as euer turn'd backe: and for the third\nif he fight longer then he sees reason, Ile forswear Armes.\nThe vertue of this Iest will be, the incomprehensible lyes\nthat this fat Rogue will tell vs, when we meete at Supper:\nhow thirty at least he fought with, what Wardes, what\nblowes, what extremities he endured; and in the reproofe\nof this, lyes the iest\n\n   Prin. Well, Ile goe with thee, prouide vs all things\nnecessary, and meete me to morrow night in Eastcheape,\nthere Ile sup. Farewell\n\n   Poyn. Farewell, my Lord.\n\nExit Pointz\n\n  Prin. I know you all, and will a-while vphold\nThe vnyoak'd humor of your idlenesse:\nYet heerein will I imitate the Sunne,\nWho doth permit the base contagious cloudes\nTo smother vp his Beauty from the world,\nThat when he please againe to be himselfe,\nBeing wanted, he may be more wondred at,\nBy breaking through the foule and vgly mists\nOf vapours, that did seeme to strangle him.\nIf all the yeare were playing holidaies,\nTo sport, would be as tedious as to worke;\nBut when they seldome come, they wisht-for come,\nAnd nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.\nSo when this loose behauiour I throw off,\nAnd pay the debt I neuer promised;\nBy how much better then my word I am,\nBy so much shall I falsifie mens hopes,\nAnd like bright Mettall on a sullen ground:\nMy reformation glittering o're my fault,\nShall shew more goodly, and attract more eyes,\nThen that which hath no foyle to set it off.\nIle so offend, to make offence a skill,\nRedeeming time, when men thinke least I will.\n\n\n", "summary": "At the prince's bachelor pad in London, Falstaff asks Hal what time of day it is. Hal tells his boy that it shouldn't matter to Falstaff, who spends all his time boozing, eating, and visiting brothels. Falstaff agrees with his pal's assessment and the two continue to joke around. Falstaff says that, when Hal is king, he hopes he'll take it easy on Falstaff and other thieves that \"work\" at night. The two continue with the witty banter and trade insults and Hal makes an allusion to Falstaff hanging. Falstaff tells Hal that a Lord of the Council was talking smack about Prince Hal to Falstaff on the street the other day but Falstaff blew him off. Falstaff jokes that Prince Hal has corrupted him and made him wicked. Hal suggests stealing a \"purse\" tomorrow. Ned Poins rolls up to Hal's crib. The men greet each other and talk another round of trash . Poins says tomorrow, at 4 o'clock, a group of travelers will ride by Gad's Hill on their way to Canterbury - the guys should meet up tomorrow and rob them since the travelers will be carrying a lot of cash. When Falstaff asks the prince if he's in, Hal plays coy and says something like, \"Who me? A thief?\" Falstaff teases Hal and says he's a wimp if he doesn't join his pals. Falstaff says nighty night to his friends, leaving Poins and Hal alone to plan an elaborate prank on Falstaff. Tomorrow, after Falstaff, Peto, and Bardolph rob the travelers at Gads Hill, Hal and Poins will jump out of the bushes and rob Falstaff of his stolen loot. This will be hilarious because Falstaff is sure to lie about the whole thing afterward. Prince Hal agrees and says he'll meet Poins in Eastcheap tomorrow night. Poins leaves and Hal delivers a shocking speech to the audience. He says he's not really a degenerate - he's just acting that way for now. Eventually, he's going to stage a dramatic reformation that will amaze everyone. We interrupt this program with a history snack: By the time Shakespeare wrote Henry IV Part 1, folklore surrounding the historic Prince Hal was firmly established. He was remembered fondly as a wild prince who turned into a beloved ruler, King Henry V. Shakespeare got the idea for \"wild Prince Hal\" from popular stories and a play called The Famous Victories of Henry V . The opening scene of Famous Victories shows the prince and his cronies counting their loot after robbing the king's receivers."}, {"": "154", "document": "Mother Marguerite, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, other sisters.\n\nSISTER MARTHA (to Mother Marguerite):\n  Sister Claire glanced in the mirror, once--nay, twice, to see if her coif\nsuited.\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Claire):\n  'Tis not well.\n\nSISTER CLAIRE:\n  But I saw Sister Martha take a plum\n  Out of the tart.\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Martha):\n  That was ill done, my sister.\n\nSISTER CLAIRE:\n  A little glance!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  And such a little plum!\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano.\n\nSISTER CLAIRE:\n  Nay, prithee do not!--he will mock!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  He'll say we nuns are vain!\n\nSISTER CLAIRE:\n  And greedy!\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling):\n  Ay, and kind!\n\nSISTER CLAIRE:\n  Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite,\n  That he has come, each week, on Saturday\n  For ten years, to the convent?\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  Ay! and more!\n  Ever since--fourteen years ago--the day\n  His cousin brought here, 'midst our woolen coifs,\n  The worldly mourning of her widow's veil,\n  Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  He only has the skill to turn her mind\n  From grief--unsoftened yet by Time--unhealed!\n\nALL THE SISTERS:\n  He is so droll!--It's cheerful when he comes!--\n  He teases us!--But we all like him well!--\n  --We make him pasties of angelica!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  But, he is not a faithful Catholic!\n\nSISTER CLAIRE:\n  We will convert him!\n\nTHE SISTERS:\n  Yes!  Yes!\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  I forbid,\n  My daughters, you attempt that subject.  Nay,\n  Weary him not--he might less oft come here!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  But. . .God. . .\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  Nay, never fear!  God knows him well!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  But--every Saturday, when he arrives,\n  He tells me, 'Sister, I eat meat on Friday!'\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  Ah! says he so?  Well, the last time he came\n  Food had not passed his lips for two whole days!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  Mother!\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  He's poor.\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  Who told you so, dear Mother?\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  Monsieur Le Bret.\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  None help him?\n\nMOTHER MARGUERITE:\n  He permits not.\n(In an alley at the back Roxane appears, dressed in black, with a widow's coif\nand veil.  De Guiche, imposing-looking and visibly aged, walks by her side.\nThey saunter slowly.  Mother Marguerite rises):\n  'Tis time we go in; Madame Madeleine\n  Walks in the garden with a visitor.\n\nSISTER MARTHA (to Sister Claire, in a low voice):\n  The Marshal of Grammont?\n\nSISTER CLAIRE (looking at him):\n  'Tis he, I think.\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  'Tis many months now since he came to see her.\n\nTHE SISTERS:\n  He is so busy!--The Court,--the camp!. . .\n\nSISTER CLAIRE:\n  The world!\n\n(They go out.  De Guiche and Roxane come forward in silence, and stop close to\nthe embroidery frame.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Fifteen years later, in 1655, the nuns of the Convent of the Ladies of the Cross in Paris talk about Cyrano. They say he makes them laugh, and they remark how he has come every week for more than ten years to visit his cousin Roxane, who first came to live in the convent after the death of her husband"}, {"": "155", "document": "ACT V. SCENE 1.\n\nNorthampton. A Room in the Palace.\n\n[Enter KING JOHN, PANDULPH with the crown, and Attendants.]\n\nKING JOHN.\nThus have I yielded up into your hand\nThe circle of my glory.\n\nPANDULPH.\n[Give KING JOHN the crown.]\nTake again\nFrom this my hand, as holding of the pope,\nYour sovereign greatness and authority.\n\nKING JOHN.\nNow keep your holy word: go meet the French;\nAnd from his holiness use all your power\nTo stop their marches 'fore we are inflam'd.\nOur discontented counties do revolt;\nOur people quarrel with obedience;\nSwearing allegiance and the love of soul\nTo stranger blood, to foreign royalty.\nThis inundation of mistemper'd humour\nRests by you only to be qualified.\nThen pause not; for the present time's so sick\nThat present medicine must be ministr'd\nOr overthrow incurable ensues.\n\nPANDULPH.\nIt was my breath that blew this tempest up,\nUpon your stubborn usage of the pope:\nBut since you are a gentle convertite,\nMy tongue shall hush again this storm of war\nAnd make fair weather in your blustering land.\nOn this Ascension-day, remember well,\nUpon your oath of service to the pope,\nGo I to make the French lay down their arms.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nKING JOHN.\nIs this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet\nSay that before Ascension-day at noon\nMy crown I should give off? Even so I have:\nI did suppose it should be on constraint;\nBut, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary.\n\n[Enter the BASTARD.]\n\nBASTARD.\nAll Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out\nBut Dover Castle: London hath receiv'd,\nLike a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers:\nYour nobles will not hear you, but are gone\nTo offer service to your enemy;\nAnd wild amazement hurries up and down\nThe little number of your doubtful friends.\n\nKING JOHN.\nWould not my lords return to me again\nAfter they heard young Arthur was alive?\n\nBASTARD.\nThey found him dead, and cast into the streets;\nAn empty casket, where the jewel of life\nBy some damn'd hand was robb'd and ta'en away.\n\nKING JOHN.\nThat villain Hubert told me he did live.\n\nBASTARD.\nSo, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.\nBut wherefore do you droop? why look you sad?\nBe great in act, as you have been in thought;\nLet not the world see fear and sad distrust\nGovern the motion of a kingly eye:\nBe stirring as the time; be fire with fire;\nThreaten the threatener, and outface the brow\nOf bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,\nThat borrow their behaviours from the great,\nGrow great by your example, and put on\nThe dauntless spirit of resolution.\nAway, and glister like the god of war\nWhen he intendeth to become the field:\nShow boldness and aspiring confidence.\nWhat, shall they seek the lion in his den,\nAnd fright him there? and make him tremble there?\nO, let it not be said!--Forage, and run\nTo meet displeasure farther from the doors,\nAnd grapple with him ere he come so nigh.\n\nKING JOHN.\nThe legate of the pope hath been with me,\nAnd I have made a happy peace with him;\nAnd he hath promis'd to dismiss the powers\nLed by the Dauphin.\n\nBASTARD.\nO inglorious league!\nShall we, upon the footing of our land,\nSend fair-play orders, and make compromise,\nInsinuation, parley, and base truce,\nTo arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,\nA cocker'd silken wanton, brave our fields,\nAnd flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,\nMocking the air with colours idly spread,\nAnd find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms;\nPerchance the cardinal cannot make your peace;\nOr, if he do, let it at least be said\nThey saw we had a purpose of defence.\n\nKING JOHN.\nHave thou the ordering of this present time.\n\nBASTARD.\nAway, then, with good courage! yet, I know\nOur party may well meet a prouder foe.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Welcome to the royal court of England. King John is kneeling before Pandolf. He gives his crown to Pandolf, who then gives it back to him. Okay. It looks like King John and the Pope are buddies again--but there's a catch. Now, officially, the Pope owns England; it just so happens that he's kind enough to let John keep ruling it. History Snack: Remember how we said back in Act 3, Scene 1 that King John and the Pope fought about who should get to be the Archbishop of Canterbury? That whole argument started in 1207. By the year 1213, it had become clear that John wasn't going to back down; thus, Pope Innocent III excommunicated King John, basically told his subjects that they didn't have to be loyal to him anymore, and put a bounty on his head. The Pope also threatened to get other European monarchs to go to war with England. All of this happened over a 6-year period but Shakespeare smooshes the events together so they'll fit in his 5-act play. Anyway, King John realized that he was no match for the Pope so, just like Shakespeare shows in his play, King John gave England to the Pope; from then on, he would rule it as the Pope's tenant. In the language of the day, this meant that he would hold England as a \"fief.\" On top of that, King John had to make annual cash payments to the Pope. Bummer. Now back to the play. Once all this business of giving-the-crown-away-and-getting-it-back is done, King John says to Pandolf, \"All right: I've lived up to my half of the bargain; now it's time for you to do your part. Help me get these darned rebels and Frenchmen off my back.\" In response, Pandolf says, \"No worries. I'm the one who stirred up this trouble; it'll be easy enough for me to set things right again. Mark my words: on this very Ascension Day, I'll solve all your problems.\" Then Pandolf leaves. Once Pandolf is gone, King John starts saying to himself, \"Ascension Day, Ascension Day... why does that ring a bell? Oh, I know! That's the day when that crazy man Peter of Pomfret said I'd give up my crown!\" Then King John has an idea: \"But--I just gave up my crown... and got it right back. Winning!\" King John seems to have forgotten that he ordered Peter of Pomfret to be hanged on this day. Could there still be time to save the man's life? We'll never know, because just at that moment, John gets distracted by the Bastard walking on to the scene. The Bastard brings bad news: throughout the land, people are flocking to support the invading French and their allies, the rebel English noblemen. King John asks if the news that Arthur is still alive had the effect of calming people down. The Bastard replies that Arthur is dead. King John now thinks that Hubert betrayed him by telling him that Arthur was alive. The Bastard sticks up for Hubert, telling John that he doesn't think he did the deed. Then the Bastard tells John to stop being such a downer: if the people are going to fight on his behalf, he has to show them that he's a strong and powerful leader. King John responds by telling the Bastard how Pandolf has promised to set things in order again. The Bastard doesn't like the sounds of that; he considers such an alliance with the Pope dishonorable. The Bastard says that the English people should at least get an army ready, to show that they aren't total pushovers. King John says, \"Fine. But you take care of it.\" The Bastard promises to do so. He and King John both leave the stage."}, {"": "156", "document": "\n\nIf Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a\nmomentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her\nattachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from\nunbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the\nrecurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party\nfrom London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour\nalone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable\nas it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley,\nand was now forming all her views of happiness.\n\nHarriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first:\nbut having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and\nself-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with\nthe words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the\nfullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's\napprobation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by\nmeeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was\nmost happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the\ndinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.\nBut what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now\nacknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his\ncontinuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever\nbe unintelligible to Emma.\n\nThe event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh\nreason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved\nto be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the\ncomfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to\nhave always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility\nwhich Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to\nbe as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what\na connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the\nChurchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy,\nunbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.\n\nNo objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated\nliberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted\nwith Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully\nacknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could\nbid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's\nhappiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he\noffered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and\nimprovement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,\nand who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety,\nand occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into\ntemptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable\nand happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the\nworld, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a\nman;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.\n\nHarriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,\nwas less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The\nintimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change\ninto a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be,\nand must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural\nmanner.\n\nBefore the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw\nher hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as\nno remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,\ncould impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,\nbut as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on\nherself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of\nthe three, were the first to be married.\n\nJane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the\ncomforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills\nwere also in town; and they were only waiting for November.\n\nThe intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by\nEmma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought\nto be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to\nallow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was\nthe plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in\napproving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced\nto consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a\ndistant event.\n\nWhen first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were\nalmost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He\nbegan to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very\npromising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he\nwas not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's\ncourage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know\nhim fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost\nacquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when\nonce the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she\nhesitated--she could not proceed.\n\nIn this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden\nillumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his\nnervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another\nway.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her\nturkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in\nthe neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.\nWoodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his\nson-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every\nnight of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the\nMr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them\nprotected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must\nbe in London again by the end of the first week in November.\n\nThe result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,\ncheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the\nmoment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called\non, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to\njoin the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.\n\nThe wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have\nno taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars\ndetailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very\ninferior to her own.--\"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a\nmost pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it.\"--But,\nin spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,\nthe predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the\nceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.\n\n\n\nFINIS\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Harriet writes to Emma about Robert Martin and admits that she was silly to consider Mr. Knightley. Harriet has learned the truth about her parents: her father was a respectable tradesman who could provide for her stay at Mrs. Goddard's school. Emma meets Robert Martin and becomes convinced that Harriet will be happy with him. Harriet marries Robert Martin, Frank Churchill marries Jane Fairfax, and later, after Mr. Woodhouse is placated, Emma marries Mr. Knightley."}, {"": "157", "document": "\nUpon their arrival at Venice, Candide went to search for Cacambo at\nevery inn and coffee-house, and among all the ladies of pleasure, but to\nno purpose. He sent every day to inquire on all the ships that came in.\nBut there was no news of Cacambo.\n\n\"What!\" said he to Martin, \"I have had time to voyage from Surinam to\nBordeaux, to go from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from\nDieppe to Portsmouth, to coast along Portugal and Spain, to cross the\nwhole Mediterranean, to spend some months, and yet the beautiful\nCunegonde has not arrived! Instead of her I have only met a Parisian\nwench and a Perigordian Abbe. Cunegonde is dead without doubt, and there\nis nothing for me but to die. Alas! how much better it would have been\nfor me to have remained in the paradise of El Dorado than to come back\nto this cursed Europe! You are in the right, my dear Martin: all is\nmisery and illusion.\"\n\nHe fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to see the opera, nor\nany of the other diversions of the Carnival; nay, he was proof against\nthe temptations of all the ladies.\n\n\"You are in truth very simple,\" said Martin to him, \"if you imagine that\na mongrel valet, who has five or six millions in his pocket, will go to\nthe other end of the world to seek your mistress and bring her to you to\nVenice. If he find her, he will keep her to himself; if he do not find\nher he will get another. I advise you to forget your valet Cacambo and\nyour mistress Cunegonde.\"\n\nMartin was not consoling. Candide's melancholy increased; and Martin\ncontinued to prove to him that there was very little virtue or happiness\nupon earth, except perhaps in El Dorado, where nobody could gain\nadmittance.\n\nWhile they were disputing on this important subject and waiting for\nCunegonde, Candide saw a young Theatin friar in St. Mark's Piazza,\nholding a girl on his arm. The Theatin looked fresh coloured, plump, and\nvigorous; his eyes were sparkling, his air assured, his look lofty, and\nhis step bold. The girl was very pretty, and sang; she looked amorously\nat her Theatin, and from time to time pinched his fat cheeks.\n\n\"At least you will allow me,\" said Candide to Martin, \"that these two\nare happy. Hitherto I have met with none but unfortunate people in the\nwhole habitable globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this pair, I would\nventure to lay a wager that they are very happy.\"\n\n\"I lay you they are not,\" said Martin.\n\n\"We need only ask them to dine with us,\" said Candide, \"and you will see\nwhether I am mistaken.\"\n\nImmediately he accosted them, presented his compliments, and invited\nthem to his inn to eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges, and\ncaviare, and to drink some Montepulciano, Lachrymae Christi, Cyprus and\nSamos wine. The girl blushed, the Theatin accepted the invitation and\nshe followed him, casting her eyes on Candide with confusion and\nsurprise, and dropping a few tears. No sooner had she set foot in\nCandide's apartment than she cried out:\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Candide does not know Paquette again.\"\n\nCandide had not viewed her as yet with attention, his thoughts being\nentirely taken up with Cunegonde; but recollecting her as she spoke.\n\n\"Alas!\" said he, \"my poor child, it is you who reduced Doctor Pangloss\nto the beautiful condition in which I saw him?\"\n\n\"Alas! it was I, sir, indeed,\" answered Paquette. \"I see that you have\nheard all. I have been informed of the frightful disasters that befell\nthe family of my lady Baroness, and the fair Cunegonde. I swear to you\nthat my fate has been scarcely less sad. I was very innocent when you\nknew me. A Grey Friar, who was my confessor, easily seduced me. The\nconsequences were terrible. I was obliged to quit the castle some time\nafter the Baron had sent you away with kicks on the backside. If a\nfamous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I should have died. For\nsome time I was this surgeon's mistress, merely out of gratitude. His\nwife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me every day unmercifully; she was\na fury. The surgeon was one of the ugliest of men, and I the most\nwretched of women, to be continually beaten for a man I did not love.\nYou know, sir, what a dangerous thing it is for an ill-natured woman to\nbe married to a doctor. Incensed at the behaviour of his wife, he one\nday gave her so effectual a remedy to cure her of a slight cold, that\nshe died two hours after, in most horrid convulsions. The wife's\nrelations prosecuted the husband; he took flight, and I was thrown into\njail. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been\ngood-looking. The judge set me free, on condition that he succeeded the\nsurgeon. I was soon supplanted by a rival, turned out of doors quite\ndestitute, and obliged to continue this abominable trade, which appears\nso pleasant to you men, while to us women it is the utmost abyss of\nmisery. I have come to exercise the profession at Venice. Ah! sir, if\nyou could only imagine what it is to be obliged to caress indifferently\nan old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, an abbe, to be exposed\nto abuse and insults; to be often reduced to borrowing a petticoat, only\nto go and have it raised by a disagreeable man; to be robbed by one of\nwhat one has earned from another; to be subject to the extortions of the\nofficers of justice; and to have in prospect only a frightful old age, a\nhospital, and a dung-hill; you would conclude that I am one of the most\nunhappy creatures in the world.\"[33]\n\nPaquette thus opened her heart to honest Candide, in the presence of\nMartin, who said to his friend:\n\n\"You see that already I have won half the wager.\"\n\nFriar Giroflee stayed in the dining-room, and drank a glass or two of\nwine while he was waiting for dinner.\n\n\"But,\" said Candide to Paquette, \"you looked so gay and content when I\nmet you; you sang and you behaved so lovingly to the Theatin, that you\nseemed to me as happy as you pretend to be now the reverse.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir,\" answered Paquette, \"this is one of the miseries of the trade.\nYesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer; yet to-day I must put\non good humour to please a friar.\"\n\nCandide wanted no more convincing; he owned that Martin was in the\nright. They sat down to table with Paquette and the Theatin; the repast\nwas entertaining; and towards the end they conversed with all\nconfidence.\n\n\"Father,\" said Candide to the Friar, \"you appear to me to enjoy a state\nthat all the world might envy; the flower of health shines in your face,\nyour expression makes plain your happiness; you have a very pretty girl\nfor your recreation, and you seem well satisfied with your state as a\nTheatin.\"\n\n\"My faith, sir,\" said Friar Giroflee, \"I wish that all the Theatins were\nat the bottom of the sea. I have been tempted a hundred times to set\nfire to the convent, and go and become a Turk. My parents forced me at\nthe age of fifteen to put on this detestable habit, to increase the\nfortune of a cursed elder brother, whom God confound. Jealousy, discord,\nand fury, dwell in the convent. It is true I have preached a few bad\nsermons that have brought me in a little money, of which the prior stole\nhalf, while the rest serves to maintain my girls; but when I return at\nnight to the monastery, I am ready to dash my head against the walls of\nthe dormitory; and all my fellows are in the same case.\"\n\nMartin turned towards Candide with his usual coolness.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"have I not won the whole wager?\"\n\nCandide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette, and one thousand to\nFriar Giroflee.\n\n\"I'll answer for it,\" said he, \"that with this they will be happy.\"\n\n\"I do not believe it at all,\" said Martin; \"you will, perhaps, with\nthese piastres only render them the more unhappy.\"\n\n\"Let that be as it may,\" said Candide, \"but one thing consoles me. I see\nthat we often meet with those whom we expected never to see more; so\nthat, perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Paquette, it may well be\nthat I shall also find Cunegonde.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Martin, \"she may one day make you very happy; but I doubt\nit very much.\"\n\n\"You are very hard of belief,\" said Candide.\n\n\"I have lived,\" said Martin.\n\n\"You see those gondoliers,\" said Candide, \"are they not perpetually\nsinging?\"\n\n\"You do not see them,\" said Martin, \"at home with their wives and brats.\nThe Doge has his troubles, the gondoliers have theirs. It is true that,\nall things considered, the life of a gondolier is preferable to that of\na Doge; but I believe the difference to be so trifling that it is not\nworth the trouble of examining.\"\n\n\"People talk,\" said Candide, \"of the Senator Pococurante, who lives in\nthat fine palace on the Brenta, where he entertains foreigners in the\npolitest manner. They pretend that this man has never felt any\nuneasiness.\"\n\n\"I should be glad to see such a rarity,\" said Martin.\n\nCandide immediately sent to ask the Lord Pococurante permission to wait\nupon him the next day.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Candide and Martin arrive in Venice. For several months, Candide searches for word of Cacambo and Cunegonde, but is unable to find them. He assumes the worst and becomes depressed. He wishes he had stayed in El Dorado. Martin, ever the pessimist, suggests that Candide has too much faith in Cacambo. Most likely, he says, Cacambo took the fortune and is enjoying himself, not searching the world for the beautiful Cunegonde. Candide and Martin observe a happy looking couple, a woman and a monk, walking down the street. Martin bets Candide that they are in fact very unhappy. In order to settle the bet, Martin asks the couple to dinner. They accept, and the woman turns out to be Paquette, the servant from Thunder-ten-tronckh who infected Pangloss with syphilis. We are not remotely kidding. Candide finds that Paquette has indeed been very unhappy. After a series of unfortunate events, she was forced to become a prostitute to support herself. The monk is not Paquette's lover, but merely her client. Candide asks the monk if he is happy, and contrary to his expectation, the monk says he is miserable. Candide and Martin make an appointment to see Count Pococurante, who is supposedly a very happy man."}, {"": "158", "document": "Scene IV.\nCapulet's house.\n\nEnter Lady of the House and Nurse.\n\n\n  Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse.\n\n  Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.\n\n                       Enter Old Capulet.\n\n\n  Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd,\n    The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock.\n    Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica;\n    Spare not for cost.\n\n  Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go,\n    Get you to bed! Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow\n    For this night's watching.\n\n  Cap. No, not a whit. What, I have watch'd ere now\n    All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.\n\n  Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;\n    But I will watch you from such watching now.\n                                          Exeunt Lady and Nurse.\n\n  Cap. A jealous hood, a jealous hood!\n\n\n  Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets.\n\n    What is there? Now, fellow,\n\n  Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.\n\n  Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow.] Sirrah, fetch drier\n      logs.\n    Call Peter; he will show thee where they are.\n\n  Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs\n    And never trouble Peter for the matter.\n\n  Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!\n    Thou shalt be loggerhead. [Exit Fellow.] Good faith, 'tis day.\n    The County will be here with music straight,\n    For so he said he would.                         Play music.\n    I hear him near.\n    Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say!\n\n                              Enter Nurse.\n    Go waken Juliet; go and trim her up.\n    I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,\n    Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already:\n    Make haste, I say.\n                                                       [Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Everyone is bustling around cheerfully trying to get things ready for the wedding that morning. No one has realized yet that the bride has a serious case of cold feet."}, {"": "159", "document": "\n\nIt was in the air.  White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even before\nthere was tangible evidence of it.  In vague ways it was borne in upon\nhim that a change was impending.  He knew not how nor why, yet he got his\nfeel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves.  In ways subtler\nthan they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that\nhaunted the cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin,\nknew what went on inside their brains.\n\n\"Listen to that, will you!\" the dog-musher exclaimed at supper one night.\n\nWeedon Scott listened.  Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like\na sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible.  Then came the\nlong sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside\nand had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight.\n\n\"I do believe that wolf's on to you,\" the dog-musher said.\n\nWeedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost\npleaded, though this was given the lie by his words.\n\n\"What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?\" he demanded.\n\n\"That's what I say,\" Matt answered.  \"What the devil can you do with a\nwolf in California?\"\n\nBut this did not satisfy Weedon Scott.  The other seemed to be judging\nhim in a non-committal sort of way.\n\n\"White man's dogs would have no show against him,\" Scott went on.  \"He'd\nkill them on sight.  If he didn't bankrupt me with damage suits, the\nauthorities would take him away from me and electrocute him.\"\n\n\"He's a downright murderer, I know,\" was the dog-musher's comment.\n\nWeedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.\n\n\"It would never do,\" he said decisively.\n\n\"It would never do!\" Matt concurred.  \"Why you'd have to hire a man\n'specially to take care of 'm.\"\n\nThe other's suspicion was allayed.  He nodded cheerfully.  In the silence\nthat followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then\nthe long, questing sniff.\n\n\"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you,\" Matt said.\n\nThe other glared at him in sudden wrath.  \"Damn it all, man!  I know my\nown mind and what's best!\"\n\n\"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . \"\n\n\"Only what?\" Scott snapped out.\n\n\"Only . . . \" the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and\nbetrayed a rising anger of his own.  \"Well, you needn't get so all-fired\nhet up about it.  Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know\nyour own mind.\"\n\nWeedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently:\n\"You are right, Matt.  I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along,\" he\nbroke out after another pause.\n\n\"I'm agreein' with you,\" was Matt's answer, and again his employer was\nnot quite satisfied with him.\n\n\"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is\nwhat gets me,\" the dog-musher continued innocently.\n\n\"It's beyond me, Matt,\" Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the\nhead.\n\nThen came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the\nfatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it.  Also,\nthere were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the\ncabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest.  Here was\nindubitable evidence.  White Fang had already scented it.  He now\nreasoned it.  His god was preparing for another flight.  And since he had\nnot taken him with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind.\n\nThat night he lifted the long wolf-howl.  As he had howled, in his puppy\ndays, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished\nand naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so\nnow he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe.\n\nInside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.\n\n\"He's gone off his food again,\" Matt remarked from his bunk.\n\nThere was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets.\n\n\"From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't wonder\nthis time but what he died.\"\n\nThe blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.\n\n\"Oh, shut up!\" Scott cried out through the darkness.  \"You nag worse than\na woman.\"\n\n\"I'm agreein' with you,\" the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott was\nnot quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.\n\nThe next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more\npronounced.  He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and\nhaunted the front stoop when he remained inside.  Through the open door\nhe could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor.  The grip had been\njoined by two large canvas bags and a box.  Matt was rolling the master's\nblankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin.  White Fang whined as he\nwatched the operation.\n\nLater on two Indians arrived.  He watched them closely as they shouldered\nthe luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the\nbedding and the grip.  But White Fang did not follow them.  The master\nwas still in the cabin.  After a time, Matt returned.  The master came to\nthe door and called White Fang inside.\n\n\"You poor devil,\" he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping\nhis spine.  \"I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot\nfollow.  Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl.\"\n\nBut White Fang refused to growl.  Instead, and after a wistful, searching\nlook, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the\nmaster's arm and body.\n\n\"There she blows!\" Matt cried.  From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing\nof a river steamboat.  \"You've got to cut it short.  Be sure and lock the\nfront door.  I'll go out the back.  Get a move on!\"\n\nThe two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for\nMatt to come around to the front.  From inside the door came a low\nwhining and sobbing.  Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.\n\n\"You must take good care of him, Matt,\" Scott said, as they started down\nthe hill.  \"Write and let me know how he gets along.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" the dog-musher answered.  \"But listen to that, will you!\"\n\nBoth men stopped.  White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters\nlie dead.  He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great\nheart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting\nupward again with a rush upon rush of grief.\n\nThe _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her\ndecks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers,\nall equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to\nget to the Inside.  Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with\nMatt, who was preparing to go ashore.  But Matt's hand went limp in the\nother's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something\nbehind him.  Scott turned to see.  Sitting on the deck several feet away\nand watching wistfully was White Fang.\n\nThe dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents.  Scott could only\nlook in wonder.\n\n\"Did you lock the front door?\" Matt demanded.  The other nodded, and\nasked, \"How about the back?\"\n\n\"You just bet I did,\" was the fervent reply.\n\nWhite Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was,\nmaking no attempt to approach.\n\n\"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me.\"\n\nMatt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away\nfrom him.  The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged\nbetween the legs of a group of men.  Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid\nabout the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him.\n\nBut when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt\nobedience.\n\n\"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months,\" the dog-musher\nmuttered resentfully.  \"And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them first\ndays of gettin' acquainted.  I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out\nthat you're the boss.\"\n\nScott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed\nout fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.\n\nMatt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly.\n\n\"We plumb forgot the window.  He's all cut an' gouged underneath.  Must\n'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!\"\n\nBut Weedon Scott was not listening.  He was thinking rapidly.  The\n_Aurora's_ whistle hooted a final announcement of departure.  Men were\nscurrying down the gang-plank to the shore.  Matt loosened the bandana\nfrom his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's.  Scott\ngrasped the dog-musher's hand.\n\n\"Good-bye, Matt, old man.  About the wolf--you needn't write.  You see,\nI've . . . !\"\n\n\"What!\" the dog-musher exploded.  \"You don't mean to say . . .?\"\n\n\"The very thing I mean.  Here's your bandana.  I'll write to you about\nhim.\"\n\nMatt paused halfway down the gang-plank.\n\n\"He'll never stand the climate!\" he shouted back.  \"Unless you clip 'm in\nwarm weather!\"\n\nThe gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank.\nWeedon Scott waved a last good-bye.  Then he turned and bent over White\nFang, standing by his side.\n\n\"Now growl, damn you, growl,\" he said, as he patted the responsive head\nand rubbed the flattening ears.\n\n\n", "summary": "In this chapter, Weedon Scott prepares to leave for California, his home, knowing he must leave White Fang behind. White Fang senses the impending separation and refuses to eat again. Scott is concerned about the wolf-dog, but he is afraid he will never be tame enough to live in California. The day Scott is to leave, White Fang is at his heels all the time. Two Indians come and pick up the luggage and take it to the steamboat, Aurora, which is packed with adventurers and gold seekers. Scott then departs, locking White Fang in the cabin until he has safely sailed away. White Fang, however, breaks free through the window and later appears on board the ship. Scott, seeing such devotion, finally decides to take him along, despite Matt's warning that the California climate will not suit White Fang."}, {"": "160", "document": "SCENE III\n\n  MARIANE, DORINE\n\n\n  DORINE\n  Say, have you lost the tongue from out your head?\n  And must I speak your role from A to Zed?\n  You let them broach a project that's absurd,\n  And don't oppose it with a single word!\n\n  MARIANE\n  What can I do? My father is the master.\n\n  DORINE\n  Do? Everything, to ward off such disaster.\n\n  MARIANE\n  But what?\n\n  DORINE\n  Tell him one doesn't love by proxy;\n  Tell him you'll marry for yourself, not him;\n  Since you're the one for whom the thing is done,\n  You are the one, not he, the man must please;\n  If his Tartuffe has charmed him so, why let him\n  Just marry him himself--no one will hinder.\n\n  MARIANE\n  A father's rights are such, it seems to me,\n  That I could never dare to say a word.\n\n  DORINE\n  Came, talk it out. Valere has asked your hand:\n  Now do you love him, pray, or do you not?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Dorine! How can you wrong my love so much,\n  And ask me such a question? Have I not\n  A hundred times laid bare my heart to you?\n  Do you know how ardently I love him?\n\n  DORINE\n  How do I know if heart and words agree,\n  And if in honest truth you really love him?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Dorine, you wrong me greatly if you doubt it;\n  I've shown my inmost feelings, all too plainly.\n\n  DORINE\n  So then, you love him?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Yes, devotedly.\n\n  DORINE\n  And he returns your love, apparently?\n\n  MARIANE\n  I think so.\n\n  DORINE\n  And you both alike are eager\n  To be well married to each other?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Surely.\n\n  DORINE\n  Then what's your plan about this other match?\n\n  MARIANE\n  To kill myself, if it is forced upon me.\n\n  DORINE\n  Good! That's a remedy I hadn't thought of.\n  Just die, and everything will be all right.\n  This medicine is marvellous, indeed!\n  It drives me mad to hear folk talk such nonsense.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh dear, Dorine you get in such a temper!\n  You have no sympathy for people's troubles.\n\n  DORINE\n  I have no sympathy when folk talk nonsense,\n  And flatten out as you do, at a pinch.\n\n  MARIANE\n  But what can you expect?--if one is timid?--\n\n  DORINE\n  But what is love worth, if it has no courage?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Am I not constant in my love for him?\n  Is't not his place to win me from my father?\n\n  DORINE\n  But if your father is a crazy fool,\n  And quite bewitched with his Tartuffe? And breaks\n  His bounden word? Is that your lover's fault?\n\n  MARIANE\n  But shall I publicly refuse and scorn\n  This match, and make it plain that I'm in love?\n  Shall I cast off for him, whate'er he be,\n  Womanly modesty and filial duty?\n  You ask me to display my love in public ... ?\n\n  DORINE\n  No, no, I ask you nothing. You shall be\n  Mister Tartuffe's; why, now I think of it,\n  I should be wrong to turn you from this marriage.\n  What cause can I have to oppose your wishes?\n  So fine a match! An excellent good match!\n  Mister Tartuffe! Oh ho! No mean proposal!\n  Mister Tartuffe, sure, take it all in all,\n  Is not a man to sneeze at--oh, by no means!\n  'Tis no small luck to be his happy spouse.\n  The whole world joins to sing his praise already;\n  He's noble--in his parish; handsome too;\n  Red ears and high complexion--oh, my lud!\n  You'll be too happy, sure, with him for husband.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh dear! ...\n\n  DORINE\n  What joy and pride will fill your heart\n  To be the bride of such a handsome fellow!\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh, stop, I beg you; try to find some way\n  To help break off the match. I quite give in,\n  I'm ready to do anything you say.\n\n  DORINE\n  No, no, a daughter must obey her father,\n  Though he should want to make her wed a monkey.\n  Besides, your fate is fine. What could be better!\n  You'll take the stage-coach to his little village,\n  And find it full of uncles and of cousins,\n  Whose conversation will delight you. Then\n  You'll be presented in their best society.\n  You'll even go to call, by way of welcome,\n  On Mrs. Bailiff, Mrs. Tax-Collector,\n  Who'll patronise you with a folding-stool.\n  There, once a year, at carnival, you'll have\n  Perhaps--a ball; with orchestra--two bag-pipes;\n  And sometimes a trained ape, and Punch and Judy;\n  Though if your husband ...\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh, you'll kill me. Please\n  Contrive to help me out with your advice.\n\n  DORINE\n  I thank you kindly.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh! Dorine, I beg you ...\n\n  DORINE\n  To serve you right, this marriage must go through.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Dear girl!\n\n  DORINE\n  No.\n\n  MARIANE\n  If I say I love Valere ...\n\n  DORINE\n  No, no. Tartuffe's your man, and you shall taste him.\n\n  MARIANE\n  You know I've always trusted you; now help me ...\n\n  DORINE\n  No, you shall be, my faith! Tartuffified.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Well, then, since you've no pity for my fate\n  Let me take counsel only of despair;\n  It will advise and help and give me courage;\n  There's one sure cure, I know, for all my troubles.\n\n  (She starts to go.)\n\n  DORINE\n  There, there! Come back. I can't be angry long.\n  I must take pity on you, after all.\n\n  MARIANE\n  Oh, don't you see, Dorine, if I must bear\n  This martyrdom, I certainly shall die.\n\n  DORINE\n  Now don't you fret. We'll surely find some way.\n  To hinder this ... But here's Valere, your lover.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Dorine criticizes Mariane for not taking a stand against her father. Mariane doesn't really have a good answer. She's just used to doing what she's told; she's done it for so long. Dorine puts her on the spot. Do you love Valere, she asks, or don't you? Mariane is insulted for a bit, but then she tells Dorine how much she loves, really loves Valere, She says she would rather kill herself than marry Tartuffe. Dorine thinks this is just about the stupidest solution to the problem she can think of. She has no sympathy for that kind hopelessness. She tells Mariane to buck up. When Mariane agonizes over disobeying her father, Dorine mocks her, telling her how great a husband Tartuffe will make for her, how much fun she'll have visiting her awful in-laws, etc. This is too much for Mariane to take; she falls into despair again. This time, Dorine takes pity on her, and the two set about making a plan."}, {"": "161", "document": "\nA Love-Scene\n\n\nPoor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was resolute in not\n\"telling\" of Mr. Poulter more than was unavoidable; the five-shilling\npiece remained a secret even to Maggie. But there was a terrible dread\nweighing on his mind, so terrible that he dared not even ask the\nquestion which might bring the fatal \"yes\"; he dared not ask the\nsurgeon or Mr. Stelling, \"Shall I be lame, Sir?\" He mastered himself\nso as not to cry out at the pain; but when his foot had been dressed,\nand he was left alone with Maggie seated by his bedside, the children\nsobbed together, with their heads laid on the same pillow. Tom was\nthinking of himself walking about on crutches, like the wheelwright's\nson; and Maggie, who did not guess what was in his mind, sobbed for\ncompany. It had not occurred to the surgeon or to Mr. Stelling to\nanticipate this dread in Tom's mind, and to reassure him by hopeful\nwords. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the house, and waylaid\nMr. Stelling to ask the very question that Tom had not dared to ask\nfor himself.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir,--but does Mr. Askern say Tulliver will be\nlame?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; oh, no,\" said Mr. Stelling, \"not permanently; only for a\nlittle while.\"\n\n\"Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think?\"\n\n\"No; nothing was said to him on the subject.\"\n\n\"Then may I go and tell him, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure; now you mention it, I dare say he may be troubling\nabout that. Go to his bedroom, but be very quiet at present.\"\n\nIt had been Philip's first thought when he heard of the\naccident,--\"Will Tulliver be lame? It will be very hard for him if he\nis\"; and Tom's hitherto unforgiven offences were washed out by that\npity. Philip felt that they were no longer in a state of repulsion,\nbut were being drawn into a common current of suffering and sad\nprivation. His imagination did not dwell on the outward calamity and\nits future effect on Tom's life, but it made vividly present to him\nthe probable state of Tom's feeling. Philip had only lived fourteen\nyears, but those years had, most of them, been steeped in the sense of\na lot irremediably hard.\n\n\"Mr. Askern says you'll soon be all right again, Tulliver, did you\nknow?\" he said rather timidly, as he stepped gently up to Tom's bed.\n\"I've just been to ask Mr. Stelling, and he says you'll walk as well\nas ever again by-and-day.\"\n\nTom looked up with that momentary stopping of the breath which comes\nwith a sudden joy; then he gave a long sigh, and turned his blue-gray\neyes straight on Philip's face, as he had not done for a fortnight or\nmore. As for Maggie, this intimation of a possibility she had not\nthought of before affected her as a new trouble; the bare idea of\nTom's being always lame overpowered the assurance that such a\nmisfortune was not likely to befall him, and she clung to him and\ncried afresh.\n\n\"Don't be a little silly, Magsie,\" said Tom, tenderly, feeling very\nbrave now. \"I shall soon get well.\"\n\n\"Good-by, Tulliver,\" said Philip, putting out his small, delicate\nhand, which Tom clasped immediately with his more substantial fingers.\n\n\"I say,\" said Tom, \"ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and sit with me\nsometimes, till I get up again, Wakem; and tell me about Robert Bruce,\nyou know.\"\n\nAfter that, Philip spent all his time out of school-hours with Tom and\nMaggie. Tom liked to hear fighting stories as much as ever, but he\ninsisted strongly on the fact that those great fighters who did so\nmany wonderful things and came off unhurt, wore excellent armor from\nhead to foot, which made fighting easy work, he considered. He should\nnot have hurt his foot if he had had an iron shoe on. He listened with\ngreat interest to a new story of Philip's about a man who had a very\nbad wound in his foot, and cried out so dreadfully with the pain that\nhis friends could bear with him no longer, but put him ashore on a\ndesert island, with nothing but some wonderful poisoned arrows to kill\nanimals with for food.\n\n\"I didn't roar out a bit, you know,\" Tom said, \"and I dare say my foot\nwas as bad as his. It's cowardly to roar.\"\n\nBut Maggie would have it that when anything hurt you very much, it was\nquite permissible to cry out, and it was cruel of people not to bear\nit. She wanted to know if Philoctetes had a sister, and why _she_\ndidn't go with him on the desert island and take care of him.\n\nOne day, soon after Philip had told this story, he and Maggie were in\nthe study alone together while Tom's foot was being dressed. Philip\nwas at his books, and Maggie, after sauntering idly round the room,\nnot caring to do anything in particular, because she would soon go to\nTom again, went and leaned on the table near Philip to see what he was\ndoing, for they were quite old friends now, and perfectly at home with\neach other.\n\n\"What are you reading about in Greek?\" she said. \"It's poetry, I can\nsee that, because the lines are so short.\"\n\n\"It's about Philoctetes, the lame man I was telling you of yesterday,\"\nhe answered, resting his head on his hand, and looking at her as if he\nwere not at all sorry to be interrupted. Maggie, in her absent way,\ncontinued to lean forward, resting on her arms and moving her feet\nabout, while her dark eyes got more and more fixed and vacant, as if\nshe had quite forgotten Philip and his book.\n\n\"Maggie,\" said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning on his\nelbow and looking at her, \"if you had had a brother like me, do you\nthink you should have loved him as well as Tom?\"\n\nMaggie started a little on being roused from her reverie, and said,\n\"What?\" Philip repeated his question.\n\n\"Oh, yes, better,\" she answered immediately. \"No, not better; because\nI don't think I _could_ love you better than Tom. But I should be so\nsorry,--_so sorry_ for you.\"\n\nPhilip colored; he had meant to imply, would she love him as well in\nspite of his deformity, and yet when she alluded to it so plainly, he\nwinced under her pity. Maggie, young as she was, felt her mistake.\nHitherto she had instinctively behaved as if she were quite\nunconscious of Philip's deformity; her own keen sensitiveness and\nexperience under family criticism sufficed to teach her this as well\nas if she had been directed by the most finished breeding.\n\n\"But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and sing,\" she\nadded quickly. \"I wish you _were_ my brother. I'm very fond of you.\nAnd you would stay at home with me when Tom went out, and you would\nteach me everything; wouldn't you,--Greek and everything?\"\n\n\"But you'll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie,\" said Philip, \"and\nthen you'll forget all about me, and not care for me any more. And\nthen I shall see you when you're grown up, and you'll hardly take any\nnotice of me.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I sha'n't forget you, I'm sure,\" said Maggie, shaking her\nhead very seriously. \"I never forget anything, and I think about\neverybody when I'm away from them. I think about poor Yap; he's got a\nlump in his throat, and Luke says he'll die. Only don't you tell Tom.\nbecause it will vex him so. You never saw Yap; he's a queer little\ndog,--nobody cares about him but Tom and me.\"\n\n\"Do you care as much about me as you do about Yap, Maggie?\" said\nPhilip, smiling rather sadly.\n\n\"Oh, yes, I should think so,\" said Maggie, laughing.\n\n\"I'm very fond of _you_, Maggie; I shall never forget _you_,\" said\nPhilip, \"and when I'm very unhappy, I shall always think of you, and\nwish I had a sister with dark eyes, just like yours.\"\n\n\"Why do you like my eyes?\" said Maggie, well pleased. She had never\nheard any one but her father speak of her eyes as if they had merit.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Philip. \"They're not like any other eyes. They\nseem trying to speak,--trying to speak kindly. I don't like other\npeople to look at me much, but I like you to look at me, Maggie.\"\n\n\"Why, I think you're fonder of me than Tom is,\" said Maggie, rather\nsorrowfully. Then, wondering how she could convince Philip that she\ncould like him just as well, although he was crooked, she said:\n\n\"Should you like me to kiss you, as I do Tom? I will, if you like.\"\n\n\"Yes, very much; nobody kisses me.\"\n\nMaggie put her arm round his neck and kissed him quite earnestly.\n\n\"There now,\" she said, \"I shall always remember you, and kiss you when\nI see you again, if it's ever so long. But I'll go now, because I\nthink Mr. Askern's done with Tom's foot.\"\n\nWhen their father came the second time, Maggie said to him, \"Oh,\nfather, Philip Wakem is so very good to Tom; he is such a clever boy,\nand I _do_ love him. And you love him too, Tom, don't you? _Say_ you\nlove him,\" she added entreatingly.\n\nTom colored a little as he looked at his father, and said: \"I sha'n't\nbe friends with him when I leave school, father; but we've made it up\nnow, since my foot has been bad, and he's taught me to play at\ndraughts, and I can beat him.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Mr. Tulliver, \"if he's good to you, try and make\nhim amends, and be good to _him_. He's a poor crooked creature, and\ntakes after his dead mother. But don't you be getting too thick with\nhim; he's got his father's blood in him too. Ay, ay, the gray colt may\nchance to kick like his black sire.\"\n\nThe jarring natures of the two boys effected what Mr. Tulliver's\nadmonition alone might have failed to effect; in spite of Philip's new\nkindness, and Tom's answering regard in this time of his trouble, they\nnever became close friends. When Maggie was gone, and when Tom\nby-and-by began to walk about as usual, the friendly warmth that had\nbeen kindled by pity and gratitude died out by degrees, and left them\nin their old relation to each other. Philip was often peevish and\ncontemptuous; and Tom's more specific and kindly impressions gradually\nmelted into the old background of suspicion and dislike toward him as\na queer fellow, a humpback, and the son of a rogue. If boys and men\nare to be welded together in the glow of transient feeling, they must\nbe made of metal that will mix, else they inevitably fall asunder when\nthe heat dies out.\n\n\n", "summary": "Tom is terribly worried that he will be lame, or have a limp, for the rest of his life. Mr. Stelling doesn't think to reassure Tom, but luckily Philip asks about it and goes to tell Tom the good news: he won't have a permanent injury. Tom and Philip reconcile and Philip hangs out with Tom and Maggie, telling them fun stories and Greek myths. A few days later Maggie and Philip are alone in the school room. Philip asks Maggie if she could love a brother like him and Maggie says yes, but that she'd love Tom best still. But she'd feel sorry for a deformed brother. This makes Philip uncomfortable and Maggie quickly assures Philip that she thinks he's very smart and likes him a lot. Maggie also assures Philip she won't forget him when she goes away and Philip says he'll always remember her. He wishes he had a sister like her. Philip tells Maggie that he likes her eyes and Maggie is surprised to note that Philip seems to like her better than Tom. Maggie gives Philip a kiss on the cheek. When Mr. Tulliver comes to fetch Maggie, she praises Philip to him. Mr. Tulliver tells Tom not to get overly friendly with Philip, since he is a Wakem. Once Tom gets better, the two boys grow apart again due to their differing personalities."}, {"": "162", "document": "SCENE II\n\n  ORGON, MARIANE, DORINE (coming in quietly and standing behind\n  Orgon, so that he does not see her)\n\n\n  ORGON\n  Well spoken. A good girl. Say then, my daughter,\n  That all his person shines with noble merit,\n  That he has won your heart, and you would like\n  To have him, by my choice, become your husband.\n  Eh?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Eh?\n\n  ORGON\n  What say you?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Please, what did you say?\n\n  ORGON\n  What?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Surely I mistook you, sir?\n\n  ORGON\n  How now?\n\n  MARIANE\n  Who is it, father, you would have me say\n  Has won my heart, and I would like to have\n  Become my husband, by your choice?\n\n  ORGON\n  Tartuffe.\n\n  MARIANE\n  But, father, I protest it isn't true!\n  Why should you make me tell this dreadful lie?\n\n  ORGON\n  Because I mean to have it be the truth.\n  Let this suffice for you: I've settled it.\n\n  MARIANE\n  What, father, you would ... ?\n\n  ORGON\n  Yes, child, I'm resolved\n  To graft Tartuffe into my family.\n  So he must be your husband. That I've settled.\n  And since your duty ..\n\n  (Seeing Dorine)\n  What are you doing there?\n  Your curiosity is keen, my girl,\n  To make you come eavesdropping on us so.\n\n  DORINE\n  Upon my word, I don't know how the rumour\n  Got started--if 'twas guess-work or mere chance\n  But I had heard already of this match,\n  And treated it as utter stuff and nonsense.\n\n  ORGON\n  What! Is the thing incredible?\n\n  DORINE\n  So much so\n  I don't believe it even from yourself, sir.\n\n  ORGON\n  I know a way to make you credit it.\n\n  DORINE\n  No, no, you're telling us a fairly tale!\n\n  ORGON\n  I'm telling you just what will happen shortly.\n\n  DORINE\n  Stuff!\n\n  ORGON\n  Daughter, what I say is in good earnest.\n\n  DORINE\n  There, there, don't take your father seriously;\n  He's fooling.\n\n  ORGON\n  But I tell you ...\n\n  DORINE\n  No. No use.\n  They won't believe you.\n\n  ORGON\n  If I let my anger ...\n\n  DORINE\n  Well, then, we do believe you; and the worse\n  For you it is. What! Can a grown-up man\n  With that expanse of beard across his face\n  Be mad enough to want ...?\n\n  ORGON\n  You hark me:\n  You've taken on yourself here in this house\n  A sort of free familiarity\n  That I don't like, I tell you frankly, girl.\n\n  DORINE\n  There, there, let's not get angry, sir, I beg you.\n  But are you making game of everybody?\n  Your daughter's not cut out for bigot's meat;\n  And he has more important things to think of.\n  Besides, what can you gain by such a match?\n  How can a man of wealth, like you, go choose\n  A wretched vagabond for son-in-law?\n\n  ORGON\n  You hold your tongue. And know, the less he has,\n  The better cause have we to honour him.\n  His poverty is honest poverty;\n  It should exalt him more than worldly grandeur,\n  For he has let himself be robbed of all,\n  Through careless disregard of temporal things\n  And fixed attachment to the things eternal.\n  My help may set him on his feet again,\n  Win back his property--a fair estate\n  He has at home, so I'm informed--and prove him\n  For what he is, a true-born gentleman.\n\n  DORINE\n  Yes, so he says himself. Such vanity\n  But ill accords with pious living, sir.\n  The man who cares for holiness alone\n  Should not so loudly boast his name and birth;\n  The humble ways of genuine devoutness\n  Brook not so much display of earthly pride.\n  Why should he be so vain? ... But I offend you:\n  Let's leave his rank, then,--take the man himself:\n  Can you without compunction give a man\n  Like him possession of a girl like her?\n  Think what a scandal's sure to come of it!\n  Virtue is at the mercy of the fates,\n  When a girl's married to a man she hates;\n  The best intent to live an honest woman\n  Depends upon the husband's being human,\n  And men whose brows are pointed at afar\n  May thank themselves their wives are what they are.\n  For to be true is more than woman can,\n  With husbands built upon a certain plan;\n  And he who weds his child against her will\n  Owes heaven account for it, if she do ill.\n  Think then what perils wait on your design.\n\n  ORGON (to Mariane)\n  So! I must learn what's what from her, you see!\n\n  DORINE\n  You might do worse than follow my advice.\n\n  ORGON\n  Daughter, we can't waste time upon this nonsense;\n  I know what's good for you, and I'm your father.\n  True, I had promised you to young Valere;\n  But, first, they tell me he's inclined to gamble,\n  And then, I fear his faith is not quite sound.\n  I haven't noticed that he's regular\n  At church.\n\n  DORINE\n  You'd have him run there just when you do.\n  Like those who go on purpose to be seen?\n\n  ORGON\n  I don't ask your opinion on the matter.\n  In short, the other is in Heaven's best graces,\n  And that is riches quite beyond compare.\n  This match will bring you every joy you long for;\n  'Twill be all steeped in sweetness and delight.\n  You'll live together, in your faithful loves,\n  Like two sweet children, like two turtle-doves;\n  You'll never fail to quarrel, scold, or tease,\n  And you may do with him whate'er you please.\n\n  DORINE\n  With him? Do naught but give him horns, I'll warrant.\n\n  ORGON\n  Out on thee, wench!\n\n  DORINE\n  I tell you he's cut out for't;\n  However great your daughter's virtue, sir,\n  His destiny is sure to prove the stronger.\n\n  ORGON\n  Have done with interrupting. Hold your tongue.\n  Don't poke your nose in other people's business.\n\n  DORINE (She keeps interrupting him, just as he turns and starts\n  to speak to his daughter).\n  If I make bold, sir, 'tis for your own good.\n\n  ORGON\n  You're too officious; pray you, hold your tongue.\n\n  DORINE\n  'Tis love of you ...\n\n  ORGON\n  I want none of your love.\n\n  DORINE\n  Then I will love you in your own despite.\n\n  ORGON\n  You will, eh?\n\n  DORINE\n  Yes, your honour's dear to me;\n  I can't endure to see you made the butt\n  Of all men's ridicule.\n\n  ORGON\n  Won't you be still?\n\n  DORINE\n  'Twould be a sin to let you make this match.\n\n  ORGON\n  Won't you be still, I say, you impudent viper!\n\n  DORINE\n  What! you are pious, and you lose your temper?\n\n  ORGON\n  I'm all wrought up, with your confounded nonsense;\n  Now, once for all, I tell you hold your tongue.\n\n  DORINE\n  Then mum's the word; I'll take it out in thinking.\n\n  ORGON\n  Think all you please; but not a syllable\n  To me about it, or ... you understand!\n\n  (Turning to his daughter.)\n  As a wise father, I've considered all\n  With due deliberation.\n\n  DORINE\n  I'll go mad\n  If I can't speak.\n  (She stops the instant he turns his head.)\n\n  ORGON\n  Though he's no lady's man,\n  Tartuffe is well enough ...\n\n  DORINE\n  A pretty phiz!\n\n  ORGON\n  So that, although you may not care at all\n  For his best qualities ...\n\n  DORINE\n  A handsome dowry!\n\n  (Orgon turns and stands in front of her, with arms folded, eyeing\n  her.)\n  Were I in her place, any man should rue it\n  Who married me by force, that's mighty certain;\n  I'd let him know, and that within a week,\n  A woman's vengeance isn't far to seek.\n\n  ORGON (to Dorine)\n  So--nothing that I say has any weight?\n\n  DORINE\n  Eh? What's wrong now? I didn't speak to you.\n\n  ORGON\n  What were you doing?\n\n  DORINE\n  Talking to myself.\n\n  ORGON\n  Oh! Very well. (Aside.) Her monstrous impudence\n  Must be chastised with one good slap in the face.\n\n  (He stands ready to strike her, and, each time he speaks to his\n  daughter, he glances toward her; but she stands still and says not a\n  word.) [3]\n\n  [Footnote 3: As given at the Comedie francaise, the action is as\n  follows: While Orgon says, \"You must approve of my design,\" Dorine is\n  making signs to Mariane to resist his orders; Orgon turns around\n  suddenly; but Dorine quickly changes her gesture and with the hand\n  which she had lifted calmly arranges her hair and her cap. Orgon goes\n  on, \"Think of the husband ...\" and stops before the middle of his\n  sentence to turn and catch the beginning of Dorine's gesture; but he\n  is too quick this time, and Dorine stands looking at his furious\n  countenance with a sweet and gentle expression. He turns and goes on,\n  and the obstinate Dorine again lifts her hand behind his shoulder to\n  urge Mariane to resistance: this time he catches her; but just as he\n  swings his shoulder to give her the promised blow, she stops him by\n  changing the intent of her gesture, and carefully picking from the top\n  of his sleeve a bit of fluff which she holds carefully between her\n  fingers, then blows into the air, and watches intently as it floats\n  away. Orgon is paralysed by her innocence of expression, and compelled\n  to hide his rage.--Regnier, _Le Tartuffe des Comediens_.]\n\n  ORGON\n  Daughter, you must approve of my design....\n  Think of this husband ... I have chosen for you...\n\n  (To Dorine)\n  Why don't you talk to yourself?\n\n  DORINE\n  Nothing to say.\n\n  ORGON\n  One little word more.\n\n  DORINE\n  Oh, no, thanks. Not now.\n\n  ORGON\n  Sure, I'd have caught you.\n\n  DORINE\n  Faith, I'm no such fool.\n\n  ORGON\n  So, daughter, now obedience is the word;\n  You must accept my choice with reverence.\n\n  DORINE (running away)\n  You'd never catch me marrying such a creature.\n\n  ORGON (swinging his hand at her and missing her)\n  Daughter, you've such a pestilent hussy there\n  I can't live with her longer, without sin.\n  I can't discuss things in the state I'm in.\n  My mind's so flustered by her insolent talk,\n  To calm myself, I must go take a walk.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Dorine shows up; Orgon accuses her of eavesdropping and tells her to buzz off. Dorine says to Orgon, that the gossip around town is that he wants to Mariane to marry Tartuffe, The maid says that the idea is so silly she has to laugh. Orgon can't believe that Dorine can't believe that he would want Mariane to marry Tartuffe. The more he tries to convince her the more she mocks him. She tells Mariane that it's all just a hoax and that she shouldn't believe her father. Dorine finally drops the hoax thing and tells Orgon straight out that nobody can believe he's acting like such a twit. How could you have your daughter marry a man who claims to be so religious? And what about that whole poverty thing - Orgon's a rich gentleman after all. Orgon tells Dorine that Tartuffe lost his \"earthly fortune\" because he was so occupied by heavenly things. He says Tartuffe needs only a little monetary support, in order to regain his estate . Dorine tries another strategy. Wouldn't it be something of a strange match, she asks Orgon, considering that Mariane really doesn't like Tartuffe? Because, she says, when a bride doesn't like her groom, she usually cheats. Oh, and a father who gives her daughter to such a man will pay for his sins. Yeah, she really lays it on thick. Orgon can't believe what he's hearing from the servant-girl; he tells Mariane to ignore Dorine. Oh, and it turns out that Valere gambles and doesn't go to church too often. Orgon tries to convince Mariane that he's doing the right thing. Dorine continues to make fun of him and Tartuffe. She interrupts him again and again, until Orgon finally threatens to hit her. The saucy servant immediately starts acting coy, making comments only when Orgon turns his back. Orgon tries to hit her, but misses, and soon leaves the room in anger."}, {"": "163", "document": "\n\"I ask your pardon once more,\" said Candide to the Baron, \"your pardon,\nreverend father, for having run you through the body.\"\n\n\"Say no more about it,\" answered the Baron. \"I was a little too hasty, I\nown, but since you wish to know by what fatality I came to be a\ngalley-slave I will inform you. After I had been cured by the surgeon of\nthe college of the wound you gave me, I was attacked and carried off by\na party of Spanish troops, who confined me in prison at Buenos Ayres at\nthe very time my sister was setting out thence. I asked leave to return\nto Rome to the General of my Order. I was appointed chaplain to the\nFrench Ambassador at Constantinople. I had not been eight days in this\nemployment when one evening I met with a young Ichoglan, who was a very\nhandsome fellow. The weather was warm. The young man wanted to bathe,\nand I took this opportunity of bathing also. I did not know that it was\na capital crime for a Christian to be found naked with a young\nMussulman. A cadi ordered me a hundred blows on the soles of the feet,\nand condemned me to the galleys. I do not think there ever was a greater\nact of injustice. But I should be glad to know how my sister came to be\nscullion to a Transylvanian prince who has taken shelter among the\nTurks.\"\n\n\"But you, my dear Pangloss,\" said Candide, \"how can it be that I behold\nyou again?\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said Pangloss, \"that you saw me hanged. I should have been\nburnt, but you may remember it rained exceedingly hard when they were\ngoing to roast me; the storm was so violent that they despaired of\nlighting the fire, so I was hanged because they could do no better. A\nsurgeon purchased my body, carried me home, and dissected me. He began\nwith making a crucial incision on me from the navel to the clavicula.\nOne could not have been worse hanged than I was. The executioner of the\nHoly Inquisition was a sub-deacon, and knew how to burn people\nmarvellously well, but he was not accustomed to hanging. The cord was\nwet and did not slip properly, and besides it was badly tied; in short,\nI still drew my breath, when the crucial incision made me give such a\nfrightful scream that my surgeon fell flat upon his back, and imagining\nthat he had been dissecting the devil he ran away, dying with fear, and\nfell down the staircase in his flight. His wife, hearing the noise,\nflew from the next room. She saw me stretched out upon the table with my\ncrucial incision. She was seized with yet greater fear than her husband,\nfled, and tumbled over him. When they came to themselves a little, I\nheard the wife say to her husband: 'My dear, how could you take it into\nyour head to dissect a heretic? Do you not know that these people always\nhave the devil in their bodies? I will go and fetch a priest this minute\nto exorcise him.' At this proposal I shuddered, and mustering up what\nlittle courage I had still remaining I cried out aloud, 'Have mercy on\nme!' At length the Portuguese barber plucked up his spirits. He sewed up\nmy wounds; his wife even nursed me. I was upon my legs at the end of\nfifteen days. The barber found me a place as lackey to a knight of Malta\nwho was going to Venice, but finding that my master had no money to pay\nme my wages I entered the service of a Venetian merchant, and went with\nhim to Constantinople. One day I took it into my head to step into a\nmosque, where I saw an old Iman and a very pretty young devotee who was\nsaying her paternosters. Her bosom was uncovered, and between her\nbreasts she had a beautiful bouquet of tulips, roses, anemones,\nranunculus, hyacinths, and auriculas. She dropped her bouquet; I picked\nit up, and presented it to her with a profound reverence. I was so long\nin delivering it that the Iman began to get angry, and seeing that I was\na Christian he called out for help. They carried me before the cadi, who\nordered me a hundred lashes on the soles of the feet and sent me to the\ngalleys. I was chained to the very same galley and the same bench as the\nyoung Baron. On board this galley there were four young men from\nMarseilles, five Neapolitan priests, and two monks from Corfu, who told\nus similar adventures happened daily. The Baron maintained that he had\nsuffered greater injustice than I, and I insisted that it was far more\ninnocent to take up a bouquet and place it again on a woman's bosom than\nto be found stark naked with an Ichoglan. We were continually disputing,\nand received twenty lashes with a bull's pizzle when the concatenation\nof universal events brought you to our galley, and you were good enough\nto ransom us.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Pangloss,\" said Candide to him, \"when you had been\nhanged, dissected, whipped, and were tugging at the oar, did you always\nthink that everything happens for the best?\"\n\n\"I am still of my first opinion,\" answered Pangloss, \"for I am a\nphilosopher and I cannot retract, especially as Leibnitz could never be\nwrong; and besides, the pre-established harmony is the finest thing in\nthe world, and so is his _plenum_ and _materia subtilis_.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Both the baron and Pangloss explain the circumstances which led to them escaping death. Cunegonde's brother says that he was healed of the sword wound inflicted upon him by Candide. Pangloss explains how he narrowly escaped hanging, thanks to a knot that stopped the rope from completely suffocating him. Both men, however, get into trouble , resulting in their arrest and subsequent captivity. Nevertheless, the philosopher still maintains his belief in deterministic optimism, asserting, \"I am a philosopher, and it would not be right for me to recant since Leibniz could not possibly be wrong"}, {"": "164", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\nA room in FORD'S house.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE.]\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhat, John! what, Robert!\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nQuickly, quickly:--Is the buck-basket--\n\nMRS. FORD.\nI warrant. What, Robin, I say!\n\n[Enter SERVANTS with a basket.]\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nCome, come, come.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nHere, set it down.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nGive your men the charge; we must be brief.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nMarry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by\nin the brew-house; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and,\nwithout any pause or staggering, take this basket on your shoulders:\nthat done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the\nwhitsters in Datchet-Mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch\nclose by the Thames side.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nYou will do it?\n\nMRS. FORD.\nI have told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and\ncome when you are called.\n\n[Exeunt SERVANTS.] \n\nMRS. PAGE.\nHere comes little Robin.\n\n[Enter ROBIN.]\n\nMRS. FORD.\nHow now, my eyas-musket! what news with you?\n\nROBIN.\nMy Master Sir John is come in at your back-door, Mistress Ford,\nand requests your company.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nYou little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us?\n\nROBIN.\nAy, I'll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath\nthreatened to put me into everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it;\nfor he swears he'll turn me away.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nThou 'rt a good boy; this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to\nthee, and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I'll go hide me.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nDo so. Go tell thy master I am alone.\n\n[Exit ROBIN.]\n\nMistress Page, remember you your cue.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nI warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nMRS. FORD.\nGo to, then; we'll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery\npumpion; we'll teach him to know turtles from jays.\n\n[Enter FALSTAFF.]\n\nFALSTAFF.\n'Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel?' Why, now let me die, for\nI have lived long enough: this is the period of my ambition:\nO this blessed hour!\n\nMRS. FORD.\nO, sweet Sir John!\n\nFALSTAFF.\nMistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now\nshall I sin in my wish; I would thy husband were dead. I'll speak\nit before the best lord, I would make thee my lady.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nI your lady, Sir John! Alas, I should be a pitiful\nlady.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nLet the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye\nwould emulate the diamond; thou hast the right arched beauty of\nthe brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire\nof Venetian admittance.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nA plain kerchief, Sir John; my brows become nothing else; nor that\nwell neither.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nBy the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou wouldst make an\nabsolute courtier; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an\nexcellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see\nwhat thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend.\nCome, thou canst not hide it.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nBelieve me, there's no such thing in me.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWhat made me love thee? Let that persuade thee there's something\nextraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this\nand that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds that come\nlike women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in\nsimple-time; I cannot; but I love thee, none but thee; and thou\ndeservest it.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nDo not betray me, sir; I fear you love Mistress Page.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nThou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which\nis as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWell, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nKeep in that mind; I'll deserve it.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nNay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind.\n\nROBIN.\n[Within] Mistress Ford! Mistress Ford! here's Mistress Page at the\ndoor, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak\nwith you presently.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nShe shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the arras.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nPray you, do so; she's a very tattling woman.\n\n[FALSTAFF hides himself.]\n\n[Re-enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.]\n\nWhat's the matter? How now!\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nO Mistress Ford, what have you done? You're shamed, you are\noverthrown, you are undone for ever!\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhat's the matter, good Mistress Page?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nO well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man to your husband,\nto give him such cause of suspicion!\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhat cause of suspicion?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhat cause of suspicion? Out upon you! how am I mistook in you!\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhy, alas, what's the matter?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nYour husband's coming hither, woman, with all the officers in\nWindsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in\nthe house, by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence:\nyou are undone.\n\nMRS. FORD.\n[Aside.] Speak louder.--\n'Tis not so, I hope.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nPray heaven it be not so that you have such a man here! but 'tis\nmost certain your husband's coming, with half Windsor at his heels,\nto search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know\nyourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here,\nconvey, convey him out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to you;\ndefend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhat shall I do?--There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear\nnot mine own shame as much as his peril: I had rather than a\nthousand pound he were out of the house.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nFor shame! never stand 'you had rather' and 'you had rather': your\nhusband's here at hand; bethink you of some conveyance; in the\nhouse you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here\nis a basket; if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in\nhere; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to\nbucking: or--it is whiting-time--send him by your two men to\nDatchet-Mead.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nHe's too big to go in there. What shall I do?\n\nFALSTAFF.\n[Coming forward] Let me see 't, let me see 't. O, let me see 't!\nI'll in, I'll in; follow your friend's counsel; I'll in.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhat, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nI love thee and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here.\nI'll never--\n\n[He gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen.]\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nHelp to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You\ndissembling knight!\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhat, John! Robert! John!\n\n[Exit ROBIN.]\n\n[Re-enter SERVANTS.]\n\nGo, take up these clothes here, quickly; where's the cowl-staff?\nLook how you drumble! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet-Mead;\nquickly, come.\n\n[Enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.]\n\nFORD.\nPray you come near. If I suspect without cause, why then make sport\nat me, then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now, whither\nbear you this?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo the laundress, forsooth.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhy, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle\nwith buck-washing.\n\nFORD.\nBuck! I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck!\nay, buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. \n\n[Exeunt SERVANTS with the basket.]\n\nGentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I'll tell you my dream. Here,\nhere, here be my keys: ascend my chambers; search, seek, find out.\nI'll warrant we'll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first.\n[Locking the door.] So, now uncape.\n\nPAGE.\nGood Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself\ntoo much.\n\nFORD.\nTrue, Master Page. Up, gentlemen, you shall see sport anon; follow\nme, gentlemen.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nEVANS.\nThis is fery fantastical humours and jealousies.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, 'tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France.\n\nPAGE.\nNay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search.\n\n[Exeunt EVANS, PAGE, and CAIUS.]\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nIs there not a double excellency in this?\n\nMRS. FORD.\nI know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or\nSir John.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhat a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket!\n\nMRS. FORD.\nI am half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into\nthe water will do him a benefit.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nHang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in\nthe same distress.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nI think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff's being\nhere, for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nI will lay a plot to try that, and we will yet have more tricks\nwith Falstaff: his dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nShall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and\nexcuse his throwing into the water, and give him another hope, to\nbetray him to another punishment?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWe will do it; let him be sent for to-morrow eight o'clock, to\nhave amends.\n\n[Re-enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.]\n\nFORD.\nI cannot find him: may be the knave bragged of that he could not\ncompass.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\n[Aside to MRS. FORD.] Heard you that?\n\nMRS. FORD.\n[Aside to MRS. PAGE.] Ay, ay, peace.--\nYou use me well, Master Ford, do you?\n\nFORD.\nAy, I do so.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nHeaven make you better than your thoughts!\n\nFORD.\nAmen!\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nYou do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford.\n\nFORD.\nAy, ay; I must bear it.\n\nEVANS.\nIf there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the\ncoffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of\njudgment!\n\nCAIUS.\nBe gar, nor I too; there is no bodies.\n\nPAGE.\nFie, fie, Master Ford, are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil\nsuggests this imagination? I would not ha' your distemper in this\nkind for the wealth of Windsor Castle.\n\nFORD.\n'Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it.\n\nEVANS.\nYou suffer for a pad conscience. Your wife is as honest a 'omans as\nI will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, I see 'tis an honest woman.\n\nFORD.\nWell, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the Park: I pray\nyou pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done\nthis. Come, wife, come, Mistress Page; I pray you pardon me; pray\nheartily, pardon me.\n\nPAGE.\nLet's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we'll mock him. I do invite\nyou to-morrow morning to my house to breakfast; after, we'll\na-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so?\n\nFORD.\nAny thing.\n\nEVANS.\nIf there is one, I shall make two in the company.\n\nCAIUS.\nIf there be one or two, I shall make-a the turd.\n\nFORD.\nPray you go, Master Page.\n\nEVANS.\nI pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the lousy knave, mine host.\n\nCAIUS.\nDat is good; by gar, with all my heart.\n\nEVANS.\nA lousy knave! to have his gibes and his mockeries!\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Over at Ford's house, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page get ready to punk Falstaff and Master Ford. Falstaff's going to show up any minute, so they order the servants to set up a \"buck-basket\" in the room. Mistress Ford tells the servants to wait for her signal and then carry the buck-basket down to the river and dump its contents in the water. Ooh, this sounds like it's going to be good. Robin shows up and announces that Falstaff has arrived but totally has no idea what the wives are up to. Mistress Page hides. Falstaff swaggers into the room, thinking he's about to get his swerve on. Not wasting any time, he calls Mistress Ford a \"heavenly jewel,\" and says he wishes her husband were dead. Then he tells her she's got eyes like \"diamonds,\" and a very sexy forehead. Mistress Page doesn't seem impressed, so Falstaff switches gears and tries a new approach. He says something like, \"Look, honey, I'm not young, and I'm not the kind of guy who gets dressed up or wears cologne when I show up at a woman's house. Also, I'm not going to compare your beauty to this, that, or the other thing. I'll just come straight out and tell you I love you.\" Mistress Page bats her eyelashes and is all, \"I'll bet you say that to all the housewives. In fact, didn't you just tell my best friend that you love her, too?\" Just as Falstaff denies wanting anything to do with Mistress Page, Robin runs into the room and says... that Mistress Page is at the door. Falstaff is a coward so, naturally, he hides behind an arras just as Mistress Page pretend-storms into the room. Mistress Page and Mistress Ford proceed to have a pretend fight about who gets to be with Falstaff. Mistress Page pretend-warns her friend that Master Ford is on his way home and knows all about her torrid affair with the knight. And then Mistress Page for real suggests that Falstaff should hide under a pile of dirty laundry in the \"buck-basket\" but Mistress Ford says she thinks he's too big. Falstaff doesn't want to get caught by a jealous husband so he jumps out from his hiding spot and crams himself into the stinky laundry basket. Mistress Ford calls in her servants and orders them to carry the buck-basket outside and down to the river. Master Ford and his pals burst into the room. Perfect timing! Ford asks the servants where the heck they think they're going with the laundry basket. Mistress Ford speaks up and asks her husband why he cares about \"buck-washing.\" Ford flips out and starts yelling \"Buck, buck, buck? Ay, warrant you, buck.\" Brain snack: \"Buck-washing\" is just laundry that needs to be bleached with lye, but when Ford hears the word \"buck,\" he immediately thinks of a male deer with horns. The servants leave with the \"buck-basket\" and Ford runs around locking all the doors so Falstaff can't escape. Then he orders his friends to help him search the house for his wife's secret lover. Page, Evans, and Caius are a little embarrassed by their lunatic friend, but they follow Ford around the house anyway. Mistress Ford and Mistress Page can't decide which is better--tricking Falstaff or watching jealous Master Ford make a fool of himself. Mistress Ford snickers that she thinks Falstaff peed his pants in fear, so it's a good thing he's getting tossed in the river along with all her dirty laundry. The ladies decide to engage Mistress Quickly again and play another trick on Falstaff. Meanwhile, Master Ford is still running around like a cuckoo looking for Falstaff. Ford finally gives up the search and apologizes to his wife and buddies, who are still laughing about it behind his back. Master Ford wants to make things up to his pals. He invites them in for the dinner he promised and begs everyone's forgiveness again. Before going in for dinner, Master Page conspires with Doctor Caius and Evans, saying they'll mock Ford yet. Then he invites all the fellas over for breakfast and birding in the morning. Then, Evans and Caius plot against the Host. Let the madcap shenanigans continue."}, {"": "165", "document": "\nCandide did not take courage, but followed the old woman to a decayed\nhouse, where she gave him a pot of pomatum to anoint his sores, showed\nhim a very neat little bed, with a suit of clothes hanging up, and left\nhim something to eat and drink.\n\n\"Eat, drink, sleep,\" said she, \"and may our lady of Atocha,[9] the great\nSt. Anthony of Padua, and the great St. James of Compostella, receive\nyou under their protection. I shall be back to-morrow.\"\n\nCandide, amazed at all he had suffered and still more with the charity\nof the old woman, wished to kiss her hand.\n\n\"It is not my hand you must kiss,\" said the old woman; \"I shall be back\nto-morrow. Anoint yourself with the pomatum, eat and sleep.\"\n\nCandide, notwithstanding so many disasters, ate and slept. The next\nmorning the old woman brought him his breakfast, looked at his back, and\nrubbed it herself with another ointment: in like manner she brought him\nhis dinner; and at night she returned with his supper. The day following\nshe went through the very same ceremonies.\n\n\"Who are you?\" said Candide; \"who has inspired you with so much\ngoodness? What return can I make you?\"\n\nThe good woman made no answer; she returned in the evening, but brought\nno supper.\n\n\"Come with me,\" she said, \"and say nothing.\"\n\nShe took him by the arm, and walked with him about a quarter of a mile\ninto the country; they arrived at a lonely house, surrounded with\ngardens and canals. The old woman knocked at a little door, it opened,\nshe led Candide up a private staircase into a small apartment richly\nfurnished. She left him on a brocaded sofa, shut the door and went away.\nCandide thought himself in a dream; indeed, that he had been dreaming\nunluckily all his life, and that the present moment was the only\nagreeable part of it all.\n\nThe old woman returned very soon, supporting with difficulty a trembling\nwoman of a majestic figure, brilliant with jewels, and covered with a\nveil.\n\n\"Take off that veil,\" said the old woman to Candide.\n\nThe young man approaches, he raises the veil with a timid hand. Oh!\nwhat a moment! what surprise! he believes he beholds Miss Cunegonde? he\nreally sees her! it is herself! His strength fails him, he cannot utter\na word, but drops at her feet. Cunegonde falls upon the sofa. The old\nwoman supplies a smelling bottle; they come to themselves and recover\ntheir speech. As they began with broken accents, with questions and\nanswers interchangeably interrupted with sighs, with tears, and cries.\nThe old woman desired they would make less noise and then she left them\nto themselves.\n\n\"What, is it you?\" said Candide, \"you live? I find you again in\nPortugal? then you have not been ravished? then they did not rip open\nyour belly as Doctor Pangloss informed me?\"\n\n\"Yes, they did,\" said the beautiful Cunegonde; \"but those two accidents\nare not always mortal.\"\n\n\"But were your father and mother killed?\"\n\n\"It is but too true,\" answered Cunegonde, in tears.\n\n\"And your brother?\"\n\n\"My brother also was killed.\"\n\n\"And why are you in Portugal? and how did you know of my being here? and\nby what strange adventure did you contrive to bring me to this house?\"\n\n\"I will tell you all that,\" replied the lady, \"but first of all let me\nknow your history, since the innocent kiss you gave me and the kicks\nwhich you received.\"\n\nCandide respectfully obeyed her, and though he was still in a surprise,\nthough his voice was feeble and trembling, though his back still pained\nhim, yet he gave her a most ingenuous account of everything that had\nbefallen him since the moment of their separation. Cunegonde lifted up\nher eyes to heaven; shed tears upon hearing of the death of the good\nAnabaptist and of Pangloss; after which she spoke as follows to Candide,\nwho did not lose a word and devoured her with his eyes.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The strange old woman takes Candide to a shanty, where she clothes and feeds him, taking general care of him for a couple of days without the young philosopher even knowing her identity. Once he has recovered enough to see visitors, the woman leads him to a nearby house where he meets, of all people, Cunegonde. His lover is elated to see him, explaining that although she was close to death, she ultimately survived the attacks of the Bulgar soldiers. Candide also relates his story, which proves quite touching to Cunegonde"}, {"": "166", "document": "ACT V. SCENE I.\nPlains near Rome\n\nEnter LUCIUS with an army of GOTHS with drums and colours\n\n  LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends,\n    I have received letters from great Rome\n    Which signifies what hate they bear their Emperor\n    And how desirous of our sight they are.\n    Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,\n    Imperious and impatient of your wrongs;\n    And wherein Rome hath done you any scath,\n    Let him make treble satisfaction.\n  FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,\n    Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort,\n    Whose high exploits and honourable deeds\n    Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,\n    Be bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st,\n    Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day,\n    Led by their master to the flow'red fields,\n    And be aveng'd on cursed Tamora.\n  ALL THE GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him.\n  LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all.\n    But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?\n\n     Enter a GOTH, leading AARON with his CHILD in his arms\n\n  SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd\n    To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;\n    And as I earnestly did fix mine eye\n    Upon the wasted building, suddenly\n    I heard a child cry underneath a wall.\n    I made unto the noise, when soon I heard\n    The crying babe controll'd with this discourse:\n    'Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!\n    Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,\n    Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look,\n    Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor;\n    But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,\n    They never do beget a coal-black calf.\n    Peace, villain, peace!'- even thus he rates the babe-\n    'For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth,\n    Who, when he knows thou art the Empress' babe,\n    Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.'\n    With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,\n    Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither\n    To use as you think needful of the man.\n  LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil\n    That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand;\n    This is the pearl that pleas'd your Empress' eye;\n    And here's the base fruit of her burning lust.\n    Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither wouldst thou convey\n    This growing image of thy fiend-like face?\n    Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word?\n    A halter, soldiers! Hang him on this tree,\n    And by his side his fruit of bastardy.\n  AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood.\n  LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good.\n    First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl-\n    A sight to vex the father's soul withal.\n    Get me a ladder.\n                [A ladder brought, which AARON is made to climb]\n  AARON. Lucius, save the child,\n    And bear it from me to the Empress.\n    If thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things\n    That highly may advantage thee to hear;\n    If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,\n    I'll speak no more but 'Vengeance rot you all!'\n  LUCIUS. Say on; an if it please me which thou speak'st,\n    Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd.\n  AARON. An if it please thee! Why, assure thee, Lucius,\n    'Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;\n    For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,\n    Acts of black night, abominable deeds,\n    Complots of mischief, treason, villainies,\n    Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd;\n    And this shall all be buried in my death,\n    Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.\n  LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live.\n  AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.\n  LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believest no god;\n    That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?\n  AARON. What if I do not? as indeed I do not;\n    Yet, for I know thou art religious\n    And hast a thing within thee called conscience,\n    With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies\n    Which I have seen thee careful to observe,\n    Therefore I urge thy oath. For that I know\n    An idiot holds his bauble for a god,\n    And keeps the oath which by that god he swears,\n    To that I'll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow\n    By that same god- what god soe'er it be\n    That thou adorest and hast in reverence-\n    To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up;\n    Or else I will discover nought to thee.\n  LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will.\n  AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the Empress.\n  LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman!\n  AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity\n    To that which thou shalt hear of me anon.\n    'Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus;\n    They cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her,\n    And cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou sawest.\n  LUCIUS. O detestable villain! Call'st thou that trimming?\n  AARON. Why, she was wash'd, and cut, and trimm'd, and 'twas\n    Trim sport for them which had the doing of it.\n  LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains like thyself!\n  AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them.\n    That codding spirit had they from their mother,\n    As sure a card as ever won the set;\n    That bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me,\n    As true a dog as ever fought at head.\n    Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.\n    I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole\n    Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay;\n    I wrote the letter that thy father found,\n    And hid the gold within that letter mention'd,\n    Confederate with the Queen and her two sons;\n    And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,\n    Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?\n    I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand,\n    And, when I had it, drew myself apart\n    And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter.\n    I pried me through the crevice of a wall,\n    When, for his hand, he had his two sons' heads;\n    Beheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily\n    That both mine eyes were rainy like to his;\n    And when I told the Empress of this sport,\n    She swooned almost at my pleasing tale,\n    And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.\n  GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush?\n  AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.\n  LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?\n  AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.\n    Even now I curse the day- and yet, I think,\n    Few come within the compass of my curse-\n    Wherein I did not some notorious ill;\n    As kill a man, or else devise his death;\n    Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;\n    Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;\n    Set deadly enmity between two friends;\n    Make poor men's cattle break their necks;\n    Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,\n    And bid the owners quench them with their tears.\n    Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,\n    And set them upright at their dear friends' door\n    Even when their sorrows almost was forgot,\n    And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,\n    Have with my knife carved in Roman letters\n    'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'\n    Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things\n    As willingly as one would kill a fly;\n    And nothing grieves me heartily indeed\n    But that I cannot do ten thousand more.\n  LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die\n    So sweet a death as hanging presently.\n  AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil,\n    To live and burn in everlasting fire,\n    So I might have your company in hell\n    But to torment you with my bitter tongue!\n  LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.\n\n                       Enter AEMILIUS\n\n  GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome\n    Desires to be admitted to your presence.\n  LUCIUS. Let him come near.\n    Welcome, Aemilius. What's the news from Rome?\n  AEMILIUS. Lord Lucius, and you Princes of the Goths,\n    The Roman Emperor greets you all by me;\n    And, for he understands you are in arms,\n    He craves a parley at your father's house,\n    Willing you to demand your hostages,\n    And they shall be immediately deliver'd.\n  FIRST GOTH. What says our general?\n  LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the Emperor give his pledges\n    Unto my father and my uncle Marcus.\n    And we will come. March away.                         Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In a field near Rome, Lucius has gathered an army of Goths and Roman supporters of Titus. It turns out that the Roman people hate their current emperor. Lucius delivers a rousing speech to the Goths - now's their chance to pay back Rome for everything she ever did to them! A Goth announces that they're ready to rumble. Then another Goth shows up with Aaron and his baby. Apparently this Goth warrior was off sightseeing some Roman ruins when he heard a baby crying and a man telling the kid to pipe down. Lucius orders Aaron and his \"fruit of bastardy\" to be hanged in a tree. Aaron promises to reveal some juicy information if Lucius promises not to kill his child. Lucius agrees, sort of. Aaron reveals that Chiron and Demetrius raped and mutilated Lavinia and confesses that it was all his idea. He also admits that he tricked Titus into cutting off his hand and, when he told Tamora what he had done, the couple celebrated Aaron's mischief by making out. Before Lucius orders his men to stop up Aaron's mouth, Aaron makes a startling declaration: Aemilius enters with a message from Saturninus: the emperor wants to meet at Titus's house to work out a peace treaty. Lucius agrees to go."}, {"": "167", "document": "The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for\nthe appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed\ninterminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious\nassault on the breakfast.\n\n'Bolter,' said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite\nMorris Bolter.\n\n'Well, here I am,' returned Noah.  'What's the matter?  Don't yer ask\nme to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this\nplace.  Yer never get time enough over yer meals.'\n\n'You can talk as you eat, can't you?' said Fagin, cursing his dear\nyoung friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart.\n\n'Oh yes, I can talk.  I get on better when I talk,' said Noah, cutting\na monstrous slice of bread.  'Where's Charlotte?'\n\n'Out,' said Fagin.  'I sent her out this morning with the other young\nwoman, because I wanted us to be alone.'\n\n'Oh!' said Noah.  'I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast\nfirst.  Well.  Talk away.  Yer won't interrupt me.'\n\nThere seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he\nhad evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of\nbusiness.\n\n'You did well yesterday, my dear,' said Fagin.  'Beautiful!  Six\nshillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day!  The kinchin\nlay will be a fortune to you.'\n\n'Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,' said Mr.\nBolter.\n\n'No, no, my dear.  The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the\nmilk-can was a perfect masterpiece.'\n\n'Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,' remarked Mr. Bolter\ncomplacently.  'The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was\nstanding by itself outside a public-house.  I thought it might get\nrusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know.  Eh?  Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nFagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his\nlaugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk\nof bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second.\n\n'I want you, Bolter,' said Fagin, leaning over the table, 'to do a\npiece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.'\n\n'I say,' rejoined Bolter, 'don't yer go shoving me into danger, or\nsending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that\ndon't; and so I tell yer.'\n\n'That's not the smallest danger in it--not the very smallest,' said the\nJew; 'it's only to dodge a woman.'\n\n'An old woman?' demanded Mr. Bolter.\n\n'A young one,' replied Fagin.\n\n'I can do that pretty well, I know,' said Bolter.  'I was a regular\ncunning sneak when I was at school.  What am I to dodge her for?  Not\nto--'\n\n'Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and,\nif possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street,\nor the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the\ninformation you can.'\n\n'What'll yer give me?' asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking\nhis employer, eagerly, in the face.\n\n'If you do it well, a pound, my dear.  One pound,' said Fagin, wishing\nto interest him in the scent as much as possible.  'And that's what I\nnever gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable\nconsideration to be gained.'\n\n'Who is she?' inquired Noah.\n\n'One of us.'\n\n'Oh Lor!' cried Noah, curling up his nose.  'Yer doubtful of her, are\nyer?'\n\n'She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they\nare,' replied Fagin.\n\n'I see,' said Noah.  'Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if\nthey're respectable people, eh?  Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man.'\n\n'I knew you would be,' cried Fagin, elated by the success of his\nproposal.\n\n'Of course, of course,' replied Noah.  'Where is she? Where am I to\nwait for her?  Where am I to go?'\n\n'All that, my dear, you shall hear from me.  I'll point her out at the\nproper time,' said Fagin.  'You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.'\n\nThat night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and\nequipped in his carter's dress:  ready to turn out at a word from\nFagin.  Six nights passed--six long weary nights--and on each, Fagin\ncame home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was\nnot yet time.  On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an\nexultation he could not conceal.  It was Sunday.\n\n'She goes abroad to-night,' said Fagin, 'and on the right errand, I'm\nsure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will\nnot be back much before daybreak.  Come with me. Quick!'\n\nNoah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of\nsuch intense excitement that it infected him.  They left the house\nstealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at\nlength before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in\nwhich he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London.\n\nIt was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed.  It opened softly\non its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise;\nand the door was closed behind them.\n\nScarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words,\nFagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of\nglass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in\nthe adjoining room.\n\n'Is that the woman?' he asked, scarcely above his breath.\n\nFagin nodded yes.\n\n'I can't see her face well,' whispered Noah.  'She is looking down, and\nthe candle is behind her.\n\n'Stay there,' whispered Fagin.  He signed to Barney, who withdrew.  In\nan instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of\nsnuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking\nto the girl, caused her to raise her face.\n\n'I see her now,' cried the spy.\n\n'Plainly?'\n\n'I should know her among a thousand.'\n\nHe hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out.\nFagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and\nthey held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place\nof concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.\n\n'Hist!' cried the lad who held the door.  'Dow.'\n\nNoah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.\n\n'To the left,' whispered the lad; 'take the left had, and keep od the\nother side.'\n\nHe did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl's retreating\nfigure, already at some distance before him.  He advanced as near as he\nconsidered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the\nbetter to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or\nthrice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close behind\nher, pass on.  She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to\nwalk with a steadier and firmer step.  The spy preserved the same\nrelative distance between them, and followed:  with his eye upon her.\n\n\n", "summary": "Fagin informs Noah that he wants him to spy on Nancy for him. He wants to know everywhere she goes, and whom she is with. Noah agrees and waits for the time when Fagin wants him to go. The time is the next Sunday evening, and Fagin takes him and shows him Nancy. She leaves and Noah begins to follow her"}, {"": "168", "document": "SCENE 2.\n\nA street in Windsor.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.]\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nNay, keep your way, little gallant: you were wont to be a follower,\nbut now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes,\nor eye your master's heels?\n\nROBIN.\nI had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him\nlike a dwarf.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nO! you are a flattering boy: now I see you'll be a courtier.\n\n[Enter FORD.]\n\nFORD.\nWell met, Mistress Page. Whither go you?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nTruly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home?\n\nFORD.\nAy; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company.\nI think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nBe sure of that--two other husbands.\n\nFORD.\nWhere had you this pretty weathercock?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nI cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of.\nWhat do you call your knight's name, sirrah?\n\nROBIN.\nSir John Falstaff.\n\nFORD.\nSir John Falstaff!\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nHe, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a league between\nmy good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed?\n\nFORD.\nIndeed she is.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nBy your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her.\n\n[Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ROBIN.]\n\nFORD.\nHas Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure,\nthey sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a\nletter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank\ntwelve score. He pieces out his wife's inclination; he gives\nher folly motion and advantage; and now she's going to my wife,\nand Falstaff's boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in\nthe wind: and Falstaff's boy with her! Good plots! They are laid;\nand our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take\nhim, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from\nthe so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure\nand wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my\nneighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes] The clock gives me my\ncue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff.\nI shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as\npositive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go.\n\n[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, HOST, SIR HUGH EVANS,\nCAIUS, and RUGBY.]\n\nSHALLOW, PAGE, &c. \nWell met, Master Ford.\n\nFORD.\nTrust me, a good knot; I have good cheer at home, and I pray you\nall go with me.\n\nSHALLOW.\nI must excuse myself, Master Ford.\n\nSLENDER.\nAnd so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne,\nand I would not break with her for more money than I'll speak of.\n\nSHALLOW.\nWe have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin\nSlender, and this day we shall have our answer.\n\nSLENDER.\nI hope I have your good will, father Page.\n\nPAGE.\nYou have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you. But my wife,\nMaster doctor, is for you altogether.\n\nCAIUS.\nAy, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a Quickly tell me\nso mush.\n\nHOST.\nWhat say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has\neyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April\nand May; he will carry 't, he will carry 't; 'tis in his buttons;\nhe will carry 't.\n\nPAGE.\nNot by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having:\nhe kept company with the wild Prince and Pointz; he is of too high\na region, he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his\nfortunes with the finger of my substance; if he take her, let him\ntake her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my\nconsent goes not that way.\n\nFORD.\nI beseech you, heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner:\nbesides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster.\nMaster Doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you,\nSir Hugh.\n\nSHALLOW.\nWell, fare you well; we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page's.\n\n[Exeunt SHALLOW and SLENDER.]\n\nCAIUS.\nGo home, John Rugby; I come anon.\n\n[Exit RUGBY.]\n\nHOST.\nFarewell, my hearts; I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink\ncanary with him.\n\n[Exit HOST.]\n\nFORD.\n[Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him. I'll\nmake him dance. Will you go, gentles?\n\nALL.\nHave with you to see this monster.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "On a street in Windsor, Falstaff's boy servant follows Mistress Page around like a little puppy. They're on their way to see Mistress Ford when they bump into Mistress Ford's jealous, insecure husband. Master Ford makes a snide crack about his wife's friendship with Mistress Page, saying he thinks that they'd marry each other if their husbands were dead. Mistress Page quips back that, sure, they'd get remarried all right...to \"two other husbands.\" Oh, snap! Ford asks who Robin works for and Mistress Page pretends not to remember the guy's name. Now Ford is totally convinced that Falstaff is sleeping with Mistress Page and Mistress Ford--which is probably just the reaction Mistress Page wanted when she denied knowing Falstaff's name. After Mistress Page and Robin leave, Ford delivers another nasty soliloquy about how he plans to catch Falstaff with his wife so he can \"torture\" her, make Mistress Page look like a bimbo, and show everyone that Master Page is a chump. He tells us he's going to run home so he can catch Falstaff and his wife together. Then Page, Shallow, Slender, the Host, Evans, John Rugby, and Caius show up. Great! Now Ford will have an audience when he confronts his wife. He invites the guys back to his house and promises them a good time. Slender and Shallow can't make it. They're on their way to the Page house to have dinner with Anne. Slender's hoping to win her over with his best moves. Yeah, good luck with that. Page tells everyone that he wants his daughter to marry Slender, but her mom wants her to get hitched to Doctor Caius. What does Anne want? Ha! That's apparently the last question on anyone's mind. The Host chimes in that Fenton seems like a good candidate--he's young, likes to dance, writes poetry, always smells good, and knows how to talk to girls. Page is all \"ABSOLUTELY NOT!\" Apparently, Master Fenton is broke. Plus, he's an aristocrat and Page doesn't want his daughter marrying someone outside her social class. Page says that Fenton just wants Anne for her money and points out that he used to hang out with hoodlums like the Prince of Wales and a loser named Poins. Brain Snack: This is a shout-out to Henry IV Part 1, where wild Prince Hal and his low-life pals raised hell all throughout Eastcheap London. Even though Fenton never appeared in Henry IV Part 1, we get Shakespeare's point--the guy used to be a spoiled, wild child. Ford convinces Page, Caius, and Evans to go home with him for some \"cheer\" and \"sport\" . Let the good times roll!"}, {"": "169", "document": "\n\nDuring the first years of my service in Dr. Flint's family, I was\naccustomed to share some indulgences with the children of my mistress.\nThough this seemed to me no more than right, I was grateful for it, and\ntried to merit the kindness by the faithful discharge of my duties. But I\nnow entered on my fifteenth year--a sad epoch in the life of a slave girl.\nMy master began to whisper foul words in my ear. Young as I was, I could\nnot remain ignorant of their import. I tried to treat them with\nindifference or contempt. The master's age, my extreme youth, and the fear\nthat his conduct would be reported to my grandmother, made him bear this\ntreatment for many months. He was a crafty man, and resorted to many means\nto accomplish his purposes. Sometimes he had stormy, terrific ways, that\nmade his victims tremble; sometimes he assumed a gentleness that he thought\nmust surely subdue. Of the two, I preferred his stormy moods, although they\nleft me trembling. He tried his utmost to corrupt the pure principles my\ngrandmother had instilled. He peopled my young mind with unclean images,\nsuch as only a vile monster could think of. I turned from him with disgust\nand hatred. But he was my master. I was compelled to live under the same\nroof with him--where I saw a man forty years my senior daily violating the\nmost sacred commandments of nature. He told me I was his property; that I\nmust be subject to his will in all things. My soul revolted against the\nmean tyranny. But where could I turn for protection? No matter whether the\nslave girl be as black as ebony or as fair as her mistress. In either case,\nthere is no shadow of law to protect her from insult, from violence, or\neven from death; all these are inflicted by fiends who bear the shape of\nmen. The mistress, who ought to protect the helpless victim, has no other\nfeelings towards her but those of jealousy and rage. The degradation, the\nwrongs, the vices, that grow out of slavery, are more than I can describe.\nThey are greater than you would willingly believe. Surely, if you credited\none half the truths that are told you concerning the helpless millions\nsuffering in this cruel bondage, you at the north would not help to tighten\nthe yoke. You surely would refuse to do for the master, on your own soil,\nthe mean and cruel work which trained bloodhounds and the lowest class of\nwhites do for him at the south.\n\nEvery where the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery\nthe very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows. Even the little child,\nwho is accustomed to wait on her mistress and her children, will learn,\nbefore she is twelve years old, why it is that her mistress hates such and\nsuch a one among the slaves. Perhaps the child's own mother is among those\nhated ones. She listens to violent outbreaks of jealous passion, and cannot\nhelp understanding what is the cause. She will become prematurely knowing\nin evil things. Soon she will learn to tremble when she hears her master's\nfootfall. She will be compelled to realize that she is no longer a child.\nIf God has bestowed beauty upon her, it will prove her greatest curse. That\nwhich commands admiration in the white woman only hastens the degradation\nof the female slave. I know that some are too much brutalized by slavery to\nfeel the humiliation of their position; but many slaves feel it most\nacutely, and shrink from the memory of it. I cannot tell how much I\nsuffered in the presence of these wrongs, nor how I am still pained by the\nretrospect. My master met me at every turn, reminding me that I belonged to\nhim, and swearing by heaven and earth that he would compel me to submit to\nhim. If I went out for a breath of fresh air, after a day of unwearied\ntoil, his footsteps dogged me. If I knelt by my mother's grave, his dark\nshadow fell on me even there. The light heart which nature had given me\nbecame heavy with sad forebodings. The other slaves in my master's house\nnoticed the change. Many of them pitied me; but none dared to ask the\ncause. They had no need to inquire. They knew too well the guilty practices\nunder that roof; and they were aware that to speak of them was an offence\nthat never went unpunished.\n\nI longed for some one to confide in. I would have given the world to have\nlaid my head on my grandmother's faithful bosom, and told her all my\ntroubles. But Dr. Flint swore he would kill me, if I was not as silent as\nthe grave. Then, although my grandmother was all in all to me, I feared her\nas well as loved her. I had been accustomed to look up to her with a\nrespect bordering upon awe. I was very young, and felt shamefaced about\ntelling her such impure things, especially as I knew her to be very strict\non such subjects. Moreover, she was a woman of a high spirit. She was\nusually very quiet in her demeanor; but if her indignation was once\nroused, it was not very easily quelled. I had been told that she once\nchased a white gentleman with a loaded pistol, because he insulted one\nof her daughters. I dreaded the consequences of a violent outbreak;\nand both pride and fear kept me silent. But though I did not confide\nin my grandmother, and even evaded her vigilant watchfulness and inquiry,\nher presence in the neighborhood was some protection to me. Though she\nhad been a slave, Dr. Flint was afraid of her. He dreaded her scorching\nrebukes. Moreover, she was known and patronized by many people; and he\ndid not wish to have his villany made public. It was lucky for me that\nI did not live on a distant plantation, but in a town not so large that\nthe inhabitants were ignorant of each other's affairs. Bad as are the\nlaws and customs in a slaveholding community, the doctor, as a\nprofessional man, deemed it prudent to keep up some outward show of\ndecency.\n\nO, what days and nights of fear and sorrow that man caused me! Reader, it\nis not to awaken sympathy for myself that I am telling you truthfully what\nI suffered in slavery. I do it to kindle a flame of compassion in your\nhearts for my sisters who are still in bondage, suffering as I once\nsuffered.\n\nI once saw two beautiful children playing together. One was a fair white\nchild; the other was her slave, and also her sister. When I saw them\nembracing each other, and heard their joyous laughter, I turned sadly away\nfrom the lovely sight. I foresaw the inevitable blight that would fall on\nthe little slave's heart. I knew how soon her laughter would be changed to\nsighs. The fair child grew up to be a still fairer woman. From childhood to\nwomanhood her pathway was blooming with flowers, and overarched by a sunny\nsky. Scarcely one day of her life had been clouded when the sun rose on her\nhappy bridal morning.\n\nHow had those years dealt with her slave sister, the little playmate of her\nchildhood? She, also, was very beautiful; but the flowers and sunshine of\nlove were not for her. She drank the cup of sin, and shame, and misery,\nwhereof her persecuted race are compelled to drink.\n\nIn view of these things, why are ye silent, ye free men and women of the\nnorth? Why do your tongues falter in maintenance of the right? Would that I\nhad more ability! But my heart is so full, and my pen is so weak! There are\nnoble men and women who plead for us, striving to help those who cannot\nhelp themselves. God bless them! God give them strength and courage to go\non! God bless those, every where, who are laboring to advance the cause of\nhumanity!\n\n\n", "summary": "New year, new troubles. Now that Linda is fifteen, Mr. Flint is getting ideas. He whispers dirty suggestions in her ear and threatens to kill her if she tells anyone. It's the end of innocence. Here's a little anecdote to illustrate how different Linda's life is from that of a white teenager: She once saw two young girls playing together, one a free white child and the other a black slave. The girls seem like BFFs right now, but not for long. The white child will grow up free and protected, while the slave girl will only know sin and misery. Linda asks a pointed question: knowing all this, why are Northern men and women so silent on the question of slavery?"}, {"": "170", "document": "ACT II. SCENE 1.\n\nBefore PAGE'S house\n\n[Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter.]\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhat! have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty,\nand am I now a subject for them? Let me see.\n\n  'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason\n   for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You\n   are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there's sympathy:\n   you are merry, so am I; ha! ha! then there's more sympathy;\n   you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy?\n   Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love\n   of soldier can suffice, that I love thee. I will not say,\n   pity me: 'tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, Love me.\n   By me,\n      Thine own true knight,\n      By day or night,\n      Or any kind of light,\n      With all his might,\n      For thee to fight,\n                                   JOHN FALSTAFF.'\n\nWhat a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is\nwell-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant.\nWhat an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked, with\nthe devil's name! out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner\nassay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I\nsay to him? I was then frugal of my mirth:--Heaven forgive me! Why,\nI'll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men.\nHow shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as\nhis guts are made of puddings.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS FORD.]\n\nMRS. FORD.\nMistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nAnd, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nNay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nFaith, but you do, in my mind.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWell, I do, then; yet, I say, I could show you to the contrary.\nO, Mistress Page! give me some counsel.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhat's the matter, woman?\n\nMRS. FORD.\nO woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to\nsuch honour!\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nHang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it?--Dispense with\ntrifles;--what is it?\n\nMRS. FORD.\nIf I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be\nknighted.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhat? thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so\nthou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWe burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted.\nI shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make\ndifference of men's liking: and yet he would not swear; praised\nwomen's modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to\nall uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have\ngone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep\nplace together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of 'Greensleeves.'\nWhat tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in\nhis belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think\nthe best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of\nlust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nLetter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs. To thy\ngreat comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother\nof thy letter; but let thine inherit first, for, I protest, mine never\nshall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank\nspace for different names, sure, more, and these are of the second\nedition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he\nputs into the press, when he would put us two: I had rather be a\ngiantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty\nlascivious turtles ere one chaste man.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nWhy, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth\nhe think of us?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nNay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own\nhonesty. I'll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted\nwithal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not\nmyself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.\n\nMRS. FORD.\n'Boarding' call you it? I'll be sure to keep him above deck.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nSo will I; if he come under my hatches, I'll never to sea again.\nLet's be revenged on him; let's appoint him a meeting, give him a\nshow of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited\ndelay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nNay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not\nsully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this\nletter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhy, look where he comes; and my good man too: he's as far from\njealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an\nunmeasurable distance.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nYou are the happier woman.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nLet's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither.\n\n[They retire.]\n\n[Enter FORD, PISTOL, and PAGE and NYM.]\n\nFORD.\nWell, I hope it be not so.\n\nPISTOL.\nHope is a curtal dog in some affairs:\nSir John affects thy wife.\n\nFORD.\nWhy, sir, my wife is not young.\n\nPISTOL.\nHe woos both high and low, both rich and poor,\nBoth young and old, one with another, Ford;\nHe loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend.\n\nFORD.\nLove my wife!\n\nPISTOL.\nWith liver burning hot: prevent, or go thou,\nLike Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels.--\nO! odious is the name!\n\nFORD.\nWhat name, sir?\n\nPISTOL.\nThe horn, I say. Farewell:\nTake heed; have open eye, for thieves do foot by night;\nTake heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing.\nAway, Sir Corporal Nym.\nBelieve it, Page; he speaks sense.\n\n[Exit PISTOL.]\n\nFORD.\n[Aside] I will be patient: I will find out this.\n\nNYM.\n[To PAGE] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath\nwronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter\nto her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He\nloves your wife; there's the short and the long. My name is Corporal\nNym; I speak, and I avouch 'tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff\nloves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese;\nand there's the humour of it. Adieu.\n\n[Exit NYM.]\n\nPAGE.\n[Aside.] 'The humour of it,' quoth 'a! Here's a fellow frights\nEnglish out of his wits.\n\nFORD.\nI will seek out Falstaff.\n\nPAGE.\nI never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue.\n\nFORD.\nIf I do find it: well.\n\nPAGE.\nI will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o' the town\ncommended him for a true man.\n\nFORD.\n'Twas a good sensible fellow: well.\n\nPAGE.\nHow now, Meg!\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWhither go you, George?--Hark you.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nHow now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?\n\nFORD.\nI melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nFaith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go,\nMistress Page?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nHave with you. You'll come to dinner, George?\n[Aside to MRS. FORD] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our\nmessenger to this paltry knight.\n\nMRS. FORD.\n[Aside to MRS. PAGE] Trust me, I thought on her: she'll fit it.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nYou are come to see my daughter Anne?\n\nQUICKLY.\nAy, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nGo in with us and see; we'd have an hour's talk with you.\n\n[Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.]\n\nPAGE.\nHow now, Master Ford!\n\nFORD.\nYou heard what this knave told me, did you not?\n\nPAGE.\nYes; and you heard what the other told me?\n\nFORD.\nDo you think there is truth in them?\n\nPAGE.\nHang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it; but these\nthat accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his\ndiscarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service.\n\nFORD.\nWere they his men?\n\nPAGE.\nMarry, were they.\n\nFORD.\nI like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter?\n\nPAGE.\nAy, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife,\nI would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than\nsharp words, let it lie on my head.\n\nFORD.\nI do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together.\nA man may be too confident. I would have nothing 'lie on my head': I\ncannot be thus satisfied.\n\nPAGE.\nLook where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either\nliquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily. \n\n[Enter HOST and SHALLOW.]\n\nHow now, mine host!\n\nHOST.\nHow now, bully-rook! Thou'rt a gentleman. Cavaliero-justice, I say!\n\nSHALLOW.\nI follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master\nPage! Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand.\n\nHOST.\nTell him, cavaliero-justice; tell him, bully-rook.\n\nSHALLOW.\nSir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest\nand Caius the French doctor.\n\nFORD.\nGood mine host o' the Garter, a word with you.\n\nHOST.\nWhat say'st thou, my bully-rook?\n\n[They go aside.]\n\nSHALLOW.\n[To PAGE.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had\nthe measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them\ncontrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester.\nHark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [They converse apart.]\n\nHOST.\nHast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaliero?\n\nFORD.\nNone, I protest: but I'll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me\nrecourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest.\n\nHOST.\nMy hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress; said I well? and\nthy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, mynheers?\n\nSHALLOW.\nHave with you, mine host.\n\nPAGE.\nI have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.\n\nSHALLOW.\nTut, sir! I could have told you more. In these times you stand on\ndistance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what: 'tis the\nheart, Master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the time with\nmy long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.\n\nHOST.\nHere, boys, here, here! Shall we wag?\n\nPAGE.\nHave with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight.\n\n[Exeunt HOST, SHALLOW, and PAGE.]\n\nFORD.\nThough Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's\nfrailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his\ncompany at Page's house, and what they made there I know not. Well,\nI will look further into 't; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff.\nIf I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise,\n'tis labour well bestowed.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mistress Page reads her letter from Falstaff aloud, quoting sections where he declares that their affinity must lie in their equally advanced age, sense of merriment, and love of wine. She's astonished that such a fat old knight would try to play the young gallant, considering he barely knows her. She wonders how she can exact revenge on him. Mistress Ford enters with her own letter from Falstaff. They exchange letters and discover that he wrote the same letter to each. They think he must write the same letter to every woman, and they discuss revenge. Mistress Page suggests they lead him on until he has to pawn his horses to raise money to court them. Mistress Ford agrees, so long as they don't engage in any villainy that will sully their honor. She notes that it's good that her husband didn't see the letter, for his already-large jealousy would have been exacerbated. Ford and Page enter with Pistol and Nim, so the women withdraw to discuss their plans. Pistol announces to Ford and Nim to Page that Falstaff is after their wives. Nim says that they have tired of Falstaff's lying, and, since he has wronged them in the past, they have decided to turn against him. Pistol and Nim depart, leaving Ford and Page to rage against Falstaff. Mistresses Ford and Page approach their husbands and speak with them. Mistress Quickly enters; the ladies realize that Quickly can be their messenger to Falstaff. They ask if she has come to speak to Anne, and all go inside together. Page and Ford speak of what they have heard from Pistol and Nim. They wonder if it's true. Page doubts that it's true, but he would let his wife go to Falstaff if he meant to seduce her honestly, while Ford insists that he doesn't mistrust his wife, but he wouldn't want her to be anywhere near Falstaff. The Host of the Garter enters. Shallow follows, and he invites them all to see the fight between Evans and Caius, which is about to take place. Ford takes the Host aside. He tells the Host that he isn't angry at Falstaff, but that he wants to have access to him under a false name. He offers money if the Host will introduce him under the name of Brooke. The Host agrees. Meanwhile, the others discuss the fight and depart. Alone, Ford calls Page a fool for trusting his wife, which he cannot do. With his new disguise, he can find out from Falstaff how far he's gotten with Mistress Ford, or whether she's innocent."}, {"": "171", "document": "\n\nThe hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think\nand be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow\nof every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every\nthing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst\nof all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or\nother; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and\nshe would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in\nerror--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the\neffects of her blunders have been confined to herself.\n\n\"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have\nborne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor\nHarriet!\"\n\nHow she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never\nthought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as\nshe could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she\nsupposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must\nhave been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so\nmisled.\n\nThe picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the\ncharade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had\nseemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its \"ready\nwit\"--but then the \"soft eyes\"--in fact it suited neither; it was\na jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such\nthick-headed nonsense?\n\nCertainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to\nherself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere\nerror of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others\nthat he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the\ngentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,\ntill this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean\nany thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.\n\nTo Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the\nsubject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying\nthat those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley\nhad once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given,\nthe conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry\nindiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his\ncharacter had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It\nwas dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many\nrespects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;\nproud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little\nconcerned about the feelings of others.\n\nContrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his\naddresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his\nproposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment,\nand was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the\narrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was\nperfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be\ncared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or\nmanners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could\nhardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less\nallied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He\nonly wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse\nof Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so\neasily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody\nelse with twenty, or with ten.\n\nBut--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware\nof his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry\nhim!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down\nupon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below\nhim, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no\npresumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking.\n\nPerhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her\ninferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of\nsuch equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that\nin fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must\nknow that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at\nHartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the\nEltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was\ninconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,\nto which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from\nother sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell\nAbbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had\nlong held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which\nMr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he\ncould, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him\nto notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her\nin love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and\nafter raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners\nand a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop\nand admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and\nobliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real\nmotive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and\ndelicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.\nIf _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to\nwonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken\nhers.\n\nThe first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was\nwrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It\nwas adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what\nought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite\nconcerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.\n\n\"Here have I,\" said she, \"actually talked poor Harriet into being very\nmuch attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for\nme; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had\nnot assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I\nused to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not\nto accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done\nof me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and\nchance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the\nopportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have\nattempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.\nI have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this\ndisappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body\nelse who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I\ncould not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer.\"\n\nShe stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more\nserious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be,\nand must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and\nall that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of\nfuture meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the\nacquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding\neclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some\ntime longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the\nconviction of her having blundered most dreadfully.\n\nTo youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary\ngloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of\nspirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,\nand of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough\nto keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of\nsoftened pain and brighter hope.\n\nEmma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone\nto bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to\ndepend on getting tolerably out of it.\n\nIt was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in\nlove with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to\ndisappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior\nsort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there\ncould be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the\nthree principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's\nuneasiness about it.\n\nThese were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow\non the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that\nmight justify their all three being quite asunder at present.\n\nThe weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she\ncould not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his\ndaughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting\nor receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered\nwith snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and\nthaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every\nmorning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to\nfreeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse\nwith Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any\nmore than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's\nabsenting himself.\n\nIt was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though\nshe hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society\nor other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with\nhis being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to\nhear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from\nthem,--\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?\"\n\nThese days of confinement would have been, but for her private\nperplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited\nher brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to\nhis companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his\nill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the\nrest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging,\nand speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of\ncheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such\nan evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as\nmade it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.\n\n\n", "summary": "That night when she is finally alone, all Emma can think about is what had happened with Mr. Elton. She is worried about what her blunders will mean for her friend Harriet. She wonders at how John Knightley noticed Elton's attentions to her when she did not, and how right Mr. Knightley was about Mr. Elton, thinking that the brothers had both warned her. She is convinced of Mr. Elton's arrogance at thinking he could marry her when she was so much his superior, and that his language and manners did not lead her to believe that he was really in love with her. After thinking more about it, she realizes that her attentions to Mr. Elton could be misconstrued, especially since he was looking for encouragement. She realizes that it is foolish of her to meddle in people's lives like this, and resolves not to do it again. She starts to think of whom else could be suitable for Harriet, and then stops herself, realizing her relapse. In the morning Emma feels better, and she is happy to see that there is much snow on the ground, which will hinder any visiting. For days they have to stay at Hartfield, and the evil hanging over Emma of having to tell Harriet what has happened stays with her"}, {"": "172", "document": "\n\nA very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one\nmorning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down\nand hesitating, thus began:\n\n\"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should\nlike to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it\nwill be over.\"\n\nEmma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a\nseriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her\nwords, for something more than ordinary.\n\n\"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,\" she continued, \"to have\nno reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered\ncreature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have\nthe satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is\nnecessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and\nI dare say you understand me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Emma, \"I hope I do.\"\n\n\"How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...\" cried Harriet,\nwarmly. \"It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary\nin him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the\ntwo I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round\nto avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire\nher nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and\nall that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall\nnever forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss\nWoodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together,\nit will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I\nhave been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to\nhave destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that\nvery well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it\nall--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you\nmay see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel\nholds?\" said she, with a conscious look.\n\n\"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?\"\n\n\"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued\nvery much.\"\n\nShe held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_\n_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.\nHarriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within\nabundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box,\nwhich Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,\nexcepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.\n\n\"Now,\" said Harriet, \"you _must_ recollect.\"\n\n\"No, indeed I do not.\"\n\n\"Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what\npassed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last\ntimes we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my\nsore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the\nvery evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new\npenknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none\nabout you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took\nmine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he\ncut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he\ngave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making\na treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now\nand then as a great treat.\"\n\n\"My dearest Harriet!\" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,\nand jumping up, \"you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.\nRemember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this\nrelic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the\nfinger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none\nabout me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my\npocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual\nblush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what\nelse?\"\n\n\"And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected\nit, you did it so naturally.\"\n\n\"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!\"\nsaid Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided\nbetween wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, \"Lord\nbless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a\npiece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I\nnever was equal to this.\"\n\n\"Here,\" resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, \"here is something\nstill more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because\nthis is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister\nnever did.\"\n\nEmma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an\nold pencil,--the part without any lead.\n\n\"This was really his,\" said Harriet.--\"Do not you remember one\nmorning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly\nthe day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_\n_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was\nabout spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about\nbrewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out\nhis pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and\nit would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the\ntable as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I\ndared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.\"\n\n\"I do remember it,\" cried Emma; \"I perfectly remember it.--Talking\nabout spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we\nliked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I\nperfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was\nnot he? I have an idea he was standing just here.\"\n\n\"Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot\nrecollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I\nam now.\"--\n\n\"Well, go on.\"\n\n\"Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that\nI am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see\nme do it.\"\n\n\"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in\ntreasuring up these things?\"\n\n\"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I\ncould forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you\nknow, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but\nhad not resolution enough to part with them.\"\n\n\"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not\na word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be\nuseful.\"\n\n\"I shall be happier to burn it,\" replied Harriet. \"It has a disagreeable\nlook to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is\nan end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.\"\n\n\"And when,\" thought Emma, \"will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?\"\n\nShe had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already\nmade, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no\nfortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight\nafter the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite\nundesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the\ninformation she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course\nof some trivial chat, \"Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise\nyou to do so and so\"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's\nsilence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, \"I shall never\nmarry.\"\n\nEmma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a\nmoment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,\n\n\"Never marry!--This is a new resolution.\"\n\n\"It is one that I shall never change, however.\"\n\nAfter another short hesitation, \"I hope it does not proceed from--I hope\nit is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?\"\n\n\"Mr. Elton indeed!\" cried Harriet indignantly.--\"Oh! no\"--and Emma could\njust catch the words, \"so superior to Mr. Elton!\"\n\nShe then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no\nfarther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps\nHarriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were\ntotally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too\nmuch; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such\nan open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly\nresolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at\nonce, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always\nbest. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any\napplication of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the\njudicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided,\nand thus spoke--\n\n\"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your\nresolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from\nan idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your\nsuperior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose--\nIndeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a\ndistance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of\nthe world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so\nproper, in me especially.\"\n\n\"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you\nwas enough to warm your heart.\"\n\n\"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very\nrecollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him\ncoming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In\none moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!\"\n\n\"It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes,\nhonourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that\nit will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not\nadvise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage\nfor its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be\nwisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not\nlet them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be\nobservant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I\ngive you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on\nthe subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I\nknow nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very\nwrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt,\nand there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but\nyet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been\nmatches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not\nhave you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your\nraising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall\nalways know how to value.\"\n\nHarriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was\nvery decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend.\nIts tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be\nsaving her from the danger of degradation.\n\n\n", "summary": "Harriet visits Emma several days later to make a confession. She has a parcel with items that remindher of Mr. Elton, including a small box with a court plaster that was used to cover a small cut that Mr. Elton had. Harriet claims that she is now done obsessing over Mr. Elton and vows never to marry, for the person she prefers is too great her superior. Emma gives Harriet some hope that she might be able to marry this unnamed man."}, {"": "173", "document": "Cyrano, Ragueneau, poets, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, a crowd, then\nDe Guiche.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Can we come in?\n\nCYRANO (without stirring):\n  Yes. . .\n\n(Ragueneau signs to his friends, and they come in.  At the same time, by door\nat back, enters Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, in Captain's uniform.  He makes\ngestures of surprise on seeing Cyrano.)\n\nCARBON:\n  Here he is!\n\nCYRANO (raising his head):\n  Captain!. . .\n\nCARBON (delightedly):\n  Our hero!  We heard all!  Thirty or more\n  Of my cadets are there!. . .\n\nCYRANO (shrinking back):\n  But. . .\n\nCARBON (trying to draw him away):\n  Come with me!\n  They will not rest until they see you!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No!\n\nCARBON:\n  They're drinking opposite, at The Bear's Head.\n\nCYRANO:\n  I. . .\n\nCARBON (going to the door and calling across the street in a voice of\nthunder):\n  He won't come!  The hero's in the sulks!\n\nA VOICE (outside):\n  Ah!  Sandious!\n\n(Tumult outside.  Noise of boots and swords is heard approaching.)\n\nCARBON (rubbing his hands):\n  They are running 'cross the street!\n\nCADETS (entering):\n  Mille dious!  Capdedious!  Pocapdedious!\n\nRAGUENEAU (drawing back startled):\n  Gentlemen, are you all from Gascony?\n\nTHE CADETS:\n  All!\n\nA CADET (to Cyrano):\n  Bravo!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Baron!\n\nANOTHER (shaking his hands):\n  Vivat!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Baron!\n\nTHIRD CADET:\n  Come!\n  I must embrace you!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Baron!\n\nSEVERAL GASCONS:\n  We'll embrace\n  Him, all in turn!\n\nCYRANO (not knowing whom to reply to):\n  Baron!. . .Baron!. . .I beg. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Are you all Barons, Sirs?\n\nTHE CADETS:\n  Ay, every one!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Is it true?. . .\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  Ay--why, you could build a tower\n  With nothing but our coronets, my friend!\n\nLE BRET (entering, and running up to Cyrano):\n  They're looking for you!  Here's a crazy mob\n  Led by the men who followed you last night. . .\n\nCYRANO (alarmed):\n  What!  Have you told them where to find me?\n\nLE BRET (rubbing his hands):\n  Yes!\n\nA BURGHER (entering, followed by a group of men):\n  Sir, all the Marais is a-coming here!\n\n(Outside the street has filled with people.  Chaises a porteurs and carriages\nhave drawn up.)\n\nLE BRET (in a low voice, smiling, to Cyrano):\n  And Roxane?\n\nCYRANO (quickly):\n  Hush!\n\nTHE CROWD (calling outside):\n  Cyrano!. . .\n\n(A crowd rush into the shop, pushing one another.  Acclamations.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (standing on a table):\n  Lo! my shop\n  Invaded!  They break all!  Magnificent!\n\nPEOPLE (crowding round Cyrano):\n  My friend!. . .my friend. . .\n\nCyrano:\n  Meseems that yesterday\n  I had not all these friends!\n\nLE BRET (delighted):\n  Success!\n\nA YOUNG MARQUIS (hurrying up with his hands held out):\n  My friend,\n  Didst thou but know. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Thou!. . .Marry!. . .thou!. . .Pray when\n  Did we herd swine together, you and I!\n\nANOTHER:\n  I would present you, Sir, to some fair dames\n  Who in my carriage yonder. . .\n\nCYRANO (coldly):\n  Ah! and who\n  Will first present you, Sir, to me?\n\nLE BRET (astonished):\n  What's wrong?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Hush!\n\nA MAN OF LETTERS (with writing-board):\n  A few details?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  No.\n\nLE BRET (nudging his elbow):\n  'Tis Theophrast,\n  Renaudet,. . .of the 'Court Gazette'!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Who cares?\n\nLE BRET:\n  This paper--but it is of great importance!. . .\n  They say it will be an immense success!\n\nA POET (advancing):\n  Sir. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  What, another!\n\nTHE POET:\n  . . .Pray permit I make\n  A pentacrostic on your name. . .\n\nSOME ONE (also advancing):\n  Pray, Sir. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Enough!  Enough!\n\n(A movement in the crowd.  De Guiche appears, escorted by officers.  Cuigy,\nBrissaille, the officers who went with Cyrano the night before.  Cuigy comes\nrapidly up to Cyrano.)\n\nCUIGY (to Cyrano):\n  Here is Monsieur de Guiche?\n(A murmur--every one makes way):\n  He comes from the Marshal of Gassion!\n\nDE GUICHE (bowing to Cyrano):\n  . . .Who would express his admiration, Sir,\n  For your new exploit noised so loud abroad.\n\nTHE CROWD:\n  Bravo!\n\nCYRANO (bowing):\n  The Marshal is a judge of valor.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  He could not have believed the thing, unless\n  These gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it.\n\nCUIGY:\n  With our own eyes!\n\nLE BRET (aside to Cyrano, who has an absent air):\n  But. . .you. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Hush!\n\nLE BRET:\n  But. . .You suffer?\n\nCYRANO (starting):\n  Before this rabble?--I?. . .\n(He draws himself up, twirls his mustache, and throws back his shoulders):\n  Wait!. . .You shall see!\n\nDE GUICHE (to whom Cuigy has spoken in a low voice):\n  In feats of arms, already your career\n  Abounded.--You serve with those crazy pates\n  Of Gascons?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, with the Cadets.\n\nA CADET (in a terrible voice):\n  With us!\n\nDE GUICHE (looking at the cadets, ranged behind Cyrano):\n  Ah!. . .All these gentlemen of haughty mien,\n  Are they the famous?. . .\n\nCARBON:\n  Cyrano!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, Captain!\n\nCARBON:\n  Since all my company's assembled here,\n  Pray favor me,--present them to my lord!\n\nCYRANO (making two steps toward De Guiche):\n  My Lord de Guiche, permit that I present--\n(pointing to the cadets):\n  The bold Cadets of Gascony,\n  Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux!\n  Brawling and swaggering boastfully,\n  The bold Cadets of Gascony!\n  Spouting of Armory, Heraldry,\n  Their veins a-brimming with blood so blue,\n  The bold Cadets of Gascony,\n  Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux:\n\n  Eagle-eye, and spindle-shanks,\n  Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth!\n  Slash-the-rabble and scatter-their-ranks;\n  Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks,\n  With a flaming feather that gayly pranks,\n  Hiding the holes in their hats, forsooth!\n  Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks,\n  Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth!\n\n  'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk'\n  Are their gentlest sobriquets;\n  With Fame and Glory their soul is drunk!\n  'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk,'\n  In brawl and skirmish they show their spunk,\n  Give rendezvous in broil and fray;\n  'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk'\n  Are their gentlest sobriquets!\n\n  What, ho!  Cadets of Gascony!\n  All jealous lovers are sport for you!\n  O Woman! dear divinity!\n  What, ho!  Cadets of Gascony!\n  Whom scowling husbands quake to see.\n  Blow, 'taratara,' and cry 'Cuckoo.'\n  What, ho!  Cadets of Gascony!\n  Husbands and lovers are game for you!\n\nDE GUICHE (seated with haughty carelessness in an armchair brought quickly by\nRagueneau):\n  A poet!  'Tis the fashion of the hour!\n  --Will you be mine?\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, Sir,--no man's!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Last night\n  Your fancy pleased my uncle Richelieu.\n  I'll gladly say a word to him for you.\n\nLE BRET (overjoyed):\n  Great Heavens!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I imagine you have rhymed\n  Five acts, or so?\n\nLE BRET (in Cyrano's ear):\n  Your play!--your 'Agrippine!'\n  You'll see it staged at last!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Take them to him.\n\nCYRANO (beginning to be tempted and attracted):\n  In sooth,--I would. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  He is a critic skilled:\n  He may correct a line or two, at most.\n\nCYRANO (whose face stiffens at once):\n  Impossible!  My blood congeals to think\n  That other hand should change a comma's dot.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But when a verse approves itself to him\n  He pays it dear, good friend.\n\nCYRANO:\n  He pays less dear\n  Than I myself; when a verse pleases me\n  I pay myself, and sing it to myself!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You are proud.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Really?  You have noticed that?\n\nA CADET (entering, with a string of old battered plumed beaver hats, full of\nholes, slung on his sword):\n  See, Cyrano,--this morning, on the quay\n  What strange bright-feathered game we caught!\n  The hats\n  O' the fugitives. . .\n\nCARBON:\n  'Spolia opima!'\n\nALL (laughing):\n  Ah! ah! ah!\n\nCUIGY:\n  He who laid that ambush, 'faith!\n  Must curse and swear!\n\nBRISSAILLE:\n  Who was it?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I myself.\n(The laughter stops):\n  I charged them--work too dirty for my sword,\n  To punish and chastise a rhymster sot.\n\n(Constrained silence.)\n\nThe CADET (in a low voice, to Cyrano, showing him the beavers):\n  What do with them?  They're full of grease!--a stew?\n\nCYRANO (taking the sword and, with a salute, dropping the hats at De Guiche's\nfeet):\n  Sir, pray be good enough to render them\n  Back to your friends.\n\nDE GUICHE (rising, sharply):\n  My chair there--quick!--I go!\n(To Cyrano passionately):\n  As to you, sirrah!. . .\n\nVOICE (in the street):\n  Porters for my lord De Guiche!\n\nDE GUICHE (who has controlled himself--smiling):\n  Have you read 'Don Quixote'?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I have!\n  And doff my hat at th' mad knight-errant's name.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I counsel you to study. . .\n\nA PORTER (appearing at back):\n  My lord's chair!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  . . .The windmill chapter!\n\nCYRANO (bowing):\n  Chapter the Thirteenth.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  For when one tilts 'gainst windmills--it may chance. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Tilt I 'gainst those who change with every breeze?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  . . .That windmill sails may sweep you with their arm\n  Down--in the mire!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Or upward--to the stars!\n\n(De Guiche goes out, and mounts into his chair.  The other lords go away\nwhispering together.  Le Bret goes to the door with them.  The crowd\ndisperses.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano's company of guards tumbles into the shop, ecstatic over Cyrano's triumphs the night before. The whole city is in a tumult over the sensation he created. Carbon, the captain of the guards, tries to lead Cyrano out into the adoring throng, but Cyrano refuses to go. People begin rushing into the store, doting on Cyrano. Prominent men ask for the details of the night before; Cyrano's friends see an opportunity for him to help his career, but he refuses to provide any details. De Guiche enters with a message of admiration, and Cyrano presents to him the song of the Cadets of Gascoyne. De Guiche suggests that his uncle, Cardinal Richelieu, the most powerful man in France, might be willing to help Cyrano. But again Cyrano refuses. During the hubbub, a cadet appears with a set of hats belonging to the men Cyrano defeated the previous night. De Guiche reveals that he hired the hundred men, and he angrily storms out of the store. The crowd dissipates, and only the guards remain"}, {"": "174", "document": "THE FLIGHT\n\n\nAbout seven o'clock one hot summer evening a strange family moved into\nthe little village of Middlesex. Nobody knew where they came from, or\nwho they were. But the neighbors soon made up their minds what they\nthought of the strangers, for the father was very drunk. He could hardly\nwalk up the rickety front steps of the old tumble-down house, and his\nthirteen-year-old son had to help him. Toward eight o'clock a pretty,\ncapable-looking girl of twelve came out of the house and bought a loaf\nof bread at the baker's. And that was all the villagers learned about\nthe newcomers that night.\n\n\"There are four children,\" said the bakeshop woman to her husband the\nnext day, \"and their mother is dead. They must have some money, for the\ngirl paid for the bread with a dollar bill.\"\n\n\"Make them pay for everything they get,\" growled the baker, who was a\nhard man. \"The father is nearly dead with drink now, and soon they will\nbe only beggars.\"\n\nThis happened sooner than he thought. The next day the oldest boy and\ngirl came to ask the bakeshop woman to come over. Their father was dead.\n\nShe went over willingly enough, for someone had to go. But it was clear\nthat she did not expect to be bothered with four strange children, with\nthe bakery on her hands and two children of her own.\n\n\"Haven't you any other folks?\" she asked the children.\n\n\"We have a grandfather in Greenfield,\" spoke up the youngest child\nbefore his sister could clap her hand over his mouth.\n\n\"Hush, Benny,\" she said anxiously.\n\nThis made the bakeshop woman suspicious. \"What's the matter with your\ngrandfather?\" she asked.\n\n\"He doesn't like us,\" replied the oldest boy reluctantly. \"He didn't\nwant my father to marry my mother, and if he found us he would treat us\ncruelly.\"\n\n\"Did you ever see him?\"\n\n\"Jess has. Once she saw him.\"\n\n\"Well, did he treat you cruelly?\" asked the woman, turning upon Jess.\n\n\"Oh, he didn't see me,\" replied Jess. \"He was just passing through\nour--where we used to live--and my father pointed him out to me.\"\n\n\"Where did you use to live?\" went on the questioner. But none of the\nchildren could be made to tell.\n\n\"We will get along all right alone, won't we, Henry?\" declared Jess.\n\n\"Indeed we will!\" said Henry.\n\n\"I will stay in the house with you tonight,\" said the woman at last,\n\"and tomorrow we will see what can be done.\"\n\nThe four children went to bed in the kitchen, and gave the visitor the\nonly other bed in the house. They knew that she did not at once go to\nbed, but sat by the window in the dark. Suddenly they heard her talking\nto her husband through the open window.\n\n\"They must go to their grandfather, that's certain,\" Jess heard her say.\n\n\"Of course,\" agreed her husband. \"Tomorrow we will make them tell us\nwhat his name is.\"\n\nSoon after that Jess and Henry heard her snoring heavily. They sat up in\nthe dark.\n\n\"Mustn't we surely run away?\" whispered Jess in Henry's ear.\n\n\"Yes!\" whispered Henry. \"Take only what we need most. We must be far off\nbefore morning, or they will catch us.\"\n\nJess sat still for a moment, thinking, for every motion she made must\ncount.\n\n\"I will take both loaves of bread,\" she thought, \"and Violet's little\nworkbag. Henry has his knife. And all Father's money is in my pocket.\"\nShe drew it out and counted it in the dark, squinting her eyes in the\nfaint light of the moon. It amounted to nearly four dollars.\n\n\"You'll have to carry Benny until he gets waked up,\" whispered Jess. \"If\nwe wake him up here, he might cry.\"\n\nShe touched Violet as she spoke.\n\n\"Sh! Violet! Come! We're going to run away,\" she whispered.\n\nThe little girl made no sound. She sat up obediently and tried to make\nout the dim shadow of her sister.\n\n\"What shall I do?\" she said, light as a breath.\n\n\"Carry this,\" said Jess, handing her the workbag and a box of matches.\n\nJess tiptoed over to the tin box on the table, drew out the two loaves\nof bread, and slipped them into the laundry bag. She peered around the\nroom for the last time, and then dropped two small clean towels and a\ncake of soap into the bag.\n\n\"All right. Pick him up,\" she said to Henry.\n\nHenry bent over the sleeping child and lifted him carefully. Jess took\nthe laundry bag, turned the doorknob ever so softly, opened the door\never so slowly, and they tiptoed out in a ghostly procession.\n\nJess shut the door with as much care as she had opened it, listened to\nthe bakeshop woman's heavy snoring for a moment, and then they turned\nand picked their way without a sound to the country road.\n\n\"She may wake up before morning, you know,\" whispered Henry. \"We must do\nour fastest walking before then. If we can only get to another town\nbefore they find out we're gone, they won't know which way to go.\"\n\nJess agreed, and they all walked briskly along in the faint moonlight.\n\n\"How far can you carry Benny?\" asked Violet.\n\n\"Oh, at least a mile,\" said Henry confidently, although his arms were\nbeginning to ache. Benny was five years old, and he was a fat, healthy\nboy as well.\n\n\"_I_ think we could all walk faster if we woke him up,\" said Jess\ndecidedly. \"We could each take his hand and almost carry him along.\"\n\nHenry knelt by the roadside and set the little fellow against his knee.\n\n\"Come, Benny, you must wake up now and walk!\" said Jess coaxingly.\n\n\"Go away!\" Benny mumbled with his eyes shut, trying to lie down again.\n\n\"Let me try,\" Violet offered softly.\n\n\"Say, Benny, you know little Cinnamon Bear ran away to find a nice warm\nbed for the winter? Now, you play you're Cinnamon, and Henry and Jess\nwill help you along, and we'll find a bed.\"\n\nViolet's little plan worked. Benny was never too cross to listen to the\nwonderful stories his sister Violet could tell about Cinnamon Bear. He\nstood up bravely and marched along, yawning, while his big brother and\nsister almost swung him between them.\n\nNot a soul passed them on the country road. All the houses they saw were\ndark and still. And when the first faint streaks of morning light\nshowed in the sky, all four children were almost staggering with sleep.\n\n\"I _must_ go to sleep, Henry,\" murmured Jess at last. Little Benny was\nasleep already, and Henry was carrying him again.\n\n\"The first place we come to, then,\" panted Henry.\n\nViolet said nothing, but she kept her eyes open.\n\nFinally she caught Henry's sleeve. \"Couldn't we make that haystack do?\"\nshe asked, pointing across a newly mown field.\n\n\"Indeed we could,\" said Henry thankfully. \"What a big, enormous one it\nis! I was too sleepy to see it, I guess.\"\n\n\"And see how far away from the farmhouse and barn it is, too!\" echoed\nJess.\n\nThe sight gave them new courage. They climbed over two stone walls, got\nacross a brook somehow with the heavy child, and arrived at the\nhaystack.\n\nHenry laid his brother down and stretched his aching arms, while Jess\nbegan to burrow into the haystack. Violet, after a moment of watching\nher, did the same.\n\n\"Here's his nest,\" said Jess sleepily, taking her head out of the deep\nround hole she had made. Henry lifted the child into the opening and was\npleased to see that he curled up instantly, smiling in his sleep.\n\nJess pulled wisps of hay over the opening so that it was absolutely\ninvisible, and then proceeded to dig out a similar burrow for herself.\n\n\"We can stay here just--as long--as we like, can't we, Henry?\" she\nmurmured, digging with her eyes shut.\n\n\"We sure can,\" replied Henry. \"You're an old brick, Jess. Get in, and\nI'll pull the hay over the hole.\"\n\nViolet was already curled up in her nest, which was hidden so completely\nthat Henry spoke to her to see if she were there. Then he wriggled\nhimself backward into the haycock without stopping to hollow it out,\npulled a handful of hay over his head, and laid his head on his arm.\n\nJust as he did so he heard a heavy voice say, \"Now, then, lass, git\nalong!\" Then he heard the rumble of a milk wagon coming down a near-by\nlane, and he realized thankfully that they had hidden themselves just\nbefore the first farmer in the neighborhood had set off toward\nMiddlesex with his milk cans.\n\n\"He will say he didn't meet us coming this way,\" thought Henry, \"so they\nwill hunt for us the other way. And that will give us time to cover a\nlot more ground.\"\n\nHe dropped asleep just as the roosters all over the valley began to\nanswer each other.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Four mysterious children peer into a bakery window, admiring the goods on display. As they discuss the relative merits of bread versus sweets, the baker's wife eyes them with suspicion. She doesn't like kids. Two of the kids are Benny and Violet, who are about 5 and 10 years old, respectively. The older kids are Jessie and Henry. Henry decides they'll buy bread because it's more nutritious than cake. He seems really practical. On the way in, he mentions that maybe they can stay the night at the bakery. Maybe Henry isn't so practical after all? Jessie asks for three loaves of bread. Henry pays for them. The baker's wife continues to give them the stink eye. Upon seeing some benches, Jessie asks the baker's wife if she and her companions can sleep there that night. She offers to wash dishes and do other chores around the bakery the next day. The baker's wife doesn't like the idea of the children staying the night, but she does like the idea of not having to do the dishes herself. She asks the children about their parents. Oh, they're dead. NBD. Benny, the youngest boy, offers up that they have a grandfather that lives in a nearby town, Greenfield, but they don't like him. Jessie seems to wish he had kept quiet. The baker's wife asks why they don't like their grandfather. Though the children have never met him, their understanding is that he didn't like their mother, aka his daughter-in-law, so they just assume he wouldn't like them, either. The baker's wife asks the children where they used to live, but the four kids stay mum. They're done talking. The baker's wife agrees to the plan. Henry thanks her, and the four kids sit down for their sad bread dinner. Henry declares it delicious, and the baker's wife walks off in a huff. Benny observes that the baker's wife doesn't like the four children. He's not wrong. The children bed down on the benches, and the youngest two fall asleep immediately. Jessie and Henry are still up, though, and they can hear the baker and his wife talking. The baker's wife wants to keep the three oldest children and give Benny up to the Children's Home. Dang, that's cold, baker's wife. The baker agrees and then says they should find out about the grandfather. He seems marginally more responsible than his wife, if just as awful. Jessie and Henry stay silent until they're sure the baker and his wife are asleep. They immediately agree they must flee the bakery. Jessie takes stock of their gear: clothes, soap, towels, a laundry bag, Violet's workbag, two loaves of bread, a knife, and $4. That's it. They decide to carry Benny, who's still sleeping, and wake Violet; when they do, she's ready to roll without any questions. Henry scoops up Benny, and the children quietly leave the bakery, fleeing into the night. Boxcar Children out!"}, {"": "175", "document": "\nIn a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture.\n\nA soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"Mag's dead.\"\n\n\"What?\" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread.\n\n\"Mag's dead,\" repeated the man.\n\n\"Deh hell she is,\" said the woman.  She continued her meal.  When she\nfinished her coffee she began to weep.\n\n\"I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she\nweared worsted boots,\" moaned she.\n\n\"Well, whata dat?\" said the man.\n\n\"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots,\" she cried.\n\nThe neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping\nwoman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog.  A dozen women\nentered and lamented with her.  Under their busy hands the rooms took\non that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is\ngreeted.\n\nSuddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with\noutstretched arms.  \"Ah, poor Mary,\" she cried, and tenderly embraced\nthe moaning one.\n\n\"Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis,\" continued she.  Her vocabulary\nwas derived from mission churches.  \"Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs!\nAh, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'.\"\n\nHer good, motherly face was wet with tears.  She trembled in eagerness\nto express her sympathy.  The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her\nbody heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that\nsounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe.\n\n\"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no\nbigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith,\" she\ncried, raising her streaming eyes.\n\n\"Ah, me poor Mary,\" sobbed the woman in black.  With low, coddling\ncries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms\nabout her.  The other women began to groan in different keys.\n\n\"Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer\ndeh bes'.  Yeh'll fergive her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear, all her\ndisobed'ence?  All her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her\nbadness?  She's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged.\"\n\nThe woman in black raised her face and paused.  The inevitable sunlight\ncame streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon\nthe faded hues of the room.  Two or three of the spectators were\nsniffling, and one was loudly weeping.  The mourner arose and staggered\ninto the other room.  In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby\nshoes held in the hollow of her hand.\n\n\"I kin remember when she used to wear dem,\" cried she.  The women burst\nanew into cries as if they had all been stabbed.  The mourner turned to\nthe soiled and unshaven man.\n\n\"Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister!  Go git yer sister an' we'll put deh\nboots on her feets!\"\n\n\"Dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool,\" said the man.\n\n\"Go git yer sister, Jimmie,\" shrieked the woman, confronting him\nfiercely.\n\nThe man swore sullenly.  He went over to a corner and slowly began to\nput on his coat.  He took his hat and went out, with a dragging,\nreluctant step.\n\nThe woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner.\n\n\"Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!  Yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'!  Her\nlife was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad\ngirl?  She's gone where her sins will be judged.\"\n\n\"She's gone where her sins will be judged,\" cried the other women, like\na choir at a funeral.\n\n\"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away,\" said the woman in black,\nraising her eyes to the sunbeams.\n\n\"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away,\" responded the others.\n\n\"Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!\" pleaded the woman in black.  The mourner\nessayed to speak but her voice gave way.  She shook her great shoulders\nfrantically, in an agony of grief.  Hot tears seemed to scald her\nquivering face.  Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain.\n\n\"Oh, yes, I'll fergive her!  I'll fergive her!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mary's sitting monk-like and having a meal, when in comes Jimmie to very unceremoniously report that Maggie is dead. Mary--way too late--begins to express a little love for her daughter. It's hard not to want to slap her. She makes a spectacle of herself, wailing and carrying on while neighbors attempt to console her; Miss Smith repeatedly assures her that God will judge Mary for her sins. Phew? Mary decides she'll forgive Maggie, moaning \"I'll fergive her! I'll fergive her!\" ."}, {"": "176", "document": "\n\nThat evening, as I sat with Edith in the music room, listening to some\npieces in the programme of that day which had attracted my notice, I\ntook advantage of an interval in the music to say, \"I have a question\nto ask you which I fear is rather indiscreet.\"\n\n\"I am quite sure it is not that,\" she replied, encouragingly.\n\n\"I am in the position of an eavesdropper,\" I continued, \"who, having\noverheard a little of a matter not intended for him, though seeming to\nconcern him, has the impudence to come to the speaker for the rest.\"\n\n\"An eavesdropper!\" she repeated, looking puzzled.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"but an excusable one, as I think you will admit.\"\n\n\"This is very mysterious,\" she replied.\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, \"so mysterious that often I have doubted whether I\nreally overheard at all what I am going to ask you about, or only\ndreamed it. I want you to tell me. The matter is this: When I was\ncoming out of that sleep of a century, the first impression of which I\nwas conscious was of voices talking around me, voices that afterwards\nI recognized as your father's, your mother's, and your own. First, I\nremember your father's voice saying, 'He is going to open his eyes. He\nhad better see but one person at first.' Then you said, if I did not\ndream it all, 'Promise me, then, that you will not tell him.' Your\nfather seemed to hesitate about promising, but you insisted, and your\nmother interposing, he finally promised, and when I opened my eyes I\nsaw only him.\"\n\nI had been quite serious when I said that I was not sure that I had\nnot dreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, so\nincomprehensible was it that these people should know anything of me,\na contemporary of their great-grandparents, which I did not know\nmyself. But when I saw the effect of my words upon Edith, I knew that\nit was no dream, but another mystery, and a more puzzling one than any\nI had before encountered. For from the moment that the drift of my\nquestion became apparent, she showed indications of the most acute\nembarrassment. Her eyes, always so frank and direct in expression, had\ndropped in a panic before mine, while her face crimsoned from neck to\nforehead.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" I said, as soon as I had recovered from bewilderment at\nthe extraordinary effect of my words. \"It seems, then, that I was not\ndreaming. There is some secret, something about me, which you are\nwithholding from me. Really, doesn't it seem a little hard that a\nperson in my position should not be given all the information possible\nconcerning himself?\"\n\n\"It does not concern you--that is, not directly. It is not about\nyou--exactly,\" she replied, scarcely audibly.\n\n\"But it concerns me in some way,\" I persisted. \"It must be something\nthat would interest me.\"\n\n\"I don't know even that,\" she replied, venturing a momentary glance at\nmy face, furiously blushing, and yet with a quaint smile flickering\nabout her lips which betrayed a certain perception of humor in the\nsituation despite its embarrassment,--\"I am not sure that it would\neven interest you.\"\n\n\"Your father would have told me,\" I insisted, with an accent of\nreproach. \"It was you who forbade him. He thought I ought to know.\"\n\nShe did not reply. She was so entirely charming in her confusion that\nI was now prompted, as much by the desire to prolong the situation as\nby my original curiosity, to importune her further.\n\n\"Am I never to know? Will you never tell me?\" I said.\n\n\"It depends,\" she answered, after a long pause.\n\n\"On what?\" I persisted.\n\n\"Ah, you ask too much,\" she replied. Then, raising to mine a face\nwhich inscrutable eyes, flushed cheeks, and smiling lips combined to\nrender perfectly bewitching, she added, \"What should you think if I\nsaid that it depended on--yourself?\"\n\n\"On myself?\" I echoed. \"How can that possibly be?\"\n\n\"Mr. West, we are losing some charming music,\" was her only reply to\nthis, and turning to the telephone, at a touch of her finger she set\nthe air to swaying to the rhythm of an adagio. After that she took\ngood care that the music should leave no opportunity for conversation.\nShe kept her face averted from me, and pretended to be absorbed in the\nairs, but that it was a mere pretense the crimson tide standing at\nflood in her cheeks sufficiently betrayed.\n\nWhen at length she suggested that I might have heard all I cared to,\nfor that time, and we rose to leave the room, she came straight up to\nme and said, without raising her eyes, \"Mr. West, you say I have been\ngood to you. I have not been particularly so, but if you think I have,\nI want you to promise me that you will not try again to make me tell\nyou this thing you have asked to-night, and that you will not try to\nfind it out from any one else,--my father or mother, for instance.\"\n\nTo such an appeal there was but one reply possible. \"Forgive me for\ndistressing you. Of course I will promise,\" I said. \"I would never\nhave asked you if I had fancied it could distress you. But do you\nblame me for being curious?\"\n\n\"I do not blame you at all.\"\n\n\"And some time,\" I added, \"if I do not tease you, you may tell me of\nyour own accord. May I not hope so?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Only perhaps?\"\n\nLooking up, she read my face with a quick, deep glance. \"Yes,\" she\nsaid, \"I think I may tell you--some time;\" and so our conversation\nended, for she gave me no chance to say anything more.\n\nThat night I don't think even Dr. Pillsbury could have put me to\nsleep, till toward morning at least. Mysteries had been my accustomed\nfood for days now, but none had before confronted me at once so\nmysterious and so fascinating as this, the solution of which Edith\nLeete had forbidden me even to seek. It was a double mystery. How, in\nthe first place, was it conceivable that she should know any secret\nabout me, a stranger from a strange age? In the second place, even if\nshe should know such a secret, how account for the agitating effect\nwhich the knowledge of it seemed to have upon her? There are puzzles\nso difficult that one cannot even get so far as a conjecture as to the\nsolution, and this seemed one of them. I am usually of too practical a\nturn to waste time on such conundrums; but the difficulty of a riddle\nembodied in a beautiful young girl does not detract from its\nfascination. In general, no doubt, maidens' blushes may be safely\nassumed to tell the same tale to young men in all ages and races, but\nto give that interpretation to Edith's crimson cheeks would,\nconsidering my position and the length of time I had known her, and\nstill more the fact that this mystery dated from before I had known\nher at all, be a piece of utter fatuity. And yet she was an angel, and\nI should not have been a young man if reason and common sense had been\nable quite to banish a roseate tinge from my dreams that night.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "That evening, Julian West is enjoying music with Edith Leete. He asks her about the conversation he heard when he was coming to consciousness on his first day in the new world. He had heard her make her father promise not to tell him something. Her father had hesitated and had complied only after she and her mother both persuaded him. When he brings this topic up, Edith Leete blushes intensely. She turns up the music and only later asks him not to ask her or anyone else this question. He agrees, but then he cannot sleep all night wondering about it. He cannot figure out how she would know something about him when she had never seen him before the day of his awakening."}, {"": "177", "document": "SCENE II.\nRome. A street near the gate\n\nEnter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE\n\n  SICINIUS. Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further.\n    The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided\n    In his behalf.\n  BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power,\n    Let us seem humbler after it is done\n    Than when it was a-doing.\n  SICINIUS. Bid them home.\n    Say their great enemy is gone, and they\n    Stand in their ancient strength.\n  BRUTUS. Dismiss them home.                         Exit AEDILE\n    Here comes his mother.\n\n                   Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and MENENIUS\n\n  SICINIUS. Let's not meet her.\n  BRUTUS. Why?\n  SICINIUS. They say she's mad.\n  BRUTUS. They have ta'en note of us; keep on your way.\n  VOLUMNIA. O, y'are well met; th' hoarded plague o' th' gods\n    Requite your love!\n  MENENIUS. Peace, peace, be not so loud.\n  VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear-\n    Nay, and you shall hear some.  [To BRUTUS] Will you be gone?\n  VIRGILIA.  [To SICINIUS]  You shall stay too. I would I had the\n      power\n    To say so to my husband.\n  SICINIUS. Are you mankind?\n  VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this, fool:\n    Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship\n    To banish him that struck more blows for Rome\n    Than thou hast spoken words?\n  SICINIUS. O blessed heavens!\n  VOLUMNIA. More noble blows than ever thou wise words;\n    And for Rome's good. I'll tell thee what- yet go!\n    Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son\n    Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him,\n    His good sword in his hand.\n  SICINIUS. What then?\n  VIRGILIA. What then!\n    He'd make an end of thy posterity.\n  VOLUMNIA. Bastards and all.\n    Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome!\n  MENENIUS. Come, come, peace.\n  SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country\n    As he began, and not unknit himself\n    The noble knot he made.\n  BRUTUS. I would he had.\n  VOLUMNIA. 'I would he had!' 'Twas you incens'd the rabble-\n    Cats that can judge as fitly of his worth\n    As I can of those mysteries which heaven\n    Will not have earth to know.\n  BRUTUS. Pray, let's go.\n  VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone;\n    You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this:\n    As far as doth the Capitol exceed\n    The meanest house in Rome, so far my son-\n    This lady's husband here, this, do you see?-\n    Whom you have banish'd does exceed you all.\n  BRUTUS. Well, well, we'll leave you.\n  SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited\n    With one that wants her wits?                Exeunt TRIBUNES\n  VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you.\n    I would the gods had nothing else to do\n    But to confirm my curses. Could I meet 'em\n    But once a day, it would unclog my heart\n    Of what lies heavy to't.\n  MENENIUS. You have told them home,\n    And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me?\n  VOLUMNIA. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,\n    And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let's go.\n    Leave this faint puling and lament as I do,\n    In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.\n                                    Exeunt VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA\n  MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie!                                  Exit\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sicinius and Brutus send the plebeians home. They notice Volumnia approaching and try to avoid meeting her, but she sees them and curses them. She angrily tells them they have banished the man who did more for Rome than any other. Sicinius dismisses her as mad, and he and Brutus leave"}, {"": "178", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\nA room in the Garter Inn.\n\n[Enter FALSTAFF, HOST, BARDOLPH, NYM, PISTOL, and ROBIN.]\n\nFALSTAFF.\nMine host of the Garter!\n\nHOST.\nWhat says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nTruly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers.\n\nHOST.\nDiscard, bully Hercules; cashier; let them wag; trot, trot.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nI sit at ten pounds a week.\n\nHOST.\nThou'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain\nBardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap; said I well, bully Hector?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nDo so, good mine host.\n\nHOST.\nI have spoke; let him follow. [To BARDOLPH] Let me see thee froth and\nlime. I am at a word; follow.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nFALSTAFF.\nBardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade; an old cloak makes\na new jerkin; a withered serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.\n\nBARDOLPH.\nIt is a life that I have desired; I will thrive.\n\nPISTOL.\nO base Hungarian wight! Wilt thou the spigot wield?\n\n[Exit BARDOLPH.]\n\nNYM.\nHe was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nI am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box: his thefts were too open;\nhis filching was like an unskilful singer--he kept not time.\n\nNYM.\nThe good humour is to steal at a minim's rest.\n\nPISTOL.\n'Convey' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh! A fico for the phrase!\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWell, sirs, I am almost out at heels.\n\nPISTOL.\nWhy, then, let kibes ensue.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nThere is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift.\n\nPISTOL.\nYoung ravens must have food.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWhich of you know Ford of this town?\n\nPISTOL.\nI ken the wight; he is of substance good.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nMy honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.\n\nPISTOL.\nTwo yards, and more.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nNo quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but\nI am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to\nmake love to Ford's wife; I spy entertainment in her; she discourses,\nshe carves, she gives the leer of invitation; I can construe the\naction of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour,\nto be Englished rightly, is 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.'\n\nPISTOL.\nHe hath studied her will, and translated her will out of honesty into\nEnglish.\n\nNYM.\nThe anchor is deep; will that humour pass?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nNow, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse; he\nhath a legion of angels.\n\nPISTOL.\nAs many devils entertain; and 'To her, boy,' say I.\n\nNYM.\nThe humour rises; it is good; humour me the angels.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nI have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page's wife,\nwho even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most\njudicious oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot,\nsometimes my portly belly.\n\nPISTOL.\nThen did the sun on dunghill shine.\n\nNYM.\nI thank thee for that humour.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nO! she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention\nthat the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a\nburning-glass. Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse\ntoo; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be\ncheator to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall\nbe my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear\nthou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford.\nWe will thrive, lads, we will thrive.\n\nPISTOL.\nShall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,\nAnd by my side wear steel? then Lucifer take all!\n\nNYM.\nI will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter; I will keep\nthe haviour of reputation.\n\nFALSTAFF.\n[To ROBIN] Hold, sirrah; bear you these letters tightly;\nSail like my pinnace to these golden shores.\nRogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;\nTrudge, plod away o' hoof; seek shelter, pack!\nFalstaff will learn the humour of this age;\nFrench thrift, you rogues; myself, and skirted page.\n\n[Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN.]\n\nPISTOL.\nLet vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,\nAnd high and low beguile the rich and poor;\nTester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,\nBase Phrygian Turk!\n\nNYM.\nI have operations in my head which be humours of revenge.\n\nPISTOL.\nWilt thou revenge?\n\nNYM.\nBy welkin and her star!\n\nPISTOL.\nWith wit or steel?\n\nNYM.\nWith both the humours, I:\nI will discuss the humour of this love to Page.\n\nPISTOL.\n     And I to Ford shall eke unfold\n       How Falstaff, varlet vile,\n     His dove will prove, his gold will hold,\n       And his soft couch defile.\n\nNYM.\nMy humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison;\nI will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is\ndangerous: that is my true humour.\n\nPISTOL.\nThou art the Mars of malcontents; I second thee; troop on.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\nSCENE 4.\n\nA room in DOCTOR CAIUS'S house.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, and SIMPLE.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nWhat, John Rugby! \n\n[Enter RUGBY.]\n\nI pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master,\nMaster Doctor Caius, coming: if he do, i' faith, and find anybody\nin the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the\nKing's English.\n\nRUGBY.\nI'll go watch.\n\nQUICKLY.\nGo; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in faith, at the\nlatter end of a sea-coal fire.\n\n[Exit RUGBY.]\n\nAn honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house\nwithal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate; his worst\nfault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that\nway; but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple\nyou say your name is?\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, for fault of a better.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAnd Master Slender's your master?\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nQUICKLY.\nDoes he not wear a great round beard, like a glover's paring-knife?\n\nSIMPLE.\nNo, forsooth; he hath but a little whey face, with a little yellow\nbeard--a cane-coloured beard.\n\nQUICKLY.\nA softly-sprighted man, is he not?\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, forsooth; but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between\nthis and his head; he hath fought with a warrener.\n\nQUICKLY.\nHow say you?--O! I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head,\nas it were, and strut in his gait?\n\nSIMPLE.\nYes, indeed, does he.\n\nQUICKLY.\nWell, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson\nEvans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl,\nand I wish--\n\n[Re-enter RUGBY.]\n\nRUGBY.\nOut, alas! here comes my master.\n\nQUICKLY.\nWe shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this\ncloset. [Shuts SIMPLE in the closet.] He will not stay long. What,\nJohn Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my\nmaster; I doubt he be not well that he comes not home. \n\n[Exit Rugby.]\n\n[Sings.] And down, down, adown-a, &c.\n\n[Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.]\n\nCAIUS.\nVat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me\nin my closet une boitine verde--a box, a green-a box: do intend vat\nI speak? a green-a box.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAy, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in\nhimself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.\n\nCAIUS.\nFe, fe, fe fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour--\nla grande affaire.\n\nQUICKLY.\nIs it this, sir?\n\nCAIUS.\nOui; mettez le au mon pocket: depechez, quickly--Vere is dat knave,\nRugby?\n\nQUICKLY.\nWhat, John Rugby? John!\n\n[Re-enter Rugby.]\n\nRUGBY.\nHere, sir.\n\nCAIUS.\nYou are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby: come, take-a your rapier,\nand come after my heel to de court.\n\nRUGBY.\n'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy my trot, I tarry too long--Od's me! Qu'ay j'oublie? Dere is some\nsimples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.\n\nQUICKLY.\n[Aside.] Ay me, he'll find the young man there, and be mad!\n\nCAIUS.\nO diable, diable! vat is in my closet?--Villainy! larron!\n[Pulling SIMPLE out.]  Rugby, my rapier!\n\nQUICKLY.\nGood master, be content.\n\nCAIUS.\nVerefore shall I be content-a?\n\nQUICKLY.\nThe young man is an honest man.\n\nCAIUS.\nWhat shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat\nshall come in my closet.\n\nQUICKLY.\nI beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of\nan errand to me from Parson Hugh.\n\nCAIUS.\nVell.\n\nSIMPLE.\nAy, forsooth, to desire her to--\n\nQUICKLY.\nPeace, I pray you.\n\nCAIUS.\nPeace-a your tongue!--Speak-a your tale.\n\nSIMPLE.\nTo desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to\nMistress Anne Page for my master, in the way of marriage.\n\nQUICKLY.\nThis is all, indeed, la! but I'll ne'er put my finger in the fire,\nand need not.\n\nCAIUS.\nSir Hugh send-a you?--Rugby, baillez me some paper: tarry you a\nlittle-a while. [Writes.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nI am glad he is so quiet: if he had been throughly moved, you should\nhave heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man,\nI'll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no\nis, the French doctor, my master--I may call him my master, look you,\nfor I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress\nmeat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself--\n\nSIMPLE.\n'Tis a great charge to come under one body's hand.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAre you avis'd o' that? You shall find it a great charge; and to be\nup early and down late; but notwithstanding,--to tell you in your\near,--I would have no words of it--my master himself is in love with\nMistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind,\nthat's neither here nor there.\n\nCAIUS.\nYou jack'nape; give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a\nshallenge: I will cut his troat in de Park; and I will teach a scurvy\njack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good\nyou tarry here: by gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he\nshall not have a stone to throw at his dog.\n\n[Exit SIMPLE.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nAlas, he speaks but for his friend.\n\nCAIUS.\nIt is no matter-a ver dat:--do not you tell-a me dat I shall have\nAnne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have\nappointed mine host of de Jartiere to measure our weapon. By gar, I\nvill myself have Anne Page.\n\nQUICKLY.\nSir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks\nleave to prate: what, the good-jer!\n\nCAIUS.\nRugby, come to the court vit me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page,\nI shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby.\n\n[Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nYou shall have An fool's-head of your own. No, I know Anne's mind for\nthat: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do;\nnor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven.\n\nFENTON.\n[Within.] Who's within there? ho!\n\nQUICKLY.\nWho's there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you.\n\n[Enter FENTON.]\n\nFENTON.\nHow now, good woman! how dost thou?\n\nQUICKLY.\nThe better, that it pleases your good worship to ask.\n\nFENTON.\nWhat news? how does pretty Mistress Anne?\n\nQUICKLY.\nIn truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that\nis your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it.\n\nFENTON.\nShall I do any good, thinkest thou? Shall I not lose my suit?\n\nQUICKLY.\nTroth, sir, all is in His hands above; but notwithstanding, Master\nFenton, I'll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship\na wart above your eye?\n\nFENTON.\nYes, marry, have I; what of that?\n\nQUICKLY.\nWell, thereby hangs a tale; good faith, it is such another Nan; but,\nI detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour's talk\nof that wart; I shall never laugh but in that maid's company;--but,\nindeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you\n--well, go to.\n\nFENTON.\nWell, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money for thee; let me\nhave thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me.\n\nQUICKLY.\nWill I? i' faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of\nthe wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers.\n\nFENTON.\nWell, farewell; I am in great haste now.\n\nQUICKLY.\nFarewell to your worship.--[Exit FENTON.] Truly, an honest gentleman;\nbut Anne loves him not; for I know Anne's mind as well as another\ndoes. Out upon 't, what have I forgot?\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Falstaff, Bardolph, Nim, and Pistol enter The Garter Inn and call for the inn's Host. Falstaff makes a deal with the Host to be housed for a certain sum, while Bardolph will double as the Host's bartender. Falstaff says he is glad to have Bardolph off his hands for a time, and tells Pistol and Nim of his plans. He announces that he means to seduce Mistress Ford. Not only does he like her good-natured attitude, but he also hears she has control over her husband's cash. He shows two letters that he wrote, one to Mistress Ford and the other to Mistress Page, who he thought also looked favorably on him. She too holds the purse-strings in her marriage, and Falstaff hopes to benefit greatly from an affair with each. He asks Pistol and Nim to convey his letters to the ladies, but they refuse, saying that they prefer to behave respectably. Falstaff exits to find someone else to take them. Pistol and Nim scorn Falstaff's base behavior. They decide to be avenged on Falstaff and plan to go to Ford and Page to reveal his plan. Meanwhile, Mistress Quickly awaits the return of her master, Doctor Caius while speaking to Simple. Simple explains his errand from Evans; Mistress Quickly thinks that Anne Page would do well to marry Slender, so she promises to urge Anne to make the match. Caius approaches, so Mistress Quickly hides Simple in a closet. Caius looks for all his equipment, for he is about to depart to visit the court. He looks in the closet and encounters Simple. Quickly explains that Simple has come with an errand from Evans, and Simple says it's true, Evans sent him to ask Quickly to put in a good word for Slender with Anne. Caius is upset; he asks for paper and writes a note. While he writes, Quickly whispers to Simple that she will do all she can for his master, but the truth is that her master is in love with Anne Page too. Caius hands his letter to Simple and announces that he will challenge Evans to a fight. He sends Simple to deliver the letter. Caius scolds Quickly, angry since she had told him she could convince Anne to marry him. Quickly insists that Anne does love him, and that Slender means nothing to her. Caius departs for court, and Quickly comments to herself that she knows Anne's mind, and doubts Anne loves either man. Master Fenton enters to ask Quickly about Anne. Quickly swears to him that Anne loves him, and says they spoke of him at length. Fenton says he'll visit her that day and departs. Quickly reiterates that she knows Anne well and is sure she doesn't love Fenton either."}, {"": "179", "document": "\nMy greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly\nimproved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I\nwalked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed\nstrangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could,\n          of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully\n          served.\n\n          One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe,\n          and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred\n          to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I\n          told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions,\n          but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former\n          employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant\n          circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against\n          color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each\n          other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was\n          engaged for a month.\n\n          The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this\n          place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and\n          sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of\n          passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so\n          painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would\n          have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save\n          me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told\n          her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and\n          kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and\n          from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant\n          feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to\n          confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all\n          confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for\n          some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful\n          feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had\n          passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of\n          her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to\n          expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the\n          opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had\n          leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more\n          cheerful.\n\n          The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often\n          threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for\n          Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for\n          fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious\n          situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me\n          to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I\n          could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with\n          Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New\n          York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that\n          I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was\n          accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs's salary at the Custom\n          House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many\n          dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed.\n          That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their\n          pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young\n          daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and\n          had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put\n          Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes,\n          occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce\n          proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care\n          of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was\n          any thing improper in a mother's making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was\n          very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not\n          politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely\n          free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over\n          to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had\n          employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had\n          refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New\n          York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my\n          child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was\n          a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her\n          injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel\n          otherwise.\n\n          Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that\n          it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it\n          laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms\n          confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and\n          Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as\n          I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted\n          by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as\n          he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It\n          _must_ be he--and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down\n          stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a\n          minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each\n          other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other's adventures! I\n          took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he\n          had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den.\n          He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen\n          were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are\n          formed by suffering together.\n\n\n", "summary": "Linda becomes a nursemaid for an English woman named Mrs. Bruce. When Linda's limbs become swollen from walking up and down the stairs taking care of the baby, Mrs. Bruce gets her a doctor and lightens her work load. Since the Hobbses are not clothing Ellen, Linda uses her wages to buy Ellen clothes. Mrs. Bruce is a really nice lady, and Linda is almost happy. She loves Mrs. Bruce's little baby, because it reminds her of her own little ones. One day, looking out the window, Linda sees a handsome young sailor out the window. It's totally her brother! She runs downstairs, and they hug and laugh and cry."}, {"": "180", "document": "Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer.\n\nCYRANO:\n  What's o'clock?\n\nRAGUENEAU (bowing low):\n  Six o'clock.\n\nCYRANO (with emotion):\n  In one hour's time!\n\n(He paces up and down the shop.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (following him):\n  Bravo!  I saw. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Well, what saw you, then?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Your combat!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Which?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith!\n\nCYRANO (contemptuously):\n  Ah!. . .the duel!\n\nRAGUENEAU (admiringly):\n  Ay! the duel in verse!. . .\n\nLISE:\n  He can talk of naught else!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Well!  Good! let be!\n\nRAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up):\n  'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis\nfine, fine!\n(With increasing enthusiasm):\n  'At the envoi's end--'\n\nCYRANO:\n  What hour is it now, Ragueneau?\n\nRAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock):\n  Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!'\n(He straightens himself):\n  . . .Oh! to write a ballade!\n\nLISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands\nwith her):\n  What's wrong with your hand?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Naught; a slight cut.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Have you been in some danger?\n\nCYRANO:\n  None in the world.\n\nLISE (shaking her finger at him):\n  Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke?  'Faith, it must have been a\nmonstrous lie that should move it!\n(Changing his tone):\n  I wait some one here.  Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were\nnot for crack of doom!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . .\n\nLISE (ironically):\n  Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's\no'clock?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Ten minutes after six.\n\nCYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper\ntoward him):\n  A pen!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear):\n  Here--a swan's quill.\n\nA MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice):\n  Good-day!\n\n(Lise goes up to him quickly.)\n\nCYRANO (turning round):\n  Who's that?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself.\n\nCYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away):\n  Hush!\n(To himself):\n  I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly!\n(Throws down the pen):\n  Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one\nsingle word!\n(To Ragueneau):\n  What time is it?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  A quarter after six!. . .\n\nCYRANO (striking his breast):\n  Ay--a single word of all those here! here!  But writing, 'tis easier done. .\n.\n(He takes up the pen):\n  Go to, I will write it, that love-letter!  Oh!  I have writ it and rewrit it\nin my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay\nbut my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it.\n\n(He writes.  Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures\nmove uncertainly and hesitatingly.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano appears and tells Ragueneau he is meeting someone. Noticeably nervous and jumpy, Cyrano constantly asks what time it is and cannot sit still. Lise asks Cyrano how he cut his hand, but he refuses to talk about it. A musketeer arrives and Ragueneau says the man is his wife's friend"}, {"": "181", "document": "Scena Tertia.\n\n\nAlarum, excursions, enter the King, the Prince, Lord Iohn of\nLancaster,\nand Earle of Westmerland.\n\n  King. I prethee Harry withdraw thy selfe, thou bleedest\ntoo much: Lord Iohn of Lancaster, go you with him\n\n   P.Ioh. Not I, My Lord, vnlesse I did bleed too\n\n   Prin. I beseech your Maiesty make vp,\nLeast your retirement do amaze your friends\n\n   King. I will do so:\nMy Lord of Westmerland leade him to his Tent\n\n   West. Come my Lord, Ile leade you to your Tent\n\n   Prin. Lead me my Lord? I do not need your helpe;\nAnd heauen forbid a shallow scratch should driue\nThe Prince of Wales from such a field as this,\nWhere stain'd Nobility lyes troden on,\nAnd Rebels Armes triumph in massacres\n\n   Ioh. We breath too long: Come cosin Westmerland,\nOur duty this way lies, for heauens sake come\n\n   Prin. By heauen thou hast deceiu'd me Lancaster,\nI did not thinke thee Lord of such a spirit:\nBefore, I lou'd thee as a Brother, Iohn;\nBut now, I do respect thee as my Soule\n\n   King. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point,\nWith lustier maintenance then I did looke for\nOf such an vngrowne Warriour\n\n   Prin. O this Boy, lends mettall to vs all.\nEnter.\n\nEnter Dowglas.\n\n  Dow. Another King? They grow like Hydra's heads:\nI am the Dowglas, fatall to all those\nThat weare those colours on them. What art thou\nThat counterfeit'st the person of a King?\n  King. The King himselfe: who Dowglas grieues at hart\nSo many of his shadowes thou hast met,\nAnd not the very King. I haue two Boyes\nSeeke Percy and thy selfe about the Field:\nBut seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily,\nI will assay thee: so defend thy selfe\n\n   Dow. I feare thou art another counterfeit:\nAnd yet infaith thou bear'st thee like a King:\nBut mine I am sure thou art, whoere thou be,\nAnd thus I win thee.\n\nThey fight, the K[ing]. being in danger, Enter Prince.\n\n  Prin. Hold vp thy head vile Scot, or thou art like\nNeuer to hold it vp againe: the Spirits\nOf valiant Sherly, Stafford, Blunt, are in my Armes;\nit is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee,\nWho neuer promiseth, but he meanes to pay.\n\nThey Fight, Dowglas flyeth.\n\nCheerely My Lord: how fare's your Grace?\nSir Nicolas Gawsey hath for succour sent,\nAnd so hath Clifton: Ile to Clifton straight\n\n   King. Stay, and breath awhile.\nThou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion,\nAnd shew'd thou mak'st some tender of my life\nIn this faire rescue thou hast brought to mee\n\n   Prin. O heauen, they did me too much iniury,\nThat euer said I hearkned to your death.\nIf it were so, I might haue let alone\nThe insulting hand of Dowglas ouer you,\nWhich would haue bene as speedy in your end,\nAs all the poysonous Potions in the world,\nAnd sau'd the Treacherous labour of your Sonne\n\n   K. Make vp to Clifton, Ile to Sir Nicholas Gausey.\n\nExit\n\nEnter Hotspur.\n\n  Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth\n\n   Prin. Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name\n\n   Hot. My name is Harrie Percie\n\n   Prin. Why then I see a very valiant rebel of that name.\nI am the Prince of Wales, and thinke not Percy,\nTo share with me in glory any more:\nTwo Starres keepe not their motion in one Sphere,\nNor can one England brooke a double reigne,\nOf Harry Percy, and the Prince of Wales\n\n   Hot. Nor shall it Harry, for the houre is come\nTo end the one of vs; and would to heauen,\nThy name in Armes, were now as great as mine\n\n   Prin. Ile make it greater, ere I part from thee,\nAnd all the budding Honors on thy Crest,\nIle crop, to make a Garland for my head\n\n   Hot. I can no longer brooke thy Vanities.\n\nFight.\n\nEnter Falstaffe.\n\n  Fal. Well said Hal, to it Hal. Nay you shall finde no\nBoyes play heere, I can tell you.\nEnter Dowglas, he fights with Falstaffe, who fals down as if he\nwere dead.\nThe Prince killeth Percie.\n\n  Hot. Oh Harry, thou hast rob'd me of my youth:\nI better brooke the losse of brittle life,\nThen those proud Titles thou hast wonne of me,\nThey wound my thoghts worse, then the sword my flesh:\nBut thought's the slaue of Life, and Life, Times foole;\nAnd Time, that takes suruey of all the world,\nMust haue a stop. O, I could Prophesie,\nBut that the Earth, and the cold hand of death,\nLyes on my Tongue: No Percy, thou art dust\nAnd food for-\n  Prin. For Wormes, braue Percy. Farewell great heart:\nIll-weau'd Ambition, how much art thou shrunke?\nWhen that this bodie did containe a spirit,\nA Kingdome for it was too small a bound:\nBut now two paces of the vilest Earth\nIs roome enough. This Earth that beares the dead,\nBeares not aliue so stout a Gentleman.\nIf thou wer't sensible of curtesie,\nI should not make so great a shew of Zeale.\nBut let my fauours hide thy mangled face,\nAnd euen in thy behalfe, Ile thanke my selfe\nFor doing these fayre Rites of Tendernesse.\nAdieu, and take thy praise with thee to heauen,\nThy ignomy sleepe with thee in the graue,\nBut not remembred in thy Epitaph.\nWhat? Old Acquaintance? Could not all this flesh\nKeepe in a little life? Poore Iacke, farewell:\nI could haue better spar'd a better man.\nO, I should haue a heauy misse of thee,\nIf I were much in loue with Vanity.\nDeath hath not strucke so fat a Deere to day,\nThough many dearer in this bloody Fray:\nImbowell'd will I see thee by and by,\nTill then, in blood, by Noble Percie lye.\nEnter.\n\nFalstaffe riseth vp.\n\n  Falst. Imbowell'd? If thou imbowell mee to day, Ile\ngiue you leaue to powder me, and eat me too to morow.\n'Twas time to counterfet, or that hotte Termagant Scot,\nhad paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I am no counterfeit;\nto dye, is to be a counterfeit, for hee is but the\ncounterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a man: But\nto counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liueth, is to be\nno counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeede.\nThe better part of Valour, is Discretion; in the\nwhich better part, I haue saued my life. I am affraide of\nthis Gun-powder Percy though he be dead. How if hee\nshould counterfeit too, and rise? I am afraid hee would\nproue the better counterfeit: therefore Ile make him sure:\nyea, and Ile sweare I kill'd him. Why may not hee rise as\nwell as I: Nothing confutes me but eyes, and no-bodie\nsees me. Therefore sirra, with a new wound in your thigh\ncome you along me.\n\nTakes Hotspurre on his backe.\n\nEnter Prince and Iohn of Lancaster.\n\n  Prin. Come Brother Iohn, full brauely hast thou flesht\nthy Maiden sword\n\n   Iohn. But soft, who haue we heere?\nDid you not tell me this Fat man was dead?\n  Prin. I did, I saw him dead,\nBreathlesse, and bleeding on the ground: Art thou aliue?\nOr is it fantasie that playes vpon our eye-sight?\nI prethee speake, we will not trust our eyes\nWithout our eares. Thou art not what thou seem'st\n\n   Fal. No, that's certaine: I am not a double man: but\nif I be not Iacke Falstaffe, then am I a Iacke: There is Percy,\nif your Father will do me any Honor, so: if not, let him\nkill the next Percie himselfe. I looke to be either Earle or\nDuke, I can assure you\n\n   Prin. Why, Percy I kill'd my selfe, and saw thee dead\n\n   Fal. Did'st thou? Lord, Lord, how the world is giuen\nto Lying? I graunt you I was downe, and out of breath,\nand so was he, but we rose both at an instant, and fought\na long houre by Shrewsburie clocke. If I may bee beleeued,\nso: if not, let them that should reward Valour, beare\nthe sinne vpon their owne heads. Ile take't on my death\nI gaue him this wound in the Thigh: if the man were aliue,\nand would deny it, I would make him eate a peece\nof my sword\n\n   Iohn. This is the strangest Tale that e're I heard\n\n   Prin. This is the strangest Fellow, Brother Iohn.\nCome bring your luggage Nobly on your backe:\nFor my part, if a lye may do thee grace,\nIle gil'd it with the happiest tearmes I haue.\n\nA Retreat is sounded.\n\nThe Trumpets sound Retreat, the day is ours:\nCome Brother, let's to the highest of the field,\nTo see what Friends are liuing, who are dead.\n\nExeunt.\n\n  Fal. Ile follow as they say, for Reward. Hee that rewards\nme, heauen reward him. If I do grow great again,\nIle grow lesse? For Ile purge, and leaue Sacke, and liue\ncleanly, as a Nobleman should do.\n\nExit\n\n\n", "summary": "Cut to the battle scene. Walter Blunt, who is disguised as the king, encounters Douglas. They talk trash and then Douglas kills Blunt. Hotspur enters and gives Douglas props for being such a mighty warrior. Douglas tells Hotspur they can all go home and have a nice hot soak in the tub because he's just killed King Henry. Hotspur points out that Douglas has killed Blunt, not the king. Henry's got a bunch of soldiers dressed like him for protection. Hotspur and Douglas run off to slay some more of the king's men. Falstaff enters and sees Blunt's body on the ground. He reiterates that \"honour\" is a bunch of hogwash. Just look where it got Blunt. Prince Hal joins him and asks to borrow Falstaff's weapon. He finds instead a bottle of wine, so Hal yells at Falstaff for acting like a clown at an inappropriate time. Falstaff waffles with some bull about how he's going to slay Percy if he sees him."}, {"": "182", "document": "Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\n\n\nEnter the King, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of Westmerland,\nwith\nothers.\n\n  King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care,\nFinde we a time for frighted Peace to pant,\nAnd breath shortwinded accents of new broils\nTo be commenc'd in Stronds a-farre remote:\nNo more the thirsty entrance of this Soile,\nShall daube her lippes with her owne childrens blood:\nNo more shall trenching Warre channell her fields,\nNor bruise her Flowrets with the Armed hoofes\nOf hostile paces. Those opposed eyes,\nWhich like the Meteors of a troubled Heauen,\nAll of one Nature, of one Substance bred,\nDid lately meete in the intestine shocke,\nAnd furious cloze of ciuill Butchery,\nShall now in mutuall well-beseeming rankes\nMarch all one way, and be no more oppos'd\nAgainst Acquaintance, Kindred, and Allies.\nThe edge of Warre, like an ill-sheathed knife,\nNo more shall cut his Master. Therefore Friends,\nAs farre as to the Sepulcher of Christ,\nWhose Souldier now vnder whose blessed Crosse\nWe are impressed and ingag'd to fight,\nForthwith a power of English shall we leuie,\nWhose armes were moulded in their Mothers wombe,\nTo chace these Pagans in those holy Fields,\nOuer whose Acres walk'd those blessed feete\nWhich fourteene hundred yeares ago were nail'd\nFor our aduantage on the bitter Crosse.\nBut this our purpose is a tweluemonth old,\nAnd bootlesse 'tis to tell you we will go:\nTherefore we meete not now. Then let me heare\nOf you my gentle Cousin Westmerland,\nWhat yesternight our Councell did decree,\nIn forwarding this deere expedience\n\n   West. My Liege: This haste was hot in question,\nAnd many limits of the Charge set downe\nBut yesternight: when all athwart there came\nA Post from Wales, loaden with heauy Newes;\nWhose worst was, That the Noble Mortimer,\nLeading the men of Herefordshire to fight\nAgainst the irregular and wilde Glendower,\nWas by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,\nAnd a thousand of his people butchered:\nVpon whose dead corpes there was such misuse,\nSuch beastly, shamelesse transformation,\nBy those Welshwomen done, as may not be\n(Without much shame) re-told or spoken of\n\n   King. It seemes then, that the tidings of this broile,\nBrake off our businesse for the Holy land\n\n   West. This matcht with other like, my gracious Lord,\nFarre more vneuen and vnwelcome Newes\nCame from the North, and thus it did report:\nOn Holy-roode day, the gallant Hotspurre there,\nYoung Harry Percy, and braue Archibald,\nThat euer-valiant and approoued Scot,\nAt Holmeden met, where they did spend\nA sad and bloody houre:\nAs by discharge of their Artillerie,\nAnd shape of likely-hood the newes was told:\nFor he that brought them, in the very heate\nAnd pride of their contention, did take horse,\nVncertaine of the issue any way\n\n   King. Heere is a deere and true industrious friend,\nSir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his Horse,\nStrain'd with the variation of each soyle,\nBetwixt that Holmedon, and this Seat of ours:\nAnd he hath brought vs smooth and welcome newes.\nThe Earle of Dowglas is discomfited,\nTen thousand bold Scots, two and twenty Knights\nBalk'd in their owne blood did Sir Walter see\nOn Holmedons Plaines. Of Prisoners, Hotspurre tooke\nMordake Earle of Fife, and eldest sonne\nTo beaten Dowglas, and the Earle of Atholl,\nOf Murry, Angus, and Menteith.\nAnd is not this an honourable spoyle?\nA gallant prize? Ha Cosin, is it not? Infaith it is\n\n   West. A Conquest for a Prince to boast of\n\n   King. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, & mak'st me sin,\nIn enuy, that my Lord Northumberland\nShould be the Father of so blest a Sonne:\nA Sonne, who is the Theame of Honors tongue;\nAmong'st a Groue, the very straightest Plant,\nWho is sweet Fortunes Minion, and her Pride:\nWhil'st I by looking on the praise of him,\nSee Ryot and Dishonor staine the brow\nOf my yong Harry. O that it could be prou'd,\nThat some Night-tripping-Faiery, had exchang'd\nIn Cradle-clothes, our Children where they lay,\nAnd call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet:\nThen would I haue his Harry, and he mine:\nBut let him from my thoughts. What thinke you Coze\nOf this young Percies pride? The Prisoners\nWhich he in this aduenture hath surpriz'd,\nTo his owne vse he keepes, and sends me word\nI shall haue none but Mordake Earle of Fife\n\n   West. This is his Vnckles teaching. This is Worcester\nMaleuolent to you in all Aspects:\nWhich makes him prune himselfe, and bristle vp\nThe crest of Youth against your Dignity\n\n   King. But I haue sent for him to answer this:\nAnd for this cause a-while we must neglect\nOur holy purpose to Ierusalem.\nCosin, on Wednesday next, our Councell we will hold\nAt Windsor, and so informe the Lords:\nBut come your selfe with speed to vs againe,\nFor more is to be saide, and to be done,\nThen out of anger can be vttered\n\n   West. I will my Liege.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n", "summary": "Henry IV begins with a meeting called by Henry IV at his palace in London. He believes that after a long period of civil war, peace has finally been established. He therefore hopes that his plan to take an English army to the Holy Land to reclaim it from the infidels can now be put into action. But Westmoreland announces some bad news that forces the king to put his plans on hold. A Welsh chieftain named Owen Glendower has captured Mortimer, the Earl of March, and killed a thousand of his men. Westmoreland also has more unwelcome news, this time from Scotland, where Henry Percy , an ally of the King, is involved in a battle at Holmedon with Archibald, Earl of Douglas, the Scottish leader. The messenger who brought this news to Westmoreland left the scene of the battle before the result was known. But the King has better news. Sir Walter Blunt has just arrived from Holmedon. Hotspur was victorious. Ten thousand Scots were killed, and Hotspur took several Scottish noblemen prisoner. But there is also sadness in this news for the King. While Northumberland's son, Hotspur, is winning glory on the battlefield, Henry IV's own son, Prince Hal, is living a wild, irresponsible life. The King wishes that the two had been switched at birth, so Hotspur might have been his own son. But there is also a problem for the King regarding Hotspur. He has much pride, and has sent word to the King that he intends to keep all but one of his prisoners for his own purposes, rather than handing them over to the King. Westmoreland tells the King that Worcester, Hotspur's uncle, has put him up to it, since Worcester opposes the King. The King says he has sent for Hotspur so he can explain himself in person. He announces a meeting of his council at Windsor the following Wednesday."}, {"": "183", "document": "\n\nMr. Flint was hard pushed for house servants, and rather than lose me he\nhad restrained his malice. I did my work faithfully, though not, of course,\nwith a willing mind. They were evidently afraid I should leave them. Mr.\nFlint wished that I should sleep in the great house instead of the\nservants' quarters. His wife agreed to the proposition, but said I mustn't\nbring my bed into the house, because it would scatter feathers on her\ncarpet. I knew when I went there that they would never think of such a\nthing as furnishing a bed of any kind for me and my little ones. I\ntherefore carried my own bed, and now I was forbidden to use it. I did as I\nwas ordered. But now that I was certain my children were to be put in their\npower, in order to give them a stronger hold on me, I resolved to leave\nthem that night. I remembered the grief this step would bring upon my dear\nold grandmother, and nothing less than the freedom of my children would\nhave induced me to disregard her advice. I went about my evening work with\ntrembling steps. Mr. Flint twice called from his chamber door to inquire\nwhy the house was not locked up. I replied that I had not done my work.\n\"You have had time enough to do it,\" said he. \"Take care how you answer\nme!\"\n\nI shut all the windows, locked all the doors, and went up to the third\nstory, to wait till midnight. How long those hours seemed, and how\nfervently I prayed that God would not forsake me in this hour of utmost\nneed! I was about to risk every thing on the throw of a die; and if I\nfailed, O what would become of me and my poor children? They would be made\nto suffer for my fault.\n\nAt half past twelve I stole softly down stairs. I stopped on the second\nfloor, thinking I heard a noise. I felt my way down into the parlor, and\nlooked out of the window. The night was so intensely dark that I could see\nnothing. I raised the window very softly and jumped out. Large drops of\nrain were falling, and the darkness bewildered me. I dropped on my knees,\nand breathed a short prayer to God for guidance and protection. I groped my\nway to the road, and rushed towards the town with almost lightning speed. I\narrived at my grandmother's house, but dared not see her. She would say,\n\"Linda, you are killing me;\" and I knew that would unnerve me. I tapped\nsoftly at the window of a room, occupied by a woman, who had lived in the\nhouse several years. I knew she was a faithful friend, and could be trusted\nwith my secret. I tapped several times before she heard me. At last she\nraised the window, and I whispered, \"Sally, I have run away. Let me in,\nquick.\" She opened the door softly, and said in low tones, \"For God's sake,\ndon't. Your grandmother is trying to buy you and de chillern. Mr. Sands was\nhere last week. He tole her he was going away on business, but he wanted\nher to go ahead about buying you and de chillern, and he would help her all\nhe could. Don't run away, Linda. Your grandmother is all bowed down wid\ntrouble now.\"\n\nI replied, \"Sally, they are going to carry my children to the plantation\nto-morrow; and they will never sell them to any body so long as they have\nme in their power. Now, would you advise me to go back?\"\n\n\"No, chile, no,\" answered she. \"When dey finds you is gone, dey won't want\nde plague ob de chillern; but where is you going to hide? Dey knows ebery\ninch ob dis house.\"\n\nI told her I had a hiding-place, and that was all it was best for her to\nknow. I asked her to go into my room as soon as it was light, and take all\nmy clothes out of my trunk, and pack them in hers; for I knew Mr. Flint and\nthe constable would be there early to search my room. I feared the sight of\nmy children would be too much for my full heart; but I could not go into\nthe uncertain future without one last look. I bent over the bed where lay\nmy little Benny and baby Ellen. Poor little ones! fatherless and\nmotherless! Memories of their father came over me. He wanted to be kind to\nthem; but they were not all to him, as they were to my womanly heart. I\nknelt and prayed for the innocent little sleepers. I kissed them lightly,\nand turned away.\n\nAs I was about to open the street door, Sally laid her hand on my shoulder,\nand said, \"Linda, is you gwine all alone? Let me call your uncle.\"\n\n\"No, Sally,\" I replied, \"I want no one to be brought into trouble on my\naccount.\"\n\nI went forth into the darkness and rain. I ran on till I came to the house\nof the friend who was to conceal me.\n\nEarly the next morning Mr. Flint was at my grandmother's inquiring for me.\nShe told him she had not seen me, and supposed I was at the plantation. He\nwatched her face narrowly, and said, \"Don't you know any thing about her\nrunning off?\" She assured him that she did not. He went on to say, \"Last\nnight she ran off without the least provocation. We had treated her very\nkindly. My wife liked her. She will soon be found and brought back. Are her\nchildren with you?\" When told that they were, he said, \"I am very glad to\nhear that. If they are here, she cannot be far off. If I find out that any\nof my niggers have had any thing to do with this damned business, I'll give\n'em five hundred lashes.\" As he started to go to his father's, he turned\nround and added, persuasively, \"Let her be brought back, and she shall have\nher children to live with her.\"\n\nThe tidings made the old doctor rave and storm at a furious rate. It was a\nbusy day for them. My grandmother's house was searched from top to bottom.\nAs my trunk was empty, they concluded I had taken my clothes with me.\nBefore ten o'clock every vessel northward bound was thoroughly examined,\nand the law against harboring fugitives was read to all on board. At night\na watch was set over the town. Knowing how distressed my grandmother would\nbe, I wanted to send her a message; but it could not be done. Every one who\nwent in or out of her house was closely watched. The doctor said he would\ntake my children, unless she became responsible for them; which of course\nshe willingly did. The next day was spent in searching. Before night, the\nfollowing advertisement was posted at every corner, and in every public\nplace for miles round:--\n\n$300 REWARD! Ran away from the subscriber, an intelligent, bright, mulatto\ngirl, named Linda, 21 years of age. Five feet four inches high. Dark eyes,\nand black hair inclined to curl; but it can be made straight. Has a decayed\nspot on a front tooth. She can read and write, and in all probability will\ntry to get to the Free States. All persons are forbidden, under penalty of\nlaw, to harbor or employ said slave. $150 will be given to whoever takes\nher in the state, and $300 if taken out of the state and delivered to me,\nor lodged in jail.\n\nDr. Flint.\n\n\n", "summary": "Linda is out of there. She escapes the plantation in the middle of the night. First, she heads off to tell her friend Sally that she's run away. Then, she sneaks away to the house of a friend who will hide her. When Mr. Flint realizes Linda has run away, he searches Aunt Martha's house. Dr. Flint gets involved by placing a runaway slave ad for her."}, {"": "184", "document": "Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off.\n\nROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche):\n  I was going out.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I come to take my leave.\n\nROXANE:\n  Whither go you?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  To the war.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay, to-night.\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I am ordered away.  We are to besiege Arras.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah--to besiege?. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay.  My going moves you not, meseems.\n\nROXANE:\n  Nay. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I am grieved to the core of the heart.  Shall I again behold you?. . .When?\nI know not.  Heard you that I am named commander?. . .\n\nROXANE (indifferently):\n  Bravo!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Of the Guards regiment.\n\nROXANE (startled):\n  What! the Guards?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster.  I will find a way to\nrevenge myself on him at Arras.\n\nROXANE (choking):\n  What mean you?  The Guards go to Arras?\n\nDE GUICHE (laughing):\n  Bethink you, is it not my own regiment?\n\nROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside):\n  Christian!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  What ails you?\n\nROXANE (moved deeply):\n  Oh--I am in despair!  The man one loves!--at the war!\n\nDE GUICHE (surprised and delighted):\n  You say such sweet words to me!  'Tis the first time!--and just when I must\nquit you!\n\nROXANE (collected, and fanning herself):\n  Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  My fair lady is on his side?\n\nROXANE:\n  Nay,--against him!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Do you see him often?\n\nROXANE:\n  But very rarely.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New--\nvillen--viller--\n\nROXANE:\n  Of high stature?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Fair-haired!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, a red-headed fellow!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Handsome!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Tut!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But dull-witted.\n\nROXANE:\n  One would think so, to look at him!\n(Changing her tone):\n  How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano?  Perchance you think to put him\ni' the thick of the shots?  Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he\nwould love such a post better than aught else!  I know the way to wound his\npride far more keenly!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  What then?  Tell. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved\nboon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war\nlasted!  There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him\nof his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely.\n\nDE GUICHE (coming nearer):\n  O woman! woman!  Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick?\n\nROXANE:\n  See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their\nthick fists for that they are deprived of the battle?  So are you best\navenged.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You love me, then, a little?\n(She smiles):\n  I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof\nof love!\n\nROXANE:\n  'Tis a proof of love!\n\nDE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers):\n  Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company--\nexcept--\n(He detaches one):\n  --This one!  'Tis that of the Cadets.\n(He puts it in his pocket):\n  This I keep.\n(Laughing):\n  Ha! ha! ha!  Cyrano!  His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on\npeople?. . .you, of all ladies!\n\nROXANE:\n  Sometimes!\n\nDE GUICHE (coming close to her):\n  Oh! how I love you!--to distraction!  Listen!  To-night--true, I ought to\nstart--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched!  Hard by, in\nthe Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of\nthe Capuchins.  True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the\ngood Fathers!  Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in.  'Tis they\nwho serve Richelieu's private chapel:  and from respect to the uncle, fear the\nnephew.  All will deem me gone.  I will come to you, masked.  Give me leave to\nwait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful!\n\nROXANE:\n  But, of this be rumored, your glory. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Bah!\n\nROXANE:\n  But the siege--Arras. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  'Twill take its chance.  Grant but permission.\n\nROXANE:\n  No!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Give me leave!\n\nROXANE (tenderly):\n  It were my duty to forbid you!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ah!\n\nROXANE:\n  You must go!\n(Aside):\n  Christian stays here.\n(Aloud):\n  I would have you heroic--Antoine!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  O heavenly word!  You love, then, him?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  . . .For whom I trembled.\n\nDE GUICHE (in an ecstasy):\n  Ah!  I go then!\n(He kisses her hand):\n  Are you content?\n\nROXANE:\n  Yes, my friend!\n\n(He goes out.)\n\nTHE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy):\n  Yes, my friend!\n\nROXANE (to the duenna):\n  Not a word of what I have done.  Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing\nhis fighting from him!\n(She calls toward the house):\n  Cousin!\n\n\n\n\nRoxane, The duenna, Cyrano.\n\nROXANE:\n  We are going to Clomire's house.\n(She points to the door opposite):\n  Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse!\n\nTHE DUENNA (putting her little finger in her ear):\n  Yes!  But my little finger tells me we shall miss them.\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Twere a pity to miss such apes!\n\n(They have come to Clomire's door.)\n\nTHE DUENNA:\n  Oh, see!  The knocker is muffled up!\n(Speaking to the knocker):\n  So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it\nshould disturb the fine orators!\n\n(She lifts it carefully and knocks with precaution.)\n\nROXANE (seeing that the door opens):\n  Let us enter!\n(On the threshold, to Cyrano):\n  If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me!\n\nCYRANO (quickly, as she is going in):\n  Listen!\n(She turns):\n  What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night?\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh--\n\nCYRANO (eagerly):\n  Well, say.\n\nROXANE:\n  But you will be mute?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Mute as a fish.\n\nROXANE:\n  I shall not question him at all, but say:  Give rein to your fancy!  Prepare\nnot your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come!  Speak to me of love,\nand speak splendidly!\n\nCYRANO (smiling):\n  Very good!\n\nROXANE:\n  But secret!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Secret.\n\nROXANE:\n  Not a word!\n\n(She enters and shuts the door.)\n\nCYRANO (when the door is shut, bowing to her):\n  A thousand thanks!\n\n(The door opens again, and Roxane puts her head out.)\n\nROXANE:\n  Lest he prepare himself!\n\nCYRANO:\n  The devil!--no, no!\n\nBOTH TOGETHER:\n  Secret.\n\n(The door shuts.)\n\nCYRANO (calling):\n  Christian!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "De Guiche enters and tells Roxane that he has come to say goodbye. He has been placed in command of Cyrano's regiment. She tells him that if he really wants to hurt Cyrano, he should leave him and the other cadets behind, while the rest of the regiment goes on to glorious victory. De Guiche sees in this a sign that Roxane loves him and suggests a rendezvous at a monastery. She makes De Guiche believe she is consenting; she has managed to keep Christian out of the war. Cyrano comes out of the house and asks Roxane on what subject she will ask Christian to speak tonight. She replies that tonight he must improvise on the subject of love."}, {"": "185", "document": "ACT II. SCENE I.\n\nThe King of Navarre's park. A pavilion and tents at a\ndistance.\n\n[Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET,\nLORDS, and other Attendants.]\n\nBOYET.\nNow, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:\nConsider who the king your father sends,\nTo whom he sends, and what's his embassy:\nYourself, held precious in the world's esteem,\nTo parley with the sole inheritor\nOf all perfections that a man may owe,\nMatchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight\nThan Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.\nBe now as prodigal of all dear grace\nAs Nature was in making graces dear\nWhen she did starve the general world beside,\nAnd prodigally gave them all to you.\n\nPRINCESS.\nGood Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,\nNeeds not the painted flourish of your praise:\nBeauty is bought by judgment of the eye,\nNot utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues.\nI am less proud to hear you tell my worth\nThan you much willing to be counted wise\nIn spending your wit in the praise of mine.\nBut now to task the tasker: good Boyet,\nYou are not ignorant, all-telling fame\nDoth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,\nTill painful study shall outwear three years,\nNo woman may approach his silent court:\nTherefore to's seemeth it a needful course,\nBefore we enter his forbidden gates,\nTo know his pleasure; and in that behalf,\nBold of your worthiness, we single you\nAs our best-moving fair solicitor.\nTell him the daughter of the King of France,\nOn serious business, craving quick dispatch,\nImportunes personal conference with his Grace.\nHaste, signify so much; while we attend,\nLike humble-visag'd suitors, his high will.\n\nBOYET.\nProud of employment, willingly I go.\n\nPRINCESS.\nAll pride is willing pride, and yours is so.\n\n[Exit BOYET.]\n\nWho are the votaries, my loving lords,\nThat are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?\n\nFIRST LORD.\nLord Longaville is one.\n\nPRINCESS.\nKnow you the man?\n\nMARIA.\nI know him, madam: at a marriage feast,\nBetween Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir\nOf Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized\nIn Normandy, saw I this Longaville.\nA man of sovereign parts, he is esteem'd,\nWell fitted in arts, glorious in arms:\nNothing becomes him ill that he would well.\nThe only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,--\nIf virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,--\nIs a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will;\nWhose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills\nIt should none spare that come within his power.\n\nPRINCESS.\nSome merry mocking lord, belike; is't so?\n\nMARIA.\nThey say so most that most his humours know.\n\nPRINCESS.\nSuch short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow.\nWho are the rest?\n\nKATHARINE.\nThe young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth,\nOf all that virtue love for virtue lov'd;\nMost power to do most harm, least knowing ill,\nFor he hath wit to make an ill shape good,\nAnd shape to win grace though he had no wit.\nI saw him at the Duke Alencon's once;\nAnd much too little of that good I saw\nIs my report to his great worthiness.\n\nROSALINE.\nAnother of these students at that time\nWas there with him, if I have heard a truth:\nBerowne they call him; but a merrier man,\nWithin the limit of becoming mirth,\nI never spent an hour's talk withal.\nHis eye begets occasion for his wit,\nFor every object that the one doth catch\nThe other turns to a mirth-moving jest,\nWhich his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,\nDelivers in such apt and gracious words\nThat aged ears play truant at his tales,\nAnd younger hearings are quite ravished;\nSo sweet and voluble is his discourse.\n\nPRINCESS.\nGod bless my ladies! Are they all in love,\nThat every one her own hath garnished\nWith such bedecking ornaments of praise?\n\nFIRST LORD.\nHere comes Boyet.\n\n[Re-enter BOYET.]\n\nPRINCESS.\nNow, what admittance, lord?\n\nBOYET.\nNavarre had notice of your fair approach,\nAnd he and his competitors in oath\nWere all address'd to meet you, gentle lady,\nBefore I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt;\nHe rather means to lodge you in the field,\nLike one that comes here to besiege his court,\nThan seek a dispensation for his oath,\nTo let you enter his unpeeled house.\nHere comes Navarre.\n\n[The LADIES mask.]\n\n[Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS.]\n\nKING.\nFair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.\n\nPRINCESS.\n'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet: the\nroof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the\nwide fields too base to be mine.\n\nKING.\nYou shall be welcome, madam, to my court.\n\nPRINCESS.\nI will be welcome then: conduct me thither.\n\nKING.\nHear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.\n\nPRINCESS.\nOur Lady help my lord! he'll be forsworn.\n\nKING.\nNot for the world, fair madam, by my will.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWhy, will shall break it; will, and nothing else.\n\nKING.\nYour ladyship is ignorant what it is.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWere my lord so, his ignorance were wise,\nWhere now his knowledge must prove ignorance.\nI hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping:\n'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord,\nAnd sin to break it.\nBut pardon me, I am too sudden bold:\nTo teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.\nVouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,\nAnd suddenly resolve me in my suit.\n\n[Gives a paper.]\n\nKING.\nMadam, I will, if suddenly I may.\n\nPRINCESS.\nYou will the sooner that I were away,\nFor you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay.\n\nBEROWNE.\nDid not I dance with you in Brabant once?\n\nROSALINE.\nDid not I dance with you in Brabant once?\n\nBEROWNE.\nI know you did.\n\nROSALINE.\nHow needless was it then\nTo ask the question!\n\nBEROWNE.\nYou must not be so quick.\n\nROSALINE.\n'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions.\n\nBEROWNE.\nYour wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire.\n\nROSALINE.\nNot till it leave the rider in the mire.\n\nBEROWNE.\nWhat time o' day?\n\nROSALINE.\nThe hour that fools should ask.\n\nBEROWNE.\nNow fair befall your mask!\n\nROSALINE.\nFair fall the face it covers!\n\nBEROWNE.\nAnd send you many lovers!\n\nROSALINE.\nAmen, so you be none.\n\nBEROWNE.\nNay, then will I be gone.\n\nKING.\nMadam, your father here doth intimate\nThe payment of a hundred thousand crowns;\nBeing but the one half of an entire sum\nDisbursed by my father in his wars.\nBut say that he or we,--as neither have,--\nReceiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid\nA hundred thousand more, in surety of the which,\nOne part of Aquitaine is bound to us,\nAlthough not valued to the money's worth.\nIf then the King your father will restore\nBut that one half which is unsatisfied,\nWe will give up our right in Aquitaine,\nAnd hold fair friendship with his majesty.\nBut that, it seems, he little purposeth,\nFor here he doth demand to have repaid\nA hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,\nOn payment of a hundred thousand crowns,\nTo have his title live in Aquitaine;\nWhich we much rather had depart withal,\nAnd have the money by our father lent,\nThan Aquitaine so gelded as it is.\nDear Princess, were not his requests so far\nFrom reason's yielding, your fair self should make\nA yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast,\nAnd go well satisfied to France again.\n\nPRINCESS.\nYou do the king my father too much wrong,\nAnd wrong the reputation of your name,\nIn so unseeming to confess receipt\nOf that which hath so faithfully been paid.\n\nKING.\nI do protest I never heard of it;\nAnd, if you prove it, I'll repay it back\nOr yield up Aquitaine.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWe arrest your word.\nBoyet, you can produce acquittances\nFor such a sum from special officers\nOf Charles his father.\n\nKING.\nSatisfy me so.\n\nBOYET.\nSo please your Grace, the packet is not come,\nWhere that and other specialties are bound:\nTo-morrow you shall have a sight of them.\n\nKING.\nIt shall suffice me; at which interview\nAll liberal reason I will yield unto.\nMeantime receive such welcome at my hand\nAs honour, without breach of honour, may\nMake tender of to thy true worthiness.\nYou may not come, fair Princess, in my gates;\nBut here without you shall be so receiv'd\nAs you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart,\nThough so denied fair harbour in my house.\nYour own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:\nTo-morrow shall we visit you again.\n\nPRINCESS.\nSweet health and fair desires consort your Grace!\n\nKING.\nThy own wish wish I thee in every place.\n\n[Exeunt KING and his Train.]\n\nBEROWNE.\nLady, I will commend you to mine own heart.\n\nROSALINE.\nPray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it.\n\nBEROWNE.\nI would you heard it groan.\n\nROSALINE.\nIs the fool sick?\n\nBEROWNE.\nSick at the heart.\n\nROSALINE.\nAlack! let it blood.\n\nBEROWNE.\nWould that do it good?\n\nROSALINE.\nMy physic says 'ay.'\n\nBEROWNE.\nWill you prick't with your eye?\n\nROSALINE.\nNo point, with my knife.\n\nBEROWNE.\nNow, God save thy life!\n\nROSALINE.\nAnd yours from long living!\n\nBEROWNE.\nI cannot stay thanksgiving.\n\n[Retiring.]\n\nDUMAINE.\nSir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same?\n\nBOYET.\nThe heir of Alencon, Katharine her name.\n\nDUMAINE.\nA gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nLONGAVILLE.\nI beseech you a word: what is she in the white?\n\nBOYET.\nA woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light.\n\nLONGAVILLE.\nPerchance light in the light. I desire her name.\n\nBOYET.\nShe hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame.\n\nLONGAVILLE.\nPray you, sir, whose daughter?\n\nBOYET.\nHer mother's, I have heard.\n\nLONGAVILLE.\nGod's blessing on your beard!\n\nBOYET.\nGood sir, be not offended.\nShe is an heir of Falconbridge.\n\nLONGAVILLE.\nNay, my choler is ended.\nShe is a most sweet lady.\n\nBOYET.\nNot unlike, sir; that may be.\n\n[Exit LONGAVILLE.]\n\nBEROWNE.\nWhat's her name in the cap?\n\nBOYET.\nRosaline, by good hap.\n\nBEROWNE.\nIs she wedded or no?\n\nBOYET.\nTo her will, sir, or so.\n\nBEROWNE.\nYou are welcome, sir. Adieu!\n\nBOYET.\nFarewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.\n\n[Exit BEROWNE.--LADIES unmask.]\n\nMARIA.\nThat last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord;\nNot a word with him but a jest.\n\nBOYET.\nAnd every jest but a word.\n\nPRINCESS.\nIt was well done of you to take him at his word.\n\nBOYET.\nI was as willing to grapple as he was to board.\n\nMARIA.\nTwo hot sheeps, marry!\n\nBOYET.\nAnd wherefore not ships?\nNo sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.\n\nMARIA.\nYou sheep and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?\n\nBOYET.\nSo you grant pasture for me.\n\n[Offering to kiss her.]\n\nMARIA.\nNot so, gentle beast.\nMy lips are no common, though several they be.\n\nBOYET.\nBelonging to whom?\n\nMARIA.\nTo my fortunes and me.\n\nPRINCESS.\nGood wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree;\nThis civil war of wits were much better us'd\nOn Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abus'd.\n\nBOYET.\nIf my observation,--which very seldom lies,\nBy the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,\nDeceive me not now, Navarre is infected.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWith what?\n\nBOYET.\nWith that which we lovers entitle affected.\n\nPRINCESS.\nYour reason.\n\nBOYET.\nWhy, all his behaviours did make their retire\nTo the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire;\nHis heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd,\nProud with his form, in his eye pride express'd;\nHis tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,\nDid stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;\nAll senses to that sense did make their repair,\nTo feel only looking on fairest of fair.\nMethought all his senses were lock'd in his eye,\nAs jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;\nWho, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd,\nDid point you to buy them, along as you pass'd.\nHis face's own margent did quote such amazes\nThat all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.\nI'll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his,\nAn you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.\n\nPRINCESS.\nCome, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd.\n\nBOYET.\nBut to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd.\nI only have made a mouth of his eye,\nBy adding a tongue which I know will not lie.\n\nROSALINE.\nThou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully.\n\nMARIA.\nHe is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him.\n\nROSALINE.\nThen was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim.\n\nBOYET.\nDo you hear, my mad wenches?\n\nMARIA.\nNo.\n\nBOYET.\nWhat, then, do you see?\n\nROSALINE.\nAy, our way to be gone.\n\nBOYET.\nYou are too hard for me.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Princess of France and her entourage arrive to conduct business between the King of France and the King of Navarre. In order to try to keep his vows, the King of Navarre tells the Princess that she is not allowed inside the castle, and has to camp on the hill outside of it. The Princess and her ladies are insulted and want to leave as soon as possible. While they are outside the castle discussing the strict edicts of the Ferdinand's court, each of the King's three men visit one of the Princess' ladies. The women also recognize some of the men and tell the Princess about them. Berowne shows interest in Rosaline while Dumaine asks one of the men of the French, Boyet, about Katherine. After Dumaine leaves, Longaville also approaches Boyet inquiring the name of Maria. Boyet, however, has ulterior motives and tries to win the love of the ladies for himself."}, {"": "186", "document": "\nCandide had brought such a valet with him from Cadiz, as one often meets\nwith on the coasts of Spain and in the American colonies. He was a\nquarter Spaniard, born of a mongrel in Tucuman; he had been singing-boy,\nsacristan, sailor, monk, pedlar, soldier, and lackey. His name was\nCacambo, and he loved his master, because his master was a very good\nman. He quickly saddled the two Andalusian horses.\n\n\"Come, master, let us follow the old woman's advice; let us start, and\nrun without looking behind us.\"\n\nCandide shed tears.\n\n\"Oh! my dear Cunegonde! must I leave you just at a time when the\nGovernor was going to sanction our nuptials? Cunegonde, brought to such\na distance what will become of you?\"\n\n\"She will do as well as she can,\" said Cacambo; \"the women are never at\na loss, God provides for them, let us run.\"\n\n\"Whither art thou carrying me? Where shall we go? What shall we do\nwithout Cunegonde?\" said Candide.\n\n\"By St. James of Compostella,\" said Cacambo, \"you were going to fight\nagainst the Jesuits; let us go to fight for them; I know the road well,\nI'll conduct you to their kingdom, where they will be charmed to have a\ncaptain that understands the Bulgarian exercise. You'll make a\nprodigious fortune; if we cannot find our account in one world we shall\nin another. It is a great pleasure to see and do new things.\"\n\n\"You have before been in Paraguay, then?\" said Candide.\n\n\"Ay, sure,\" answered Cacambo, \"I was servant in the College of the\nAssumption, and am acquainted with the government of the good Fathers as\nwell as I am with the streets of Cadiz. It is an admirable government.\nThe kingdom is upwards of three hundred leagues in diameter, and divided\ninto thirty provinces; there the Fathers possess all, and the people\nnothing; it is a masterpiece of reason and justice. For my part I see\nnothing so divine as the Fathers who here make war upon the kings of\nSpain and Portugal, and in Europe confess those kings; who here kill\nSpaniards, and in Madrid send them to heaven; this delights me, let us\npush forward. You are going to be the happiest of mortals. What pleasure\nwill it be to those Fathers to hear that a captain who knows the\nBulgarian exercise has come to them!\"\n\nAs soon as they reached the first barrier, Cacambo told the advanced\nguard that a captain wanted to speak with my lord the Commandant. Notice\nwas given to the main guard, and immediately a Paraguayan officer ran\nand laid himself at the feet of the Commandant, to impart this news to\nhim. Candide and Cacambo were disarmed, and their two Andalusian horses\nseized. The strangers were introduced between two files of musketeers;\nthe Commandant was at the further end, with the three-cornered cap on\nhis head, his gown tucked up, a sword by his side, and a spontoon[15] in\nhis hand. He beckoned, and straightway the new-comers were encompassed\nby four-and-twenty soldiers. A sergeant told them they must wait, that\nthe Commandant could not speak to them, and that the reverend Father\nProvincial does not suffer any Spaniard to open his mouth but in his\npresence, or to stay above three hours in the province.\n\n\"And where is the reverend Father Provincial?\" said Cacambo.\n\n\"He is upon the parade just after celebrating mass,\" answered the\nsergeant, \"and you cannot kiss his spurs till three hours hence.\"\n\n\"However,\" said Cacambo, \"the captain is not a Spaniard, but a German,\nhe is ready to perish with hunger as well as myself; cannot we have\nsomething for breakfast, while we wait for his reverence?\"\n\nThe sergeant went immediately to acquaint the Commandant with what he\nhad heard.\n\n\"God be praised!\" said the reverend Commandant, \"since he is a German, I\nmay speak to him; take him to my arbour.\"\n\nCandide was at once conducted to a beautiful summer-house, ornamented\nwith a very pretty colonnade of green and gold marble, and with\ntrellises, enclosing parraquets, humming-birds, fly-birds, guinea-hens,\nand all other rare birds. An excellent breakfast was provided in vessels\nof gold; and while the Paraguayans were eating maize out of wooden\ndishes, in the open fields and exposed to the heat of the sun, the\nreverend Father Commandant retired to his arbour.\n\nHe was a very handsome young man, with a full face, white skin but high\nin colour; he had an arched eyebrow, a lively eye, red ears, vermilion\nlips, a bold air, but such a boldness as neither belonged to a Spaniard\nnor a Jesuit. They returned their arms to Candide and Cacambo, and also\nthe two Andalusian horses; to whom Cacambo gave some oats to eat just by\nthe arbour, having an eye upon them all the while for fear of a\nsurprise.\n\nCandide first kissed the hem of the Commandant's robe, then they sat\ndown to table.\n\n\"You are, then, a German?\" said the Jesuit to him in that language.\n\n\"Yes, reverend Father,\" answered Candide.\n\nAs they pronounced these words they looked at each other with great\namazement, and with such an emotion as they could not conceal.\n\n\"And from what part of Germany do you come?\" said the Jesuit.\n\n\"I am from the dirty province of Westphalia,\" answered Candide; \"I was\nborn in the Castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh.\"\n\n\"Oh! Heavens! is it possible?\" cried the Commandant.\n\n\"What a miracle!\" cried Candide.\n\n\"Is it really you?\" said the Commandant.\n\n\"It is not possible!\" said Candide.\n\nThey drew back; they embraced; they shed rivulets of tears.\n\n\"What, is it you, reverend Father? You, the brother of the fair\nCunegonde! You, that was slain by the Bulgarians! You, the Baron's son!\nYou, a Jesuit in Paraguay! I must confess this is a strange world that\nwe live in. Oh, Pangloss! Pangloss! how glad you would be if you had not\nbeen hanged!\"\n\nThe Commandant sent away the negro slaves and the Paraguayans, who\nserved them with liquors in goblets of rock-crystal. He thanked God and\nSt. Ignatius a thousand times; he clasped Candide in his arms; and their\nfaces were all bathed with tears.\n\n\"You will be more surprised, more affected, and transported,\" said\nCandide, \"when I tell you that Cunegonde, your sister, whom you believe\nto have been ripped open, is in perfect health.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"In your neighbourhood, with the Governor of Buenos Ayres; and I was\ngoing to fight against you.\"\n\nEvery word which they uttered in this long conversation but added wonder\nto wonder. Their souls fluttered on their tongues, listened in their\nears, and sparkled in their eyes. As they were Germans, they sat a good\nwhile at table, waiting for the reverend Father Provincial, and the\nCommandant spoke to his dear Candide as follows.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Candide's servant, Cacambo, immediately saddles two horses and urges Candide to leave. Candide does not want to leave without Cunegonde, even though she seems fickle and disloyal. Cacambo tries to cheer him up and suggests that they find the Jesuits in Paraguay and fight on their side, against the Governor. This should be easy, Cacambo says, because he is familiar with Paraguay. The men arrive at the Jesuit outpost. They are treated with skepticism at first, but when the Colonel learns that Candide is German, he gets excited and invites him to dine. In the course of Candide's conversation with the Colonel, they discover that the Colonel is in fact Cunegonde's brother . Since his father is dead, that makes him the current Baron. The Baron is relieved to hear that Cunegonde is alive."}, {"": "187", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\nA room in FORD'S house.\n\n[Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and SIR HUGH\nEVANS.]\n\nEVANS.\n'Tis one of the best discretions of a 'oman as ever I did look upon.\n\nPAGE.\nAnd did he send you both these letters at an instant?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nWithin a quarter of an hour.\n\nFORD.\nPardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt;\nI rather will suspect the sun with cold\nThan thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand,\nIn him that was of late an heretic,\nAs firm as faith.\n\nPAGE.\n'Tis well, 'tis well; no more.\nBe not as extreme in submission\nAs in offence;\nBut let our plot go forward: let our wives\nYet once again, to make us public sport,\nAppoint a meeting with this old fat fellow,\nWhere we may take him and disgrace him for it.\n\nFORD.\nThere is no better way than that they spoke of.\n\nPAGE.\nHow? To send him word they'll meet him in the park at midnight?\nFie, fie! he'll never come!\n\nEVANS.\nYou say he has been thrown in the rivers; and has been grievously\npeaten as an old 'oman; methinks there should be terrors in him,\nthat he should not come; methinks his flesh is punished; he shall\nhave no desires.\n\nPAGE.\nSo think I too.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nDevise but how you'll use him when he comes,\nAnd let us two devise to bring him thither.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nThere is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,\nSometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest,\nDoth all the winter-time, at still midnight,\nWalk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;\nAnd there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,\nAnd makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain\nIn a most hideous and dreadful manner:\nYou have heard of such a spirit, and well you know\nThe superstitious idle-headed eld\nReceived, and did deliver to our age,\nThis tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.\n\nPAGE.\nWhy, yet there want not many that do fear\nIn deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak.\nBut what of this?\n\nMRS. FORD.\nMarry, this is our device;\nThat Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us,\nDisguis'd, like Herne, with huge horns on his head.\n\nPAGE.\nWell, let it not be doubted but he'll come,\nAnd in this shape. When you have brought him thither,\nWhat shall be done with him? What is your plot?\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nThat likewise have we thought upon, and thus:\nNan Page my daughter, and my little son,\nAnd three or four more of their growth, we'll dress\nLike urchins, ouphs, and fairies, green and white,\nWith rounds of waxen tapers on their heads,\nAnd rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden,\nAs Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met,\nLet them from forth a sawpit rush at once\nWith some diffused song; upon their sight\nWe two in great amazedness will fly:\nThen let them all encircle him about,\nAnd fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight;\nAnd ask him why, that hour of fairy revel,\nIn their so sacred paths he dares to tread\nIn shape profane.\n\nMRS. FORD.\nAnd till he tell the truth,\nLet the supposed fairies pinch him sound,\nAnd burn him with their tapers.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nThe truth being known,\nWe'll all present ourselves; dis-horn the spirit,\nAnd mock him home to Windsor.\n\nFORD.\nThe children must\nBe practis'd well to this or they'll ne'er do 't.\n\nEVANS.\nI will teach the children their behaviours; and I will\nbe like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my\ntaber.\n\nFORD.\nThat will be excellent. I'll go buy them vizards.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nMy Nan shall be the Queen of all the Fairies,\nFinely attired in a robe of white.\n\nPAGE.\nThat silk will I go buy. [Aside.] And in that time\nShall Master Slender steal my Nan away,\nAnd marry her at Eton. Go, send to Falstaff straight.\n\nFORD.\nNay, I'll to him again, in name of Brook;\nHe'll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he'll come.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nFear not you that. Go, get us properties\nAnd tricking for our fairies.\n\nEVANS.\nLet us about it. It is admirable pleasures, and fery\nhonest knaveries.\n\n[Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and EVANS.]\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nGo, Mistress Ford.\nSend Quickly to Sir John to know his mind.\n\n[Exit MRS. FORD.]\n\nI'll to the Doctor; he hath my good will,\nAnd none but he, to marry with Nan Page.\nThat Slender, though well landed, is an idiot;\nAnd he my husband best of all affects:\nThe Doctor is well money'd, and his friends\nPotent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,\nThough twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Back at the Ford's house, the married couples have a good laugh about the pranks that have been played on Falstaff. Ford apologizes to his wife and vows never to mistrust her again. They all agree that the \"merry wives\" should punk Falstaff again, just to make sure he's learned his lesson about preying on honest housewives. Mistress Page remembers an old folktale about \"Herne the hunter,\" a spooky ghost that haunts Windsor Forest at night during the winter. Apparently, \"Herne the hunter\" walks around an old oak tree at midnight, rattling his chains, bewitching the local cattle, and scaring the you-know-what out of the locals--especially old people who still believe in ghosts. Mistress Ford suggests that they get Falstaff to wear a set of horns on his head and meet them at the old haunted oak at midnight. Mistress Page says she'll get her son and daughter and a bunch of little kids to dress up like \"urchins, oafs, and fairies\" to scare Falstaff by singing some crazy song and pinching him until he confesses that he's been trying to seduce Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. Falstaff will be totally humiliated in front of EVERYONE. Good times! Evans volunteers to be the children's drama coach and runs off to help them get ready. Meanwhile, Ford runs off to buy costumes and masks for the kids. Page is totally psyched. He makes plans to use the prank as an opportunity to help Slender elope with Anne during all the confusion. Mistress Page has a similar idea. Since Anne will be wearing a disguise during the prank, she thinks it's the perfect time for Caius to run away with her without anybody noticing. This is going to work out well."}, {"": "188", "document": "In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again, in\nthis world, should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I\nhad lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr.\nBruce wished the child to visit some of her mother's relatives in England,\n      and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless\n      one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be\n      happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in\n      this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left\n      Ellen to remain in the house with my friend and go to school.\n\n      We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage\n      of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the\n      Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had\n      seen in American hotels; but my situation was indescribably more pleasant.\n      For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated\n      according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as\n      if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. Ensconced in a\n      pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow, for\n      the first time, with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated\n      freedom.\n\n      As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the\n      wonders of that great city; but I watched the tide of life that flowed\n      through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in\n      our Southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days\n      with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to\n      accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English\n      education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight\n      in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates\n      and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good\n      management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did\n      not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all\n      children--sometimes docile and sometimes wayward.\n\n      We next went to Steventon, in Berkshire. It was a small town, said to be\n      the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six\n      shillings, and seven shillings, a week, and women for sixpence, and\n      sevenpence, a day, out of which they boarded themselves. Of course they\n      lived in the most primitive manner; it could not be otherwise, where a\n      woman's wages for an entire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat.\n      They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest\n      fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United\n      States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the\n      poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the\n      poorest poor. But when I visited them in their little thatched cottages, I\n      felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them\n      was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America.\n      They labored hard; but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars\n      were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer, through heat and\n      cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble; but\n      they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come, in the dead of\n      night, and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his\n      cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer\n      could come and take from him his wife, or his daughter. They must separate\n      to earn their living; but the parents knew where their children were going,\n      and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and\n      wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land\n      to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor\n      people. Schools were established among them, and benevolent societies were\n      active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law\n      forbidding them to learn to read and write; and if they helped each other\n      in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as\n      was the case with myself and poor, pious, old uncle Fred. I repeat that the\n      most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousand fold\n      better off than the most pampered American slave.\n\n      I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to\n      paint their condition so rose-colored as the Hon. Miss Murray paints the\n      condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of _my_\n      experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If\n      she were to lay aside her title, and, instead of visiting among the\n      fashionable, become domesticated, as a poor governess, on some plantation\n      in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her\n      tell quite a different story.\n\n      My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my\n      having there received strong religious impressions. The contemptuous manner\n      in which the communion had been administered to colored people, in my\n      native place; the church membership of Dr. Flint, and others like him; and\n      the buying and selling of slaves, by professed ministers of the gospel, had\n      given me a prejudice against the Episcopal church. The whole service seemed\n      to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a\n      clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life\n      inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace\n      entered my heart, and I knelt at the communion table, I trust, in true\n      humility of soul.\n\n      I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated.\n      During all that time, I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice\n      against color. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to\n      return to America.\n\n\n", "summary": "Mrs. Bruce dies. This is really sad for Linda, and a little nerve-wracking for us. What's Linda going to do now? Luckily, Mr. Bruce keeps her on as a nurse for little Mary. They all travel to England, so Mary can be with her relatives. Linda notices that the English poor are oppressed, but they're still better off than American slaves. They've got homes, access to education, and legal protection. Linda stays in England for ten months and never encounters racial prejudice."}, {"": "189", "document": "SCENE 5.\n\nA room in the Garter Inn.\n\n[Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH.]\n\nFALSTAFF.\nBardolph, I say,--\n\nBARDOLPH.\nHere, sir.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nGo fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in 't.\n\n[Exit BARDOLPH.]\n\nHave I lived to be carried in a basket, and to be thrown in the\nThames like a barrow of butcher's offal? Well, if I be served such\nanother trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and give\nthem to a dog for a new year's gift. The rogues slighted me into\nthe river with as little remorse as they would have drowned a blind\nbitch's puppies, fifteen i' the litter; and you may know by my size\nthat I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were as\ndeep as hell I should down. I had been drowned but that the shore\nwas shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor, for the water swells\na man; and what a thing should I have been when had been swelled!\nI should have been a mountain of mummy.\n\n[Re-enter BARDOLPH, with the sack.]\n\nBARDOLPH.\nHere's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nCome, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water; for my belly's\nas cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins.\nCall her in.\n\nBARDOLPH.\nCome in, woman.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nBy your leave. I cry you mercy. Give your worship good morrow.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nTake away these chalices. Go, brew me a pottle of sack finely.\n\nBARDOLPH.\nWith eggs, sir?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nSimple of itself; I'll no pullet-sperm in my brewage. \n\n[Exit BARDOLPH.]\n\nHow now!\n\nQUICKLY.\nMarry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nMistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford;\nI have my belly full of ford.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAlas the day! good heart, that was not her fault: she does so take\non with her men; they mistook their erection.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nSo did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's promise.\n\nQUICKLY.\nWell, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to\nsee it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding; she desires you\nonce more to come to her between eight and nine; I must carry her\nword quickly. She'll make you amends, I warrant you.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWell, I will visit her. Tell her so; and bid her think what a man\nis; let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit.\n\nQUICKLY.\nI will tell her.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nDo so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou?\n\nQUICKLY.\nEight and nine, sir.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWell, be gone; I will not miss her.\n\nQUICKLY.\nPeace be with you, sir.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nFALSTAFF.\nI marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within.\nI like his money well. O! here he comes.\n\n[Enter FORD disguised.]\n\nFORD.\nBless you, sir!\n\nFALSTAFF.\nNow, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me\nand Ford's wife?\n\nFORD.\nThat, indeed, Sir John, is my business.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nMaster Brook, I will not lie to you: I was at her house the hour\nshe appointed me.\n\nFORD.\nAnd how sped you, sir?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nVery ill-favouredly, Master Brook.\n\nFORD.\nHow so, sir? did she change her determination?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nNo. Master Brook; but the peaking cornuto her husband, Master Brook,\ndwelling in a continual 'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant\nof our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as\nit were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a\nrabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his\ndistemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife's love.\n\nFORD.\nWhat! while you were there?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWhile I was there.\n\nFORD.\nAnd did he search for you, and could not find you?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nYou shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress\nPage; gives intelligence of Ford's approach; and, in her invention\nand Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.\n\nFORD.\nA buck-basket!\n\nFALSTAFF.\nBy the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul shirts and\nsmocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins, that, Master Brook,\nthere was the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever\noffended nostril.\n\nFORD.\nAnd how long lay you there?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nNay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring\nthis woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket,\na couple of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their\nmistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane;\nthey took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their\nmaster in the door; who asked them once or twice what they had in\ntheir basket. I quaked for fear lest the lunatic knave would have\nsearched it; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his\nhand. Well, on went he for a search, and away went I for foul\nclothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs\nof three several deaths: first, an intolerable fright to be\ndetected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compassed\nlike a good bilbo in the circumference of a peck, hilt to\npoint, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong\ndistillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own\ngrease: think of that; a man of my kidney, think of that, that am\nas subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and\nthaw: it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation. And in the height\nof this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like\na Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing\nhot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that, hissing hot,\nthink of that, Master Brook!\n\nFORD.\nIn good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered\nall this. My suit, then, is desperate; you'll undertake her no more.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nMaster Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into\nThames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning\ngone a-birding; I have received from her another embassy of\nmeeting; 'twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook.\n\nFORD.\n'Tis past eight already, sir.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nIs it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at\nyour convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed, and the\nconclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her: adieu. You\nshall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nFORD.\nHum! ha! Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep? Master Ford,\nawake; awake, Master Ford. There's a hole made in your best coat,\nMaster Ford. This 'tis to be married; this 'tis to have linen and\nbuck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now\ntake the lecher; he is at my house. He cannot scape me; 'tis\nimpossible he should; he cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor\ninto a pepper box; but, lest the devil that guides him should aid\nhim, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot\navoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame; if I\nhave horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me; I'll be\nhorn-mad.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Falstaff tells Bardolph to get him some wine and a piece of toast. He speaks with disgust of his ordeal in being tossed into the river. Quickly enters, and Falstaff responds coldly to her. Quickly then explains that Mrs. Ford has told her that the men made a mistake in throwing the basket into the river. It was not her fault, and she is upset about it. She sends word that her husband will be out hunting birds from eight to nine, and she desires to see Falstaff again. Falstaff agrees to try again. . Ford enters, disguised again as Brook. He inquires about what happened between Falstaff and Mrs. Page. Falstaff tells him the entire truth, including another long speech about the discomfort and indignity he suffered in the basket. Ford assumes that Falstaff will no longer be pursuing Mrs. Ford, but Falstaff tells him of the new plan. It is past eight o'clock so he is ready to depart. He promises Brook again that he, Brook, will enjoy Ford's wife. . After Falstaff exits, Ford is once more beside himself with jealousy and vows that Falstaff will not escape this time. ."}, {"": "190", "document": "INCIDENT OF THE LETTER\n\nIT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to\nDr. Jekyll's door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and\ncarried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had\nonce been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known\nas the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought\nthe house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own\ntastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the\ndestination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the\nfirst time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his\nfriend's quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with\ncuriosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness\nas he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now\nlying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus,\nthe floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and\nthe light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further\nend, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize;\n\n36)\n\nand through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the\ndoctor's cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass\npresses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a\nbusiness table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty\nwindows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was\nset lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog\nbegan to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr.\nJekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor,\nbut held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice.\n\n\"And now,\" said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, \"you\nhave heard the news?\"\n\nThe doctor shuddered. \"They were crying it in the square,\" he said.\n\"I heard them in my dining-room.\"\n\n\"One word,\" said the lawyer. \"Carew was my client, but so are you,\nand I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to\nhide this fellow?\"\n\n\"Utterson, I swear to God,\" cried the doctor, \"I swear to God I\nwill never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am\ndone with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does\nnot want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is\nquite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.\"\n\n\nThe lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend's feverish\nmanner. \"You seem pretty\n\n37)\n\nsure of him,\" said he; \"and for your sake, I hope you may be right.\nIf it came to a trial, your name might appear.\"\n\n\"I am quite sure of him,\" replied Jekyll; \"I have grounds for\ncertainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing\non which you may advise me. I have--I have received a letter; and\nI am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like\nto leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am\nsure; I have so great a trust in you.\"\n\n\"You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?\" asked\nthe lawyer.\n\n\"No,\" said the other. \"I cannot say that I care what becomes of\nHyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character,\nwhich this hateful business has rather exposed.\"\n\nUtterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend's\nselfishness, and yet relieved by it. \"Well,\" said he, at last, \"let\nme see the letter.\"\n\nThe letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed \"Edward\nHyde\": and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer's\nbenefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a\nthousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as\nhe had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The\nlawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the\nintimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of\nhis past suspicions.\n\n38)\n\n\n\"Have you the envelope?\" he asked.\n\n\"I burned it,\" replied Jekyll, \"before I thought what I was about.\nBut it bore no postmark. The note was handed in.\"\n\n\"Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?\" asked Utterson.\n\n\"I wish you to judge for me entirely,\" was the reply. \"I have lost\nconfidence in myself.\"\n\n\"Well, I shall consider,\" returned the lawyer. \"And now one word\nmore: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that\ndisappearance?\"\n\nThe doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his\nmouth tight and nodded.\n\n\"I knew it,\" said Utterson. \"He meant to murder you. You have had a\nfine escape.\"\n\n\"I have had what is far more to the purpose,\" returned the doctor\nsolemnly: \"I have had a lesson--O God, Utterson, what a lesson I\nhave had!\" And he covered his face for a moment with his hands.\n\nOn his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with\nPoole. \"By the by,\" said he, \"there was a letter handed in to-day:\nwhat was the messenger like?\" But Poole was positive nothing had\ncome except by post; \"and only circulars by that,\" he added.\n\nThis news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the\nletter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had\nbeen\n\n39)\n\nwritten in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently\njudged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went,\nwere crying themselves hoarse along the footways: \"Special edition.\nShocking murder of an M. P.\" That was the funeral oration of one\nfriend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest\nthe good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the\nscandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make;\nand self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing\nfor advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought,\nit might be fished for.\n\nPresently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr.\nGuest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a\nnicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular\nold wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his\nhouse. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where\nthe lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and\nsmother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town's life\nwas still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a\nmighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the\nacids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with\ntime, As the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of\nhot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free\n\n40)\n\nand to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted.\nThere was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest;\nand he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest\nhad often been on business to the doctor's; he knew Poole; he could\nscarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde's familiarity about the\nhouse; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he\nshould see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all\nsince Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would\nconsider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a\nman of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a document without\ndropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his\nfuture course.\n\n\"This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,\"\nreturned Guest. \"The man, of course, was mad.\"\n\n\"I should like to hear your views on that,\" replied Utterson. \"I\nhave a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves,\nfor I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at\nthe best. But there it is; quite in your way a murderer's\nautograph.\"\n\nGuest's eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it\nwith passion. \"No, sir,\" he said: \"not mad; but it is an odd hand.\"\n\n41)\n\n\"And by all accounts a very odd writer,\" added the lawyer.\n\nJust then the servant entered with a note.\n\n\"Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?\" inquired the clerk. \"I thought I\nknew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?\"\n\n\"Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?\"\n\n\"One moment. I thank you, sir\"; and the clerk laid the two sheets\nof paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. \"Thank\nyou, sir,\" he said at last, returning both; \"it's a very\ninteresting autograph.\"\n\nThere was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with\nhimself. \"Why did you compare them, Guest?\" he inquired suddenly.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" returned the clerk, \"there's a rather singular\nresemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only\ndifferently sloped.\"\n\n\"Rather quaint,\" said Utterson.\n\n\"It is, as you say, rather quaint,\" returned Guest.\n\n\"I wouldn't speak of this note, you know,\" said the master.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said the clerk. \"I understand.\"\n\nBut no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the\nnote into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward.\n\"What!\" he thought. \"Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!\" And his\nblood ran cold in his veins.\n\n\n\n42)\n\n\n", "summary": "\"Incident of the Letter\" Utterson calls on Jekyll, whom he finds in his laboratory looking deathly ill. Jekyll feverishly claims that Hyde has left and that their relationship has ended. He also assures Utterson that the police shall never find the man. Jekyll then shows Utterson a letter and asks him what he should do with it, since he fears it could damage his reputation if he turns it over to the police. The letter is from Hyde, assuring Jekyll that he has means of escape, that Jekyll should not worry about him, and that he deems himself unworthy of Jekyll's great generosity. Utterson asks if Hyde dictated the terms of Jekyll's will--especially its insistence that Hyde inherit in the event of Jekyll's -\"disappearance. Jekyll replies in the affirmative, and Utterson tells his friend that Hyde probably meant to murder him and that he has had a near escape. He takes the letter and departs. On his way out, Utterson runs into Poole, the butler, and asks him to describe the man who delivered the letter; Poole, taken aback, claims to have no knowledge of any letters being delivered other than the usual mail. That night, over drinks, Utterson consults his trusted clerk, Mr. Guest, who is an expert on handwriting. Guest compares Hyde's letter with some of Jekyll's own writing and suggests that the same hand inscribed both; Hyde's script merely leans in the opposite direction, as if for the purpose of concealment. Utterson reacts with alarm at the thought that Jekyll would forge a letter for a murderer."}, {"": "191", "document": "Cyrano, Roxane.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Blessed be the moment when you condescend--\n  Remembering that humbly I exist--\n  To come to meet me, and to say. . .to tell?. . .\n\nROXANE (who has unmasked):\n  To thank you first of all.  That dandy count,\n  Whom you checkmated in brave sword-play\n  Last night,. . .he is the man whom a great lord,\n  Desirous of my favor. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ha, De Guiche?\n\nROXANE (casting down her eyes):\n  Sought to impose on me. . .for husband. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay!  Husband!--dupe-husband!. . .Husband a la mode!\n(Bowing):\n  Then I fought, happy chance! sweet lady, not\n  For my ill favor--but your favors fair!\n\nROXANE:\n  Confession next!. . .But, ere I make my shrift,\n  You must be once again that brother-friend\n  With whom I used to play by the lake-side!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, you would come each spring to Bergerac!\n\nROXANE:\n  Mind you the reeds you cut to make your swords?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  While you wove corn-straw plaits for your dolls' hair!\n\nROXANE:\n  Those were the days of games!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  And blackberries!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  In those days you did everything I bid!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Roxane, in her short frock, was Madeleine. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Was I fair then?\n\nCYRANO:\n  You were not ill to see!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ofttimes, with hands all bloody from a fall,\n  You'd run to me!  Then--aping mother-ways--\n  I, in a voice would-be severe, would chide,--\n(She takes his hand):\n  'What is this scratch, again, that I see here?'\n(She starts, surprised):\n  Oh!  'Tis too much!  What's this?\n(Cyrano tries to draw away his hand):\n  No, let me see!\n  At your age, fie!  Where did you get that scratch?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I got it--playing at the Porte de Nesle.\n\nROXANE (seating herself by the table, and dipping her handkerchief in a glass\nof water):\n  Give here!\n\nCYRANO (sitting by her):\n  So soft! so gay maternal-sweet!\n\nROXANE:\n  And tell me, while I wipe away the blood,\n  How many 'gainst you?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh!  A hundred--near.\n\nROXANE:\n  Come, tell me!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, let be.  But you, come tell\n  The thing, just now, you dared not. . .\n\nROXANE (keeping his hand):\n  Now, I dare!\n  The scent of those old days emboldens me!\n  Yes, now I dare.  Listen.  I am in love.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  But with one who knows not.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Not yet.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  But who, if he knows not, soon shall learn.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  A poor youth who all this time has loved\n  Timidly, from afar, and dares not speak. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Leave your hand; why, it is fever-hot!--\n  But I have seen love trembling on his lips.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE (bandaging his hand with her handkerchief):\n  And to think of it! that he by chance--\n  Yes, cousin, he is of your regiment!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE (laughing):\n  --Is cadet in your own company!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  On his brow he bears the genius-stamp;\n  He is proud, noble, young, intrepid, fair. . .\n\nCYRANO (rising suddenly, very pale):\n  Fair!\n\nROXANE:\n  Why, what ails you?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Nothing; 'tis. . .\n(He shows his hand, smiling):\n  This scratch!\n\nROXANE:\n  I love him; all is said.  But you must know\n  I have only seen him at the Comedy. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  How?  You have never spoken?\n\nROXANE:\n  Eyes can speak.\n\nCYRANO:\n  How know you then that he. . .?\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh! people talk\n  'Neath the limes in the Place Royale. . .\n  Gossip's chat\n  Has let me know. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  He is cadet?\n\nROXANE:\n  In the Guards.\n\nCYRANO:\n  His name?\n\nROXANE:\n  Baron Christian de Neuvillette.\n\nCYRANO:\n  How now?. . .He is not of the Guards!\n\nROXANE:\n  To-day\n  He is not join your ranks, under Captain\n  Carbon de Castel-Jaloux.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah, how quick,\n  How quick the heart has flown!. . .But, my poor child. . .\n\nTHE DUENNA (opening the door):\n  The cakes are eaten, Monsieur Bergerac!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Then read the verses printed on the bags!\n(She goes out):\n  . . .My poor child, you who love but flowing words,\n  Bright wit,--what if he be a lout unskilled?\n\nROXANE:\n  No, his bright locks, like D'Urfe's heroes. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!\n  A well-curled pate, and witless tongue, perchance!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah no!  I guess--I feel--his words are fair!\n\nCYRANO:\n  All words are fair that lurk 'neath fair mustache!\n  --Suppose he were a fool!. . .\n\nROXANE (stamping her foot):\n  Then bury me!\n\nCYRANO (after a pause):\n  Was it to tell me this you brought me here?\n  I fail to see what use this serves, Madame.\n\nROXANE:\n  Nay, but I felt a terror, here, in the heart,\n  On learning yesterday you were Gascons\n  All of your company. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  And we provoke\n  All beardless sprigs that favor dares admit\n  'Midst us pure Gascons--(pure!  Heaven save the mark!\n  They told you that as well?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!  Think how I\n  Trembled for him!\n\nCYRANO (between his teeth):\n  Not causelessly!\n\nROXANE:\n  But when\n  Last night I saw you,--brave, invincible,--\n  Punish that dandy, fearless hold your own\n  Against those brutes, I thought--I thought, if he\n  Whom all fear, all--if he would only. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Good.\n  I will befriend your little Baron.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!\n  You'll promise me you will do this for me?\n  I've always held you as a tender friend.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, ay.\n\nROXANE:\n  Then you will be his friend?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I swear!\n\nROXANE:\n  And he shall fight no duels, promise!\n\nCYRANO:\n  None.\n\nROXANE:\n  You are kind, cousin!  Now I must be gone.\n(She puts on her mask and veil quickly; then, absently):\n  You have not told me of your last night's fray.\n  Ah, but it must have been a hero-fight!. . .\n  --Bid him to write.\n(She sends him a kiss with her fingers):\n  How good you are!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay!  Ay!\n\nROXANE:\n  A hundred men against you?  Now, farewell.--\n  We are great friends?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, ay!\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh, bid him write!\n  You'll tell me all one day--A hundred men!--\n  Ah, brave!. . .How brave!\n\nCYRANO (bowing to her):\n  I have fought better since.\n\n(She goes out.  Cyrano stands motionless, with eyes on the ground.  A silence.\nThe door (right) opens.  Ragueneau looks in.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano and Roxane begin to talk alone. Cyrano anxiously asks Roxane to state why she has come to talk to him. She shrugs off his insistence, and they reminisce about the childhood summers they spent together. She tends to his wounded hand, and Cyrano tells her he injured it in a fight the night before in which he defeated a hundred men. Roxane confesses to Cyrano that she is in love with someone, a man who does not know she loves him. Cyrano thinks she means him, but when she describes the man as \"handsome,\" he knows that she means someone else. She tells him that she is in love with Christian, the new member of Cyrano's company of guards. She says that she is afraid for Christian because Cyrano's company is composed of hot-blooded Gascons who pick fights with anyone foreign. Christian is not a Gascon. Roxane asks Cyrano to protect him, and Cyrano agrees. She also asks Cyrano to have Christian write to her. Professing friendly love and admiration for Cyrano, she leaves."}, {"": "192", "document": "THE SECOND NIGHT\n\n\nThe roosters crowed and the hens clucked; the farmer's wife began to get\nbreakfast, and the four children slept on. Dinner time came and went,\nand still they slept, for it must be remembered that they had been awake\nand walking during the whole night. In fact, it was nearly seven o'clock\nin the evening when they awoke. Luckily, all the others awoke before\nBenny.\n\n\"Can you hear me, Jess?\" said Henry, speaking very low through the wall\nof hay.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Jess softly. \"Let's make one big room of our nests.\"\n\nNo sooner said than done. The boy and girl worked quickly and quietly\nuntil they could see each other. They pressed the hay back firmly until\nthey had made their way into Violet's little room. And then she in turn\ngroped until she found Benny.\n\n\"Hello, little Cinnamon!\" whispered Violet playfully.\n\nAnd Benny at once made up his mind to laugh instead of cry. But laughing\nout loud was almost as bad, so Henry took his little brother on the hay\nbeside him and talked to him seriously.\n\n\"You're old enough now, Benny, to understand what I say to you. Now,\nlisten! When I tell you to _keep still_ after this, that means you're to\nstop crying if you're crying, or stop laughing if you're laughing, and\nbe just as still as you possibly can. If you don't mind, you will be in\ndanger. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Don't I have to mind Jess and Violet too?\" asked Benny.\n\n\"Absolutely!\" said Henry. \"You have to mind us all, every one of us!\"\n\nBenny thought a minute. \"Can't I ask for what I want any more?\" he said.\n\n\"Indeed you can!\" cried Jess and Henry together. \"What is it you want?\"\n\n\"I'm _awful_ hungry,\" said Benny anxiously.\n\nHenry's brow cleared. \"Good old Benny,\" he said. \"We're just going to\nhave supper--or is it breakfast?\"\n\nJess drew out the fragrant loaf of bread. She cut it with Henry's\njackknife into four quarters, and she and Henry took the two crusty ends\nthemselves.\n\n\"That's because we have to be the strongest, and crusts make you\nstrong,\" explained Jess.\n\nViolet looked at her older sister. She thought she knew why Jess took\nthe crust, but she did not speak.\n\n\"We will stay here till dark, and then we'll go on with our journey,\"\nsaid Henry cheerfully.\n\n\"I want a drink,\" announced Benny.\n\n\"A drink you shall have,\" Henry promised, \"but you'll have to wait till\nit's really dark. If we should creep out to the brook now, and any one\nsaw us--\" He did not finish his sentence, but Benny realized that he\nmust wait.\n\nHe was much refreshed from his long sleep, and felt very lively. Violet\nhad all she could do to keep him amused, even with Cinnamon Bear and his\nfive brothers.\n\nAt last Henry peeped out. It was after nine o'clock. There were lights\nin the farmhouse still, but they were all upstairs.\n\n\"We can at least get a drink now,\" he said. And the children crept\nquietly to the noisy little brook not far from the haystack.\n\n\"Cup,\" said Benny.\n\n\"No, you'll have to lie down and drink with your mouth,\" Jess explained.\nAnd so they did. Never did water taste so cool and delicious as it did\nthat night to the thirsty children.\n\nWhen they had finished drinking they jumped the brook, ran quickly over\nthe fields to the wall, and once more found themselves on the road.\n\n\"If we meet any one,\" said Jess, \"we must all crouch behind bushes until\nhe has gone by.\"\n\nThey walked along in the darkness with light hearts. They were no longer\ntired or hungry. Their one thought was to get away from their\ngrandfather, if possible.\n\n\"If we can find a big town,\" said Violet, \"won't it be better to stay in\nthan a little town?\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Henry, puffing up the hill.\n\n\"Well, you see, there are so many people in a big town, nobody will\nnotice us--\"\n\n\"And in a little village everyone would be talking about us,\" finished\nHenry admiringly. \"You've got brains, Violet!\"\n\nHe had hardly said this, when a wagon was heard behind them in the\ndistance. It was coming from Middlesex. Without a word, the four\nchildren sank down behind the bushes like frightened rabbits. They could\nplainly hear their hearts beat. The horse trotted nearer, and then\nbegan to walk up the hill.\n\n\"If we hear nothing in Townsend,\" they heard a man say, \"we have plainly\ndone our duty.\"\n\nIt was the baker's voice!\n\n\"More than our duty,\" said the baker's wife, \"tiring out a horse with\ngoing a full day, from morning until night!\"\n\nThere was silence as the horse pulled the creaky wagon.\n\n\"At least we will go on to Townsend tonight,\" continued the baker, \"and\ntell them to watch out. We need not go to Intervale, for they never\ncould walk so far.\"\n\n\"We are well rid of them, I should say,\" replied his wife. \"They may not\nhave come this way. The milkman did not see them, did he?\"\n\nThe baker's reply was lost, for the horse had reached the hilltop, where\nhe broke into a canter.\n\nIt was some minutes before the children dared to creep out of the bushes\nagain.\n\n\"One thing is sure,\" said Henry, when he got his breath. \"We will not go\nto Townsend.\"\n\n\"And we _will_ go to Intervale,\" said Jess.\n\nWith a definite goal in mind at last, the children set out again with a\nbetter spirit. They walked until two o'clock in the morning, stopping\noften this time to rest and to drink from the horses' watering troughs.\nAnd then they came upon a fork in the road with a white signpost shining\nin the moonlight.\n\n\"Townsend, four miles; Intervale, six miles,\" read Henry aloud. \"Any one\nfeel able to walk six more miles?\"\n\nHe grinned. No one had the least idea how far they had already walked.\n\n\"We'll go that _way_ at least,\" said Jess finally.\n\n\"That we will,\" agreed Henry, picking up his brother for a change, and\ncarrying him \"pig-back.\"\n\nViolet went ahead. The new road was a pleasant woody one, with grass\ngrowing in the middle. The children could not see the grass, but they\ncould feel it as they walked. \"Not many people pass this way, I guess,\"\nremarked Violet. Just then she caught her toe in something and almost\nfell, but Jess caught her.\n\nThe two girls stooped down to examine the obstruction.\n\n\"Hay!\" said Jess.\n\n\"Hay!\" repeated Violet.\n\n\"Hey!\" cried Henry, coming up. \"What did you say?\"\n\n\"It must have fallen off somebody's load,\" said Jess.\n\n\"We'll take it with us,\" Henry decided wisely. \"Load on all you can\ncarry, Jess.\"\n\n\"For Benny,\" thought Violet to herself. So the odd little party trudged\non for nearly three hours, laden with hay, until they found that the\nroad ended in a cart path through the woods.\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" exclaimed Jess, almost ready to cry with disappointment.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" demanded Henry in astonishment. \"Isn't the woods a\ngood place to sleep? We can't sleep in the road, you know.\"\n\n\"It does seem nice and far away from people,\" admitted Jess, \"and it's\nalmost morning.\"\n\nAs they stood still at the entrance to the woods, they heard the rumble\nof a train. It roared down the valley at a great rate and passed them on\nthe other side of the woods, thundering along toward the city.\n\n\"Never mind the train, either,\" remarked Henry. \"It isn't so _awfully_\nnear; and even if it were, it couldn't see us.\"\n\nHe set his brother down and peered into the woods. It was very warm.\n\n\"Lizzen!\" said Benny.\n\n\"Listen!\" echoed Violet.\n\n\"More water!\" Benny cried, catching his big brother by the hand.\n\n\"It is only another brook,\" said Henry with a thankful heart. \"He wants\na drink.\" The trickle of water sounded very pleasant to all the children\nas they lay down once more to drink.\n\nBenny was too sleepy to eat. Jess quickly found a dry spot thick with\nmoss between two stones. Upon this moss the three older children spread\nthe hay in the shape of an oval bed. Benny tumbled into it with a great\nsigh of satisfaction, while his sisters tucked the hay around him.\n\n\"Pine needles up here, Jess,\" called Henry from the slope. Each of them\nquickly scraped together a fragrant pile for a pillow and once more lay\ndown to sleep, with hardly a thought of fear.\n\n\"I only hope we won't have a thunderstorm,\" said Jess to herself, as she\nshut her tired eyes.\n\nAnd she did not open them for a long time, although the dark gray clouds\npiled higher and more thickly over the sleeping children.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The children leave the baker's town and arrive at a road, walking by the light of the moon. Henry says he can carry Benny a long way, but Violet thinks they should wake him up--they'll move faster with Benny on his feet. Benny isn't exactly amenable to this plan, but when Violet turns it into a game where Benny pretends to be a little bear, he's totally on board. The children walk past dark farmhouses, and after a long time, the sun begins to rise. They decide they need to bed down somewhere. Benny is already asleep again in Henry's arms. Violet finds a haystack, and Henry declares it a great place to sleep. Sure, Henry. Sounds great. The children make sleep nests in the haystack and fall asleep right away. They're super tired. When they wake up, everyone is hungry. Guess what's on the menu? Bread. That's it. Benny is thirsty, but Henry thinks they need to wait for dark to find water. At nightfall, they make their way to a water pump and drink their fill. As they set off on the road, Jessie says they should hide in the bushes if they hear anyone--and then they immediately hear someone. Good timing, Jessie. The children hide in the bushes as planned. A horse and cart approach, and wouldn't you know, it's the baker and his wife. They're looking for the children. They say they're planning to look in Greenfield and then give up looking, which is useful info for the kids. After the baker and his wife are out of sight, the children emerge from the bushes and continue down the road. Around 2 a.m., they come to a crossroads. One road leads to Greenfield, while the other goes to Silver City. Knowing the plans of the baker and his wife, they choose Silver City. Eventually, they come to a water fountain. It has three levels: one for people, one for horses, and one for dogs. Water fountains used to be way cooler, apparently. Everyone drinks some water, and then Benny starts to complain about feeling tired. Classic Benny. Henry decides they will sleep in the woods. Jessie thinks this sounds like a great plan since the woods seem deserted. Clearly these kids have never seen a horror movie. The kids make beds out of pine needles and prepare to go to sleep. As they drift off, Jessie observes that it looks like it might rain."}, {"": "193", "document": "\nAT THE SIGN OF THE \"SPY-GLASS\"\n\n\nWhen I had done breakfasting, the squire gave me a note addressed to\nJohn Silver, at the sign of the \"Spy-glass,\" and told me I should easily\nfind the place by following the line of the docks, and keeping a bright\nlookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for a sign. I\nset off, overjoyed at this opportunity to see some more of the ships and\nseamen, and picked my way among a great crowd of people and carts and\nbales, for the dock was now at its busiest, until I found the tavern in\nquestion.\n\nIt was a bright enough little place of entertainment. The sign was newly\npainted; the windows had neat red curtains; the floor was cleanly\nsanded. There was a street on each side, and an open door on both, which\nmade the large, low room pretty clear to see in, in spite of clouds of\ntobacco smoke.\n\nThe customers were mostly seafaring men, and they talked so loudly that\nI hung at the door, almost afraid to enter.\n\nAs I was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a glance I was\nsure he must be Long John. His left leg was cut off close by the hip,\nand under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with\nwonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall\nand strong, with a face as big as a ham--plain and pale, but\nintelligent and smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits,\nwhistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a\nslap on the shoulder for the more favored of his guests.\n\nNow, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in\nSquire Trelawney's letter, I had taken a fear in my mind that he might\nprove to be the very one-legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at\nthe old \"Benbow.\" But one look at the man before me was enough. I had\nseen the captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man Pew, and I thought I\nknew what a buccaneer was like--a very different creature, according to\nme, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.\n\nI plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up\nto the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.\n\n\"Mr. Silver, sir?\" I asked, holding out the note.\n\n\"Yes, my lad,\" said he; \"such is my name, to be sure. And who may you\nbe?\" And when he saw the squire's letter he seemed to me to give\nsomething almost like a start.\n\n\"Oh!\" said he, quite aloud, and offering his hand, \"I see. You are our\nnew cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you.\"\n\nAnd he took my hand in his large firm grasp.\n\nJust then one of the customers at the far side rose suddenly and made\nfor the door. It was close by him, and he was out in the street in a\nmoment. But his hurry had attracted my notice, and I recognized him at a\nglance. It was the tallow-faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come\nfirst to the \"Admiral Benbow.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I cried, \"stop him! it's Black Dog!\"\n\n\"I don't care two coppers who he is,\" cried Silver, \"but he hasn't paid\nhis score. Harry, run and catch him.\"\n\nOne of the others who was nearest the door leaped up and started in\npursuit.\n\n\"If he were Admiral Hawke he shall pay his score,\" cried Silver; and\nthen, relinquishing my hand, \"Who did you say he was?\" he asked. \"Black\nwhat?\"\n\n\"Dog, sir,\" said I. \"Has Mr. Trelawney not told you of the buccaneers?\nHe was one of them.\"\n\n\"So?\" cried Silver. \"In my house! Ben, run and help Harry. One of those\nswabs, was he? Was that you drinking with him, Morgan? Step up here.\"\n\nThe man whom he called Morgan--an old, gray-haired, mahogany-faced\nsailor--came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.\n\n[Illustration: _\"Now, Morgan,\" said Long John, very sternly, \"you never\nclapped your eyes on that Black Dog before, did you, now?\"_ (Page 57)]\n\n\"Now, Morgan,\" said Long John, very sternly, \"you never clapped your\neyes on that Black--Black Dog before, did you, now?\"\n\n\"Not I, sir,\" said Morgan, with a salute.\n\n\"You didn't know his name, did you?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"By the powers, Tom Morgan, it's as good for you!\" exclaimed the\nlandlord. \"If you had been mixed up with the like of that, you would\nnever have put another foot in my house, you may lay to that. And what\nwas he saying to you?\"\n\n\"I don't rightly know, sir,\" answered Morgan.\n\n\"Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye?\"\ncried Long John. \"Don't rightly know, don't you? Perhaps you don't\nhappen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps? Come, now,\nwhat was he jawing--v'yages, cap'ns, ships? Pipe up! What was it?\"\n\n\"We was a-talkin' of keel-hauling,\" answered Morgan.\n\n\"Keel-hauling, was you? and a mighty suitable thing, too, and you may\nlay to that. Get back to your place for a lubber, Tom.\"\n\nAnd then, as Morgan rolled back to his seat, Silver added to me, in a\nconfidential whisper, that was very flattering, as I thought:\n\n\"He's quite an honest man, Tom Morgan, on'y stupid. And now,\" he ran on\nagain, aloud, \"let's see--Black Dog? No, I don't know the name, not I.\nYet I kind of think I've--yes, I've seen the swab. He used to come here\nwith a blind beggar, he used.\"\n\n\"That he did, you may be sure,\" said I. \"I knew that blind man, too. His\nname was Pew.\"\n\n\"It was!\" cried Silver, now quite excited. \"Pew! That were his name for\ncertain. Ah, he looked a shark, he did! If we run down this Black Dog\nnow, there'll be news for Cap'n Trelawney! Ben's a good runner; few\nseamen run better than Ben. He should run him down, hand over hand, by\nthe powers! He talked o' keel-hauling, did he? _I'll_ keel-haul him!\"\n\nAll the time he was jerking out these phrases he was stumping up and\ndown the tavern on his crutch, slapping tables with his hand, and giving\nsuch a show of excitement as would have convinced an Old Bailey judge or\na Bow Street runner. My suspicions had been thoroughly reawakened on\nfinding Black Dog at the \"Spy-glass,\" and I watched the cook narrowly.\nBut he was too deep, and too ready, and too clever for me, and by the\ntime the two men had come back out of breath, and confessed that they\nhad lost the track in a crowd, and been scolded like thieves, I would\nhave gone bail for the innocence of Long John Silver.\n\n\"See here, now, Hawkins,\" said he, \"here's a blessed hard thing on a man\nlike me, now, ain't it? There's Cap'n Trelawney--what's he to think?\nHere I have this confounded son of a Dutchman sitting in my own house,\ndrinking of my own rum! Here you comes and tells me of it plain; and\nhere I let him give us all the slip before my blessed deadlights! Now,\nHawkins, you do me justice with the cap'n. You're a lad, you are, but\nyou're as smart as paint. I see that when you first came in. Now, here\nit is: What could I do, with this old timber I hobble on? When I was an\nA B master mariner I'd have come up alongside of him, hand over hand,\nand broached him to in a brace of old shakes, I would; and now--\"\n\nAnd then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and his jaw dropped as though he\nhad remembered something.\n\n\"The score!\" he burst out. \"Three goes o' rum! Why, shiver my timbers,\nif I hadn't forgotten my score!\"\n\nAnd, falling on a bench, he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.\nI could not help joining, and we laughed together, peal after peal,\nuntil the tavern rang again.\n\n\"Why, what a precious old sea-calf I am!\" he said, at last, wiping his\ncheeks. \"You and me should get on well, Hawkins, for I'll take my davy I\nshould be rated ship's boy. But, come, now, stand by to go about. This\nwon't do. Dooty is dooty, messmates. I'll put on my old cocked hat and\nstep along of you to Cap'n Trelawney, and report this here affair. For,\nmind you, it's serious, young Hawkins; and neither you nor me's come out\nof it with what I should make so bold as to call credit. Nor you\nneither, says you; not smart--none of the pair of us smart. But dash my\nbuttons! that was a good 'un about my score.\"\n\nAnd he began to laugh again, and that so heartily, that though I did not\nsee the joke as he did, I was again obliged to join him in his mirth.\n\nOn our little walk along the quays he made himself the most interesting\ncompanion, telling me about the different ships that we passed by, their\nrig, tonnage, and nationality, explaining the work that was going\nforward--how one was discharging, another taking in cargo, and a third\nmaking ready for sea; and every now and then telling me some little\nanecdote of ships or seamen, or repeating a nautical phrase till I had\nlearned it perfectly. I began to see that here was one of the best of\npossible shipmates.\n\nWhen we got to the inn, the squire and Doctor Livesey were seated\ntogether, finishing a quart of ale with a toast in it, before they\nshould go aboard the schooner on a visit of inspection.\n\nLong John told the story from first to last, with a great deal of spirit\nand the most perfect truth. \"That was how it were, now, weren't it,\nHawkins?\" he would say, now and again, and I could always bear him\nentirely out.\n\nThe two gentlemen regretted that Black Dog had got away, but we all\nagreed there was nothing to be done, and after he had been complimented,\nLong John took up his crutch and departed.\n\n\"All hands aboard by four this afternoon!\" shouted the squire after him.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" cried the cook, in the passage.\n\n\"Well, squire,\" said Doctor Livesey, \"I don't put much faith in your\ndiscoveries, as a general thing, but I will say this--John Silver suits\nme.\"\n\n\"That man's a perfect trump,\" declared the squire.\n\n\"And now,\" added the doctor, \"Jim may come on board with us, may he\nnot?\"\n\n\"To be sure he may,\" said the squire. \"Take your hat, Hawkins, and we'll\nsee the ship.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jim was put to work night away when he is asked to deliver a note addressed to Long John Silver. Jim is overjoyed as he gets an opportunity to go outdoors. He finds his way to the Spy-glass and finds a tall, strong, smiling hunk with one good leg and the other cut off close to his hip, cheering the people at the inn. Jim is relieved to find that Long John is not the same person whom the Captain had feared as he had none of the characteristics of a buccaneer. He appeared to be a very respectable man and did not fit any of the images of a buccaneer that Jim had imagined in his dreams. Jim approaches Long John Silver and hands him the note. Just then he sees a familiar face rushing out of the Spy-glass. Jim is sure he recognizes the person as Black Dog and he informs Long John Silver about him. Long John doesnt recognize him. He cross checks with Tom Morgan, who was drinking with him. But he states that doesnt know him either. Even through Long John doesnt recognize Black Dog by name, he admits that he had see him with a blind man named Pew. He asks Ben to locate Black Dog and tells Jim that they will keel-haul him. Long John then diverts Jims attention and involves him in a conversation. Suddenly he bursts into laughter. Though Jim joins him, he doesnt get the joke. Later he figures out that Long John is laughing at himself and blaming himself for the loss of money-as Black Dog hadnt paid for his drink-and that he should takes up Jims position as a cabin boy in the ship. Silver gets friendly with Jim and him that theyll make a good company and they do. Jim finds him very informative as he talks about various ships and the work taking place on them as they walk down to the hotel where the Squire is staying. Long John Silver tells the Squire about the incident at Spy-glass and departs. He nods an O.K. in a seamans style when he is asked to be on board with the crew by four. Dr. Livesey and the Squire appreciate Long Johns personality and proceed towards the ship to make an inspection, along with Jim."}, {"": "194", "document": "HILLSBOROUGH HOUSE INEBRIATES' HOME\n\n\nUnder the guidance of Commissioner Cox I inspected a number of the\nLondon Women's Institutions of the Army, first visiting the\nHillsborough House Inebriates' Home. This Home, a beautifully clean\nand well-kept place, has accommodation for thirty patients,\ntwenty-nine beds being occupied on the day of my visit. The lady in\ncharge informed me that these patients are expected to contribute 10s.\nper week towards the cost of their maintenance; but that, as a matter\nof fact, they seldom pay so much. Generally the sum recovered varies\nfrom 7s. to 3s. per week, while a good many give nothing at all.\n\nThe work the patients do in this Home is sold and produces something\ntowards the cost of upkeep. The actual expense of the maintenance of\nthe inmates averages about 12s. 6d. a week per head, which sum\nincludes an allowance for rent. Most of the cases stay in the Home for\ntwelve months, although some remain for a shorter period. When the\ncure is completed, if they are married, the patients return to their\nhusbands. The unmarried are sent out to positions as governesses,\nnurses, or servants, that is, if the authorities of the Home are able\nto give them satisfactory characters.\n\nAs the reader who knows anything of such matters will be aware, it is\ngenerally supposed to be rather more easy to pass a camel through the\neye of a needle than to reclaim a confirmed female drunkard. Yet, as I\nhave already said, the Salvation Army, on a three years' test in each\ncase, has shown that it deals successfully with about 50 per cent of\nthose women who come into its hands for treatment as inebriates or\ndrug-takers. How is this done? Largely, of course, by effecting\nthrough religious means a change of heart and nature, as the Army\noften seems to have the power to do, and by the exercise of gentle\npersonal influences.\n\nBut there remains another aid which is physical.\n\nWith the shrewdness that distinguishes them, the Officers of the Army\nhave discovered that the practice of vegetarianism is a wonderful\nenemy to the practice of alcoholism. The vegetarian, it seems,\nconceives a bodily distaste to spirituous liquors. If they can\npersuade a patient to become a vegetarian, then the chances of her\ncure are enormously increased. Therefore, in this and in the other\nfemale Inebriate Homes no meat is served. The breakfast, which is\neaten at 7.30, consists of tea, brown and white bread and butter,\nporridge and fresh milk, or stewed fruit. A sample dinner at one\no'clock includes macaroni cheese, greens, potatoes, fruit pudding or\nplain boiled puddings with stewed figs. On one day a week, however,\nbaked or boiled fish is served with pease pudding, potatoes, and\nboiled currant pudding, and on another, brown gravy is given with\nonions in batter. Tea, which is served at six o'clock, consists--to\ntake a couple of samples--of tea, white and brown bread and butter,\nand cheese sandwiches with salad; or of tea, white and brown bread and\nbutter, savoury rolls, and apples or oranges.\n\nIt will be observed that this diet is as simple as it well can be; but\nI think it right to add, after personal inspection, that the inmates\nappear to thrive on it extremely well. Certainly all whom I saw looked\nwell nourished and healthy.\n\nA book is kept in the Home in which the details of each case are\ncarefully entered, together with its record for two years after\ndischarge. Here are the particulars of three cases taken by me at\nhazard from this book which will serve to indicate the class of\npatient that is treated at this Home. Of course, I omit the names:--\n\n     _A.B._ Aged thirty-one. Her mother, who was a drunkard and\n     gave A.B. drink in her childhood, died some time ago. A.B.\n     drove her father, who was in good circumstances, having a\n     large business, to madness by her inebriety. Indeed, he\n     tried to commit suicide by hanging himself, but, oddly\n     enough, it was A.B. who cut him down, and he was sent to an\n     asylum. A.B. had fallen very low since her mother's death;\n     but I do not give these details. All the members of her\n     family drank, except, strange to say, the father, who at the\n     date of my visit was in the asylum. A.B. had been in the\n     Home some time, and was giving every satisfaction. It was\n     hoped that she will be quite cured.\n\n     _C.D._ Aged thirty. C.D.'s father, a farmer, was a moderate\n     drinker, her mother was a temperance woman. Her parents\n     discovered her craving for drink about ten years ago. She\n     was unable to keep any situation on account of this failing.\n     Four years ago C.D. was sent to an Inebriate Home for twelve\n     months, but no cure was effected. Afterwards she\n     disappeared, having been dismissed from her place, and was\n     found again for the mother by the Salvation Army. At the\n     time of my visit she had been six months in the Home, and\n     was doing well.\n\n     _E.F._ Aged forty-eight; was the widow of a professional\n     man, whom she married as his second wife, and by whom she\n     had two children, one of whom survives. She began to drink\n     before her husband's death, and this tendency was increased\n     by family troubles that arose over his will. She mismanaged\n     his business and lost everything, drank heavily and\n     despaired. She tried to keep a boarding house, but her\n     furniture was seized and she came absolutely to the end of\n     her resources, her own daughter being sent away to her\n     relatives. E.F. was nine months in the Hillsborough Home,\n     and had gone as cook and housekeeper to a situation, where\n     she also was giving every satisfaction.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "While on sick leave, Dr. Rivers visits his brother Charles, a chicken farmer. They attend church together, during which Dr. Rivers fixates on Christ's crucifixion and Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac on the stained glass windows. The psychologist notes that Abraham and his son look smug. He reflects that \"the bargain\" of civilization is the promise that if sons are totally obedient to their fathers, they will one day inherit their fathers' world. Yet Dr. Rivers is disturbed, knowing that the war is ensuring that very few sons will be left to step into their father's places. Later in the day, Dr. Rivers helps Charles move hens into a new coop. That evening, Charles and his wife leave for dinner while Dr. Rivers stays home alone and looks over their accounts. He struggles to write a letter to Sassoon but abandons the task. Dr. Rivers notices a painting of the Apostles of the Pentecost receiving the gift of tongues. It used to belong his father, a priest and speech therapist. Rivers feels that the apostles look \"unchristianly smug\". He remembers rejecting his father's approach to treating speech impediments with physical exercises and giving a lecture to his father's speech therapy group denouncing the Bible and promoting evolution. That was the first time Dr. Rivers's father was able to hear the content of his son's speech and not just his stuttering delivery. Despite his youthful rebellion, Dr. Rivers realizes that he is a lot like his father: a therapist who treats men with stutters. After reminiscing, the psychologist finally pushes himself to start the letter to Sassoon. Owen comes to Sassoon with a heavily revised poem, Anthem for Doomed Youth, which Sassoon loves, describing it as \"a revelation\". Yet the lieutenant has one misgiving: the poem argues there can be no consolation for the damage wrought by the war, but the ending indicates the soldier's pride in having participated in the war. Owen defends the ending, claiming that Sassoon's poems often contain the same contradiction. Back in town, Sarah and her co-worker Madge go to the hospital to visit Madge's wounded fiance, who is in a ward filled with mildly injured and brightly optimistic young soldiers. Sarah leaves Madge alone with her fiance so they can have some privacy and wanders into the back lawn of the hospital. She sees a greenhouse, which she thinks might be a good place to rest. However, Sarah quickly realizes the structure is filled with badly wounded and disfigured men. She exits in a panic and reflects that the sudden presence of a \"pretty girl\" might serve to remind the men of their condition. She feels angry that these men are hidden from sight. Meanwhile, Prior is in the same hospital to have his asthma assessed. The doctor treats him poorly, insinuating that \"nerves\" aren't a legitimate reason to leave combat. Prior is given a card and told to return for the results of his tests in three weeks. As Prior exits the hospital, he sees Sarah emerging from behind the building and realizes how fond he is of her. They greet each other happily and Sarah runs to tell Madge that she is leaving with Billy. When she returns, Prior gives her a freshly-purchased bouquet of flowers. Dr. Rivers visits his good friend Henry Head, the man on whom he experimented to chart nerve regeneration. He has an amiable chat with Head's wife before his meeting with his old co-worker. Head tries to convince Dr. Rivers to leave Craiglockhart and accept a more prestigious position studying patients with spinal injuries at the Central Hospital in London. Dr. Rivers initially rejects the offer, insisting that he cannot abandon Bryce. However, Head pushes him to reconsider, arguing that Craiglockhart is isolating him"}, {"": "195", "document": "\n'And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning;\neh?' said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the\nbreakfast-table.  'Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two\nhalf-hours together!'\n\n'You will tell me a different tale one of these days,' said Harry,\ncolouring without any perceptible reason.\n\n'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr. Losberne; 'though\nI confess I don't think I shall.  But yesterday morning you had made up\nyour mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your\nmother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce\nthat you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I\ngo, on your road to London.  And at night, you urge me, with great\nmystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of\nwhich is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when\nhe ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all\nkinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?'\n\n'I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and\nMr. Maylie went away, sir,' rejoined Oliver.\n\n'That's a fine fellow,' said the doctor; 'you shall come and see me\nwhen you return.  But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication\nfrom the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be\ngone?'\n\n'The great nobs,' replied Harry, 'under which designation, I presume,\nyou include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at\nall, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it\nlikely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate\nattendance among them.'\n\n'Well,' said the doctor, 'you are a queer fellow.  But of course they\nwill get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and\nthese sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political\nlife.  There's something in that.  Good training is always desirable,\nwhether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.'\n\nHarry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue\nby one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a\nlittle; but he contented himself with saying, 'We shall see,' and\npursued the subject no farther.  The post-chaise drove up to the door\nshortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good\ndoctor bustled out, to see it packed.\n\n'Oliver,' said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, 'let me speak a word with\nyou.'\n\nOliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him;\nmuch surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which\nhis whole behaviour displayed.\n\n'You can write well now?' said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.\n\n'I hope so, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would\nwrite to me--say once a fort-night:  every alternate Monday: to the\nGeneral Post Office in London.  Will you?'\n\n'Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,' exclaimed Oliver,\ngreatly delighted with the commission.\n\n'I should like to know how--how my mother and Miss Maylie are,' said\nthe young man; 'and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks\nyou take, and what you talk about, and whether she--they, I mean--seem\nhappy and quite well. You understand me?'\n\n'Oh! quite, sir, quite,' replied Oliver.\n\n'I would rather you did not mention it to them,' said Harry, hurrying\nover his words; 'because it might make my mother anxious to write to me\noftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret\nbetween you and me; and mind you tell me everything!  I depend upon\nyou.'\n\nOliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance,\nfaithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications.\nMr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and\nprotection.\n\nThe doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should\nbe left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants\nwere in the garden, looking on.  Harry cast one slight glance at the\nlatticed window, and jumped into the carriage.\n\n'Drive on!' he cried, 'hard, fast, full gallop!  Nothing short of\nflying will keep pace with me, to-day.'\n\n'Halloa!' cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great\nhurry, and shouting to the postillion; 'something very short of flying\nwill keep pace with _me_.  Do you hear?'\n\nJingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible,\nand its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound\nits way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly\ndisappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects,\nor the intricacies of the way, permitted.  It was not until even the\ndusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed.\n\nAnd there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot\nwhere the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away;\nfor, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when\nHarry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.\n\n'He seems in high spirits and happy,' she said, at length. 'I feared\nfor a time he might be otherwise.  I was mistaken.  I am very, very\nglad.'\n\nTears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed\ndown Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in\nthe same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.\n\n\n", "summary": "Harry, Losberne, and Oliver sat at breakfast discussing the departure of the former two. Losberne was headed to London, and Harry asked to escort him there. Harry asked Oliver to write him every other Monday so that he could know what was happening with Rose and his mother. Oliver was delighted that he could do something of importance and promises to keep the letters a secret. Harry leaves and Rose watches him through the upstairs window, pretending to be happy, but very sad he is going"}, {"": "196", "document": "SCENE III\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE\n\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  What's this? I hear of fearful mysteries!\n\n  ORGON\n  Strange things indeed, for my own eyes to witness;\n  You see how I'm requited for my kindness,\n  I zealously receive a wretched beggar,\n  I lodge him, entertain him like my brother,\n  Load him with benefactions every day,\n  Give him my daughter, give him all my fortune:\n  And he meanwhile, the villain, rascal, wretch,\n  Tries with black treason to suborn my wife,\n  And not content with such a foul design,\n  He dares to menace me with my own favours,\n  And would make use of those advantages\n  Which my too foolish kindness armed him with,\n  To ruin me, to take my fortune from me,\n  And leave me in the state I saved him from.\n\n  DORINE\n  Poor man!\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  My son, I cannot possibly\n  Believe he could intend so black a deed.\n\n  ORGON\n  What?\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Worthy men are still the sport of envy.\n\n  ORGON\n  Mother, what do you mean by such a speech?\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  There are strange goings-on about your house,\n  And everybody knows your people hate him.\n\n  ORGON\n  What's that to do with what I tell you now?\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  I always said, my son, when you were little:\n  That virtue here below is hated ever;\n  The envious may die, but envy never.\n\n  ORGON\n  What's that fine speech to do with present facts?\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Be sure, they've forged a hundred silly lies ...\n\n  ORGON\n  I've told you once, I saw it all myself.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  For slanderers abound in calumnies ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Mother, you'd make me damn my soul. I tell you\n  I saw with my own eyes his shamelessness.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Their tongues for spitting venom never lack,\n  There's nothing here below they'll not attack.\n\n  ORGON\n  Your speech has not a single grain of sense.\n  I saw it, harkee, saw it, with these eyes\n  I saw--d'ye know what saw means?--must I say it\n  A hundred times, and din it in your ears?\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  My dear, appearances are oft deceiving,\n  And seeing shouldn't always be believing.\n\n  ORGON\n  I'll go mad.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  False suspicions may delude,\n  And good to evil oft is misconstrued.\n\n  ORGON\n  Must I construe as Christian charity\n  The wish to kiss my wife!\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  You must, at least,\n  Have just foundation for accusing people,\n  And wait until you see a thing for sure.\n\n  ORGON\n  The devil! How could I see any surer?\n  Should I have waited till, before my eyes,\n  He ... No, you'll make me say things quite improper.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  In short, 'tis known too pure a zeal inflames him;\n  And so, I cannot possibly conceive\n  That he should try to do what's charged against him.\n\n  ORGON\n  If you were not my mother, I should say\n  Such things! ... I know not what, I'm so enraged!\n\n  DORINE (to Orgon)\n  Fortune has paid you fair, to be so doubted;\n  You flouted our report, now yours is flouted.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  We're wasting time here in the merest trifling,\n  Which we should rather use in taking measures\n  To guard ourselves against the scoundrel's threats.\n\n  DAMIS\n  You think his impudence could go far?\n\n  ELMIRE\n  For one, I can't believe it possible;\n  Why, his ingratitude would be too patent.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Don't trust to that; he'll find abundant warrant\n  To give good colour to his acts against you;\n  And for less cause than this, a strong cabal\n  Can make one's life a labyrinth of troubles.\n  I tell you once again: armed as he is\n  You never should have pushed him quite so far.\n\n  ORGON\n  True; yet what could I do? The rascal's pride\n  Made me lose all control of my resentment.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  I wish with all my heart that some pretence\n  Of peace could be patched up between you two\n\n  ELMIRE\n  If I had known what weapons he was armed with,\n  I never should have raised such an alarm,\n  And my ...\n\n  ORGON (to Dorine, seeing Mr. Loyal come in)\n  Who's coming now? Go quick, find out.\n  I'm in a fine state to receive a visit!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Madame Pernelle, Mariane, Elmire, and Dorine show up. Madame Pernelle can't believe the stuff she's been hearing. Orgon gets his mom up to speed on what's happened. He tells her how Tartuffe duped him, took his stuff, and tried to seduce his wife. Madame Pernelle still can't believe what she's hearing and she tells Orgon as much. Orgon is flabbergasted - he doesn't know how she can't see Tartuffe for what he is after hearing all that. Orgon and his mother argue for a while; she insists that Tartuffe is good, and that he, Orgon, doesn't have enough proof of his guilt. This is what some people call \"getting a taste of your own medicine.\" Finally, Cleante tells them to cut it out. Tartuffe, they have to remember, is planning to take control of Orgon's estate. Damis and Elmire don't think that Tartuffe has the guts to follow through, but Cleante isn't so sure. He, Orgon, and Elmire are talking things through when..."}, {"": "197", "document": "\nCOUNCIL OF WAR\n\n\nThere was a great rush of feet across the deck. I could hear people\ntumbling up from the cabin and the foc's'le; and slipping in an instant\noutside my barrel, I dived behind the foresail, made a double towards\nthe stern, and came out upon the open deck in time to join Hunter and\nDoctor Livesey in the rush for the weather bow.\n\nThere all hands were already congregated. A belt of fog had lifted\nalmost simultaneously with the appearance of the moon. Away to the\nsouthwest of us we saw two low hills, about a couple of miles apart, and\nrising behind one of them a third and higher hill, whose peak was still\nburied in the fog. All three seemed sharp and conical in figure.\n\nSo much I saw almost in a dream, for I had not yet recovered from my\nhorrid fear of a minute or two before. And then I heard the voice of\nCaptain Smollett issuing orders. The _Hispaniola_ was laid a couple of\npoints nearer the wind, and now sailed a course that would just clear\nthe island on the east.\n\n\"And now, men,\" said the captain, when all was sheeted home, \"has any\none of you ever seen that land ahead?\"\n\n\"I have, sir,\" said Silver. \"I've watered there with a trader I was cook\nin.\"\n\n\"The anchorage is on the south, behind an islet, I fancy?\" asked the\ncaptain.\n\n\"Yes, sir, Skeleton Island they calls it. It were a main place for\npirates once, and a hand we had on board knowed all their names for it.\nThat hill to the nor'ard they calls the Foremast Hill; there are three\nhills in a row running south'ard--fore, main, and mizzen, sir. But the\nmain--that's the big 'un, with the cloud on it--they usually calls the\nSpy-glass, by reason of a lookout they kept when they was in the\nanchorage cleaning; for it's there they cleaned their ships, sir, asking\nyour pardon.\"\n\n\"I have a chart here,\" said Captain Smollett. \"See if that's the place.\"\n\nLong John's eyes burned in his head as he took the chart, but, by the\nfresh look of the paper, I knew he was doomed to disappointment. This\nwas not the map we found in Billy Bones's chest, but an accurate copy,\ncomplete in all things--names, and heights, and soundings--with the\nsingle exception of the red crosses and the written notes. Sharp as must\nhave been his annoyance, Silver had the strength of mind to hide it.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said he, \"this is the spot, to be sure, and very prettily\ndrawed out. Who might have done that, I wonder? The pirates were too\nignorant, I reckon. Ay, here it is: 'Captain Kidd's Anchorage'--just the\nname my shipmate called it. There's a strong current runs along the\nsouth, and then away nor'ard up the west coast. Right you was, sir,\"\nsaid he, \"to haul your wind and keep the weather of the island.\nLeastways, if such was your intention as to enter and careen, and there\nain't no better place for that in these waters.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my man,\" said Captain Smollett. \"I'll ask you, later on, to\ngive us a help. You may go.\"\n\nI was surprised at the coolness with which John avowed his knowledge of\nthe island, and I own I was half-frightened when I saw him drawing\nnearer to myself. He did not know, to be sure, that I had overheard his\ncouncil from the apple barrel, and yet I had, by this time, taken such a\nhorror of his cruelty, duplicity, and power, that I could scarce conceal\na shudder when he laid his hand upon my arm.\n\n\"Ah,\" said he, \"this here is a sweet spot, this island--a sweet spot for\na lad to get ashore on. You'll bathe, and you'll climb trees, and you'll\nhunt goats, you will, and you'll get aloft on them hills like a goat\nyourself. Why, it makes me young again. I was going to forget my timber\nleg, I was. It's a pleasant thing to be young, and have ten toes, and\nyou may lay to that. When you want to go a bit of exploring, you just\nask old John and he'll put up a snack for you to take along.\"\n\nAnd clapping me in the friendliest way upon the shoulder, he hobbled off\nforward and went below.\n\nCaptain Smollett, the squire, and Doctor Livesey were talking together\non the quarter-deck, and anxious as I was to tell them my story, I durst\nnot interrupt them openly. While I was still casting about in my\nthoughts to find some probable excuse, Doctor Livesey called me to his\nside. He had left his pipe below, and being a slave to tobacco, had\nmeant that I should fetch it; but as soon as I was near enough to speak\nand not be overheard, I broke out immediately: \"Doctor, let me speak.\nGet the captain and squire down to the cabin, and then make some\npretense to send for me. I have terrible news.\"\n\nThe doctor changed countenance a little, but next moment he was master\nof himself.\n\n\"Thank you, Jim,\" said he, quite loudly; \"that was all I wanted to\nknow,\" as if he had asked me a question.\n\nAnd with that he turned on his heel and rejoined the other two. They\nspoke together for a little, and though none of them started, or raised\nhis voice, or so much as whistled, it was plain enough that Doctor\nLivesey had communicated my request, for the next thing that I heard was\nthe captain giving an order to Job Anderson, and all hands were piped on\ndeck.\n\n\"My lads,\" said Captain Smollett, \"I've a word to say to you. This land\nthat we have sighted is the place we have been sailing to. Mr.\nTrelawney, being a very open-handed gentleman, as we all know, has just\nasked me a word or two, and as I was able to tell him that every man on\nboard had done his duty, alow and aloft, as I never ask to see it done\nbetter, why, he and I and the doctor are going below to the cabin to\ndrink _your_ health and luck, and you'll have grog served out for you to\ndrink _our_ health and luck. I'll tell you what I think of this: I think\nit handsome. And if you think as I do, you'll give a good sea cheer for\nthe gentleman that does it.\"\n\nThe cheer followed--that was a matter of course--but it rang out so full\nand hearty, that I confess I could hardly believe these same men were\nplotting for our blood.\n\n\"One more cheer for Cap'n Smollett!\" cried Long John, when the first had\nsubsided.\n\nAnd this also was given with a will.\n\nOn the top of that the three gentlemen went below, and not long after,\nword was sent forward that Jim Hawkins was wanted in the cabin.\n\nI found them all three seated around the table, a bottle of Spanish wine\nand some raisins before them, and the doctor smoking away, with his wig\non his lap, and that, I knew, was a sign that he was agitated. The stern\nwindow was open, for it was a warm night, and you could see the moon\nshining behind on the ship's wake.\n\n\"Now, Hawkins,\" said the squire, \"you have something to say. Speak up.\"\n\nI did as I was bid, and, as short as I could make it, told the whole\ndetails of Silver's conversation. Nobody interrupted me till I was done,\nnor did anyone of the three of them make so much as a movement, but they\nkept their eyes upon my face from first to last.\n\n\"Jim,\" said Doctor Livesey, \"take a seat.\"\n\nAnd they made me sit down at a table beside them, poured me out a glass\nof wine, filled my hands with raisins, and all three, one after the\nother, and each with a bow, drank my good health, and their service to\nme, for my luck and courage.\n\n\"Now, captain,\" said the squire, \"you were right and I was wrong. I own\nmyself an ass, and I await your orders.\"\n\n\"No more an ass than I, sir,\" returned the captain. \"I never heard of a\ncrew that meant to mutiny but what showed signs before, for any man that\nhad an eye in his head to see the mischief and take steps according. But\nthis crew,\" he added, \"beats me.\"\n\n\"Captain,\" said the doctor, \"with your permission, that's Silver. A very\nremarkable man.\"\n\n\"He'd look remarkably well from a yardarm, sir,\" returned the captain.\n\"But this is talk; this don't lead to anything. I see three or four\npoints, and with Mr. Trelawney's permission I'll name them.\"\n\n\"You, sir, are the captain. It is for you to speak,\" said Mr. Trelawney,\ngrandly.\n\n\"First point,\" began Mr. Smollett, \"we must go on because we can't turn\nback. If I gave the word to turn about, they would rise at once. Second\npoint, we have time before us--at least until this treasure's found.\nThird point, there are faithful hands. Now, sir, it's got to come to\nblows sooner or later, and what I propose is to take time by the\nforelock, as the saying is, and come to blows some fine day when they\nleast expect it. We can count, I take it, on your own home servants, Mr.\nTrelawney?\"\n\n\"As upon myself,\" declared the squire.\n\n\"Three,\" reckoned the captain; \"ourselves make seven, counting Hawkins\nhere. Now, about the honest hands?\"\n\n\"Most likely Trelawney's own men,\" said the doctor; \"those he picked up\nfor himself before he lit on Silver.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" replied the squire, \"Hands was one of mine.\"\n\n\"I did think I could have trusted Hands,\" added the captain.\n\n\"And to think that they're all Englishmen!\" broke out the squire. \"Sir,\nI could find it in my heart to blow the ship up.\"\n\n\"Well, gentlemen,\" said the captain, \"the best that I can say is not\nmuch. We must lay to, if you please, and keep a bright lookout. It's\ntrying on a man, I know. It would be pleasanter to come to blows. But\nthere's no help for it till we know our men. Lay to and whistle for a\nwind; that's my view.\"\n\n\"Jim here,\" said the doctor, \"can help us more than anyone. The men are\nnot shy with him and Jim is a noticing lad.\"\n\n\"Hawkins, I put prodigious faith in you,\" added the squire.\n\nI began to feel pretty desperate at this, for I felt altogether\nhelpless; and yet, by an odd train of circumstances, it was indeed\nthrough me that safety came. In the meantime, talk as we pleased, there\nwere only seven out of the twenty-six on whom we knew we could rely, and\nout of these seven one was a boy, so that the grown men on our side were\nsix to their nineteen.\n\n\n\n\nPART III\n\nMY SHORE ADVENTURE\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The call of land was the call of relief for Jim. He sneaks out of the barrel and jumps up on the open deck to join Hunter and Dr. Livesey on the bow. They look around, Jim is unable to believe his eyes considering the state he was in moments ago. They are approaching an island and when Captain Smollet asks the crew if anybody had been here before, Silver answers positively. He tells them that the island is called Skeleton Island which was the main place for pirates. The hill to the north, Silver says, is called Foremast hill and the ones running south are fore, main and mizzen. The main one is called Spyglass. When Captain Smollet hands the map to Silver for his confirmation, he nods his agreement though he is thoroughly disappointed to find only a copy of the original map without any markings. Jim is amazed at Silvers cool headedness, when he reveals his knowledge. Jim almost shudders when he places his hand on Jim and tells him about the good times that awaited him on shore. Jim, without wasting anytime, sneaks next to Dr. Livesey and asks him to call a meeting with the Captain and the Squire. He makes him aware of the seriousness of the situation. Dr. Livesey acts quickly and all four assemble in the cabin. Jim narrates the details he had overheard. All three listen to him with acute concentration. Impressed by Jims information, Dr. Livesey offers him a seat with them and treats him as an equal. The Squire is open and accepts his mistake in front of the Captain for his wrong judgment. The Captain is equally surprised at the conduct of the crew, as he didnt suspect anyone. The Captain takes charge of the situation and tells them that they should go on with the mission as they have time and a few faithful men with them. Dr. Livesey acknowledges Jims efforts and entrusts him with more responsibilities. Jim feels pressured and helpless at this but nevertheless realizes the important task he has on hand."}, {"": "198", "document": "Scene 2. \n\nEnter Leonato and an old man, brother to Leonato.\n\n\n  Leo. How now brother, where is my cosen your son:\nhath he prouided this musicke?\n  Old. He is very busie about it, but brother, I can tell\nyou newes that you yet dreamt not of\n\n   Lo. Are they good?\n  Old. As the euents stamps them, but they haue a good\ncouer: they shew well outward, the Prince and Count\nClaudio walking in a thick pleached alley in my orchard,\nwere thus ouer-heard by a man of mine: the Prince discouered\nto Claudio that hee loued my niece your daughter,\nand meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance,\nand if hee found her accordant, hee meant to take the\npresent time by the top, and instantly breake with you\nof it\n\n   Leo. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?\n  Old. A good sharpe fellow, I will send for him, and\nquestion him your selfe\n\n   Leo. No, no; wee will hold it as a dreame, till it appeare\nit selfe: but I will acquaint my daughter withall,\nthat she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peraduenture\nthis bee true: goe you and tell her of it: coosins,\nyou know what you haue to doe, O I crie you mercie\nfriend, goe you with mee and I will vse your skill,\ngood cosin haue a care this busie time.\n\nExeunt.\n\nEnter Sir Iohn the Bastard, and Conrade his companion.\n\n\nScene 3.\n\n  Con. What the good yeere my Lord, why are you\nthus out of measure sad?\n  Ioh. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds,\ntherefore the sadnesse is without limit\n\n   Con. You should heare reason\n\n   Iohn. And when I haue heard it, what blessing bringeth\nit?\n  Con. If not a present remedy, yet a patient sufferance\n\n   Ioh. I wonder that thou (being as thou saist thou art,\nborne vnder Saturne) goest about to apply a morall medicine,\nto a mortifying mischiefe: I cannot hide what I\nam: I must bee sad when I haue cause, and smile at no\nmans iests, eat when I haue stomacke, and wait for no\nmans leisure: sleepe when I am drowsie, and tend on no\nmans businesse, laugh when I am merry, and claw no man\nin his humor\n\n   Con. Yea, but you must not make the ful show of this,\ntill you may doe it without controllment, you haue of\nlate stood out against your brother, and hee hath tane\nyou newly into his grace, where it is impossible you\nshould take root, but by the faire weather that you make\nyour selfe, it is needful that you frame the season for your\nowne haruest\n\n   Iohn. I had rather be a canker in a hedge, then a rose\nin his grace, and it better fits my bloud to be disdain'd of\nall, then to fashion a carriage to rob loue from any: in this\n(though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man)\nit must not be denied but I am a plaine dealing villaine, I\nam trusted with a mussell, and enfranchisde with a clog,\ntherefore I haue decreed, not to sing in my cage: if I had\nmy mouth, I would bite: if I had my liberty, I would do\nmy liking: in the meane time, let me be that I am, and\nseeke not to alter me\n\n   Con. Can you make no vse of your discontent?\n  Iohn. I will make all vse of it, for I vse it onely.\nWho comes here? what newes Borachio?\n\nEnter Borachio.\n\n  Bor. I came yonder from a great supper, the Prince\nyour brother is royally entertained by Leonato, and I can\ngiue you intelligence of an intended marriage\n\n   Iohn. Will it serue for any Modell to build mischiefe\non? What is hee for a foole that betrothes himselfe to\nvnquietnesse?\n  Bor. Mary it is your brothers right hand\n\n   Iohn. Who, the most exquisite Claudio?\n  Bor. Euen he\n\n   Iohn. A proper squier, and who, and who, which way\nlookes he?\n  Bor. Mary on Hero, the daughter and Heire of Leonato\n\n   Iohn. A very forward March-chicke, how came you\nto this:\n  Bor. Being entertain'd for a perfumer, as I was smoaking\na musty roome, comes me the Prince and Claudio,\nhand in hand in sad conference: I whipt behind the Arras,\nand there heard it agreed vpon, that the Prince should\nwooe Hero for himselfe, and hauing obtain'd her, giue\nher to Count Claudio\n\n   Iohn. Come, come, let vs thither, this may proue food\nto my displeasure, that young start-vp hath all the glorie\nof my ouerthrow: if I can crosse him any way, I blesse\nmy selfe euery way, you are both sure, and will assist\nmee?\n  Conr. To the death my Lord\n\n   Iohn. Let vs to the great supper, their cheere is the\ngreater that I am subdued, would the Cooke were of my\nminde: shall we goe proue whats to be done?\n  Bor. Wee'll wait vpon your Lordship.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "On a London street, we find Sir John Falstaff and his page. Falstaff is a friend of Prince Hal, the heir to the throne; an old, fat, rowdy and witty scoundrel, he taught Hal the ways of the world during Hal's wild teenage years. Falstaff used to spend all his time rollicking in taverns and committing highway robberies, but he has gained fame and importance since the Battle of Shrewsbury by pretending that it was he who killed Hotspur, the courageous rebel leader. Falstaff now has a page boy to carry his sword, and we find him asking the page about a couple of very important matters: first, what the doctor had to say about a urine sample Falstaff recently gave him; and, second, what the merchant had to say about the fancy new suit he has ordered. The page admits that the doctor was not sure and that the merchant refused Falstaff's order because of his shady credit. Falstaff, in typical fashion, bursts into a stream of witty insults against the absent merchant. The Lord Chief Justice, the top law official in the court of England, approaches Falstaff to speak with him about a criminal charge. It seems that Falstaff was ordered into court several weeks ago for investigation in connection with a highway robbery, but he managed to avoid going because he was suddenly called away to fight on the king's side in the recent civil war that culminated at the Battle of Shrewsbury. The Justice, who knows exactly what sort of person Falstaff is despite Falstaff's new rank and importance, is calm and self-assured enough to ignore Falstaff's insults. He tells Falstaff that he will be forgiving this time, since there is no need to reopen old wounds. We learn during their conversation that Falstaff is being called away to fight the Earl of Northumberland and the Archbishop of York, as part of an army led by Prince John, the younger son of King Henry. After the Justice leaves, Falstaff sends his page off with letters to the military leaders, and he goes to prepare to leave for the war. Meanwhile, in the palace of the Archbishop of York, in the north of England, the Archbishop and three allies--Thomas Mowbray, the Earl Marshal; Lord Hastings; and Lord Bardolph--are planning their next move against King Henry's forces. The critical question is whether or not the Earl of Northumberland can be counted upon to support them: if he sends his army, the rebels will have enough men to stand a good chance against the king, but if he does not, their numbers may be too few. Hastings argues that Northumberland is sure to send his troops because he is angry about the death of his son Hotspur in the previous battle; Lord Bardolph and the Archbishop point out that Hotspur lost, in part, because his father backed out of sending his troops at the last minute . Hastings, however, also reminds them that the King must now divide his forces into three separate parts--one to fight them, one to fight the guerrilla rebels in Wales led by Owen Glendower, and one to maintain the fight in a current dispute with the French. The three conspirators agree to move ahead with their showdown with the king, whether or not Northumberland supports them."}, {"": "199", "document": "\n\nAfter we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and\nsee Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed Mrs.\nHobbs's southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid\nseeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen, and insisted\non my going up stairs. \"My brother wants to see you,\" said she, \"and he is\nsorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me\nto say to you that he owes thanks to good old aunt Martha for too many\nlittle acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her\ngrandchild.\"\n\nThis Mr. Thorne had become poor and reckless long before he left the south,\nand such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to\nborrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider\nan equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to\nfeel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as\nhe was here, and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be\ngained by trying to avoid him; on the contrary, it might be the means of\nexciting his ill will. I followed his sister up stairs. He met me in a very\nfriendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I\nhad a good place, where I felt happy.\n\nI continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good thoughtful child,\nnever forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for\nmy safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and\ntroubles; but a mother's observing eye easily perceived that she was not\nhappy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious.\nWhen I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But\nI insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally, I\nascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was\ncontinually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for\nrum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs\nand Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they\nhad to call her to pour out the liquor for them. \"But for all that,\" said\nshe, \"Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can't help liking him. I feel sorry\nfor him.\" I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a\nhundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and\nBenjamin a home, and send them to school. She was always desirous not to\nadd to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till\nyears afterwards that Mr. Thorne's intemperance was not the only annoyance\nshe suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my\ngrandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language\ninto the ears of her innocent great-grandchild.\n\nI usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday, I found\nEllen anxiously waiting for me near the house. \"O, mother,\" said she, \"I've\nbeen waiting for you this long time. I'm afraid Mr. Thorne has written to\ntell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell\nyou all about it!\"\n\nThe story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grape-vine\narbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which\nhe tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time,\nand having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and\ncarried them to the children, saying, \"I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been\nwriting to.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know, and don't care,\" replied the oldest of the\nchildren; \"and I don't see how it concerns you.\"\n\n\"But it does concern me,\" replied Ellen; \"for I'm afraid he's been\nwriting to the south about my mother.\"\n\nThey laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put\nthe fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her. They were\nno sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, \"I declare, Ellen, I\nbelieve you are right.\"\n\nThe contents of Mr. Thorne's letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as\nfollows: \"I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be\ntaken very easily, if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to\nswear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my\ncountry, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws.\" He concluded by\ninforming the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children\ncarried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother's\nroom for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw\nhim go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the\npost office. The natural inference was, that he had sent to Dr. Flint a\ncopy of those fragments. When he returned, his sister accused him of it,\nand he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the\nnext morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York, before any of\nthe family were astir.\n\nIt was evident that I had no time to lose; and I hastened back to the city\nwith a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all\nmy plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon\nSlavery! I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not\nconcealed it merely on account of being a fugitive; that would have made\nher anxious, but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued\nher good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the\nparticulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her\nto know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly, without\nexplaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went\nhome resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face\nattracted her attention, and, in answer to her kind inquiries, I poured out\nmy full heart to her, before bed time. She listened with true womanly\nsympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my\nheart blessed her!\n\nEarly the next morning, Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted.\nThey said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great\nif the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of\none of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother\ncould arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts\nwere much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine\nby Southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her\nso. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs,\nwho felt badly about her brother's treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on\ncondition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise.\nShe came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school\nsatchel on her arm, containing a few articles. It was late in October, and\nI knew the child must suffer; and not daring to go out in the streets to\npurchase any thing, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into\none for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good by, and when she saw that\nI had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She\nsaid, \"Wait for me, Linda,\" and went out. She soon returned with a nice\nwarm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom\nof heaven.\n\nMy brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to\nBoston by the Stonington route, as there was less Southern travel in that\ndirection. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I\nformerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat\nRhode Island in safety. That boat employed colored hands, but I knew that\ncolored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for\nthe seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night\nair, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for\nus. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favor, that she\nwould treat us well. He said to me, \"Go and speak to the captain yourself\nby and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure that he will not\nlet her sleep on deck.\" With these kind words and a shake of the hand he\ndeparted.\n\nThe boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home\nwhere I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to\npurchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he\nwould. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave\nme three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner I\nsaid, \"You have made a mistake; I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot\npossibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter.\" She assured me\nthere was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were\nallowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much\ntravelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain's office,\nand she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the\nhand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our\ntickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was\ncontrary to their custom, but he would see that we had berths below; he\nwould also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars; of that he\nwas not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the\nboat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the ladies' cabin. He came\nafterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he\nhad spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much\nsurprised at receiving so much kindness. I don't know whether the pleasing\nface of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess\ninferred from Lawyer Hopper's manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded\nwith him in my behalf.\n\nWhen the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and\nshowed us to seats in the first car, nearest the engine. He asked us to\ntake seats next the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on\ntoward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we\nreached Boston in safety.\n\nThe day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I\nwas beyond the reach of the bloodhounds; and, for the first time during\nmany years, I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed\ntheir reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a\nswelling heart. Their every motion delighted me.\n\nI could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend,\nthat we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to\nMrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for\nthat purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age,\nso instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself\ntill she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed\npleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their\nbooks.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "During a visit with Ellen, Linda learns that Mrs. Hobbs' brother, Mr. Thorpe, has written a letter to Dr. Flint, informing him of Linda's whereabouts and offering to help him regain his \"property.\" Upon returning home, Linda tells Mrs. Bruce about her predicament and confesses that she is a fugitive slave. Mrs. Bruce immediately contacts her attorney, who helps arrange transportation to Boston for Linda, Ellen, and William, who has come to New York to escort his sister to safety. Upon their arrival in Boston, Ellen reunites with her brother, Ben. Linda decides to stay in Boston and share living expenses with a friend. She spends the winter helping Ellen learn to read and write so that she will be prepared to return to school."}, {"": "200", "document": "CHAPTER IV\n\n\n\n     There is one within,\n Besides the things, that we have heard and seen,\n Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch.\n     JULIUS CAESAR\n\nIn the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same condition,\nas on the preceding night; she had slept little, and that little had\nnot refreshed her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed cheered by her\npresence, but spoke only a few words, and never named Montoni, who,\nhowever, soon after, entered the room. His wife, when she understood\nthat he was there, appeared much agitated, but was entirely silent, till\nEmily rose from a chair at the bed-side, when she begged, in a feeble\nvoice, that she would not leave her.\n\nThe visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to be\ndying, or to console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a last\neffort to procure that signature, which would transfer her estates in\nLanguedoc, after her death, to him rather than to Emily. This was a\nscene, that exhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and, on that\nof Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, contending with a feeble frame;\nwhile Emily repeatedly declared to him her willingness to resign all\nclaim to those estates, rather than that the last hours of her aunt\nshould be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however, did not leave the\nroom, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate dispute, had fainted,\nand she lay so long insensible, that Emily began to fear that the spark\nof life was extinguished. At length, she revived, and, looking feebly\nup at her niece, whose tears were falling over her, made an effort to\nspeak, but her words were unintelligible, and Emily again apprehended\nshe was dying. Afterwards, however, she recovered her speech, and, being\nsomewhat restored by a cordial, conversed for a considerable time, on\nthe subject of her estates in France, with clearness and precision. She\ndirected her niece where to find some papers relative to them, which she\nhad hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, and earnestly charged\nher never to suffer these papers to escape her.\n\nSoon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, and\ncontinued slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than she\nhad been since her removal from the turret. Emily never left her, for a\nmoment, till long after midnight, and even then would not have quitted\nthe room, had not her aunt entreated, that she would retire to rest. She\nthen obeyed, the more willingly, because her patient appeared somewhat\nrecruited by sleep; and, giving Annette the same injunction, as on the\npreceding night, she withdrew to her own apartment. But her spirits\nwere wakeful and agitated, and, finding it impossible to sleep, she\ndetermined to watch, once more, for the mysterious appearance, that had\nso much interested and alarmed her.\n\nIt was now the second watch of the night, and about the time when\nthe figure had before appeared. Emily heard the passing steps of the\nsentinels, on the rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all was\nagain silent, she took her station at the casement, leaving her lamp in\na remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice from without.\nThe moon gave a faint and uncertain light, for heavy vapours surrounded\nit, and, often rolling over the disk, left the scene below in total\ndarkness. It was in one of these moments of obscurity, that she observed\na small and lambent flame, moving at some distance on the terrace. While\nshe gazed, it disappeared, and, the moon again emerging from the lurid\nand heavy thunder clouds, she turned her attention to the heavens, where\nthe vivid lightnings darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently on\nthe woods below. She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomy\nlandscape. Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain,\nand, while the sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock and\nwood, the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow; at others, partial\nfeatures of the castle were revealed by the glimpse--the antient arch\nleading to the east rampart, the turret above, or the fortifications\nbeyond; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice with all its towers, its\ndark massy walls and pointed casements would appear, and vanish in an\ninstant.\n\nEmily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she had\nseen before; it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard a\nfootstep. The light appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as she\nwatched, it glided under her casements, and, at the same instant, she\nwas certain, that a footstep passed, but the darkness did not permit her\nto distinguish any object except the flame. It moved away, and then, by\na gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on the terrace. All the\nanxieties of the preceding night returned. This person advanced, and the\nplaying flame alternately appeared and vanished. Emily wished to speak,\nto end her doubts, whether this figure were human or supernatural; but\nher courage failed as often as she attempted utterance, till the light\nmoved again under the casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed.\n\n'A friend,' replied a voice.\n\n'What friend?' said Emily, somewhat encouraged 'who are you, and what is\nthat light you carry?'\n\n'I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's soldiers,' replied the voice.\n\n'And what is that tapering light you bear?' said Emily, 'see how it\ndarts upwards,--and now it vanishes!'\n\n'This light, lady,' said the soldier, 'has appeared to-night as you see\nit, on the point of my lance, ever since I have been on watch; but what\nit means I cannot tell.'\n\n'This is very strange!' said Emily.\n\n'My fellow-guard,' continued the man, 'has the same flame on his arms;\nhe says he has sometimes seen it before. I never did; I am but lately\ncome to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier.'\n\n'How does your comrade account for it?' said Emily.\n\n'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good.'\n\n'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined Emily.\n\n'He knows not so much as that, lady.'\n\nWhether Emily was alarmed by this omen, or not, she certainly was\nrelieved from much terror by discovering this man to be only a soldier\non duty, and it immediately occurred to her, that it might be he,\nwho had occasioned so much alarm on the preceding night. There were,\nhowever, some circumstances, that still required explanation. As far\nas she could judge by the faint moon-light, that had assisted her\nobservation, the figure she had seen did not resemble this man either\nin shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no arms. The\nsilence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds, too, which\nit had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were circumstances of\nmysterious import, that did not apply, with probability, to a soldier\nengaged in the duty of his guard.\n\nShe now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person besides\nhis fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and then\nbriefly related what she had herself observed.\n\n'I was not on guard that night, lady,' replied the man, 'but I heard of\nwhat happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things. Strange\nstories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is no business\nof mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no reason to complain;\nour Chief does nobly by us.'\n\n'I commend your prudence,' said Emily. 'Good night, and accept this from\nme,' she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and then closing the\ncasement to put an end to the discourse.\n\nWhen he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy pleasure\nto the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the mountains, and\nwatched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the remoter scene. The\npealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed by the mountains,\nother thunder seemed to answer from the opposite horizon; while the\naccumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon, assumed a red\nsulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm.\n\nEmily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now,\nevery instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, made\nit no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, unable\nto compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to the\ntremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its foundation.\n\nShe had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the uproar\nof the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising herself to\nlisten, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with a countenance\nof wild affright.\n\n'She is dying, ma'amselle, my lady is dying!' said she.\n\nEmily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni's room. When she entered,\nher aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still, and\ninsensible; and Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to yield to\ngrief, while any duty required her activity, applied every means that\nseemed likely to restore her. But the last struggle was over--she was\ngone for ever.\n\nWhen Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she\ninterrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni\nhad fallen into a doze soon after Emily's departure, in which she had\ncontinued, until a few minutes before her death.\n\n'I wondered, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'what was the reason my lady did\nnot seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and I went\noften to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep; till\npresently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, saw she was\ndying.'\n\nEmily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that the\nviolent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected this\nfatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni.\n\nAfter some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be\ninformed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that he\nmight, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the present\ntemper of her spirits she could not bear. With Annette alone, therefore,\nwhom she encouraged by her own example, she performed some of the last\nsolemn offices for the dead, and compelled herself to watch during the\nnight, by the body of her deceased aunt. During this solemn period,\nrendered more awful by the tremendous storm that shook the air, she\nfrequently addressed herself to Heaven for support and protection, and\nher pious prayers, we may believe, were accepted of the God, that giveth\ncomfort.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Montoni makes a last-ditch effort to get a signature from Madame M. before she dies, but it's no use. Once Montoni's out of the way, Madame M. directs Em to some papers she concealed from her rotten husband. Remember, all the lands go straight to Em when her auntie dies. Em watches again for the strange figure and thinks she hears a voice. She demands to know who goes there. Eh, it's just Anthonio, one Montoni's soldiers. Madame M. finally passes away, leaving Em in one big mess with her step-uncle, Montoni."}, {"": "201", "document": "\n\nLATE in August the Cutters went to Omaha for a few days, leaving Antonia\nin charge of the house. Since the scandal about the Swedish girl, Wick\nCutter could never get his wife to stir out of Black Hawk without him.\n\nThe day after the Cutters left, Antonia came over to see us. Grandmother\nnoticed that she seemed troubled and distracted. \"You've got something on\nyour mind, Antonia,\" she said anxiously.\n\n\"Yes, Mrs. Burden. I could n't sleep much last night.\" She hesitated, and\nthen told us how strangely Mr. Cutter had behaved before he went away. He\nput all the silver in a basket and placed it under her bed, and with it a\nbox of papers which he told her were valuable. He made her promise that\nshe would not sleep away from the house, or be out late in the evening,\nwhile he was gone. He strictly forbade her to ask any of the girls she\nknew to stay with her at night. She would be perfectly safe, he said, as\nhe had just put a new Yale lock on the front door.\n\nCutter had been so insistent in regard to these details that now she felt\nuncomfortable about staying there alone. She had n't liked the way he kept\ncoming into the kitchen to instruct her, or the way he looked at her. \"I\nfeel as if he is up to some of his tricks again, and is going to try to\nscare me, somehow.\"\n\nGrandmother was apprehensive at once. \"I don't think it's right for you to\nstay there, feeling that way. I suppose it would n't be right for you to\nleave the place alone, either, after giving your word. Maybe Jim would be\nwilling to go over there and sleep, and you could come here nights. I'd\nfeel safer, knowing you were under my own roof. I guess Jim could take\ncare of their silver and old usury notes as well as you could.\"\n\nAntonia turned to me eagerly. \"Oh, would you, Jim? I'd make up my bed nice\nand fresh for you. It's a real cool room, and the bed's right next the\nwindow. I was afraid to leave the window open last night.\"\n\nI liked my own room, and I did n't like the Cutters' house under any\ncircumstances; but Tony looked so troubled that I consented to try this\narrangement. I found that I slept there as well as anywhere, and when I\ngot home in the morning, Tony had a good breakfast waiting for me. After\nprayers she sat down at the table with us, and it was like old times in\nthe country.\n\nThe third night I spent at the Cutters', I awoke suddenly with the\nimpression that I had heard a door open and shut. Everything was still,\nhowever, and I must have gone to sleep again immediately.\n\nThe next thing I knew, I felt some one sit down on the edge of the bed. I\nwas only half awake, but I decided that he might take the Cutters' silver,\nwhoever he was. Perhaps if I did not move, he would find it and get out\nwithout troubling me. I held my breath and lay absolutely still. A hand\nclosed softly on my shoulder, and at the same moment I felt something\nhairy and cologne-scented brushing my face. If the room had suddenly been\nflooded with electric light, I could n't have seen more clearly the\ndetestable bearded countenance that I knew was bending over me. I caught a\nhandful of whiskers and pulled, shouting something. The hand that held my\nshoulder was instantly at my throat. The man became insane; he stood over\nme, choking me with one fist and beating me in the face with the other,\nhissing and chuckling and letting out a flood of abuse.\n\n\"So this is what she's up to when I'm away, is it? Where is she, you nasty\nwhelp, where is she? Under the bed, are you, hussy? I know your tricks!\nWait till I get at you! I'll fix this rat you've got in here. He's caught,\nall right!\"\n\nSo long as Cutter had me by the throat, there was no chance for me at all.\nI got hold of his thumb and bent it back, until he let go with a yell. In\na bound, I was on my feet, and easily sent him sprawling to the floor.\nThen I made a dive for the open window, struck the wire screen, knocked it\nout, and tumbled after it into the yard.\n\nSuddenly I found myself running across the north end of Black Hawk in my\nnightshirt, just as one sometimes finds one's self behaving in bad dreams.\nWhen I got home I climbed in at the kitchen window. I was covered with\nblood from my nose and lip, but I was too sick to do anything about it. I\nfound a shawl and an overcoat on the hatrack, lay down on the parlor sofa,\nand in spite of my hurts, went to sleep.\n\nGrandmother found me there in the morning. Her cry of fright awakened me.\nTruly, I was a battered object. As she helped me to my room, I caught a\nglimpse of myself in the mirror. My lip was cut and stood out like a\nsnout. My nose looked like a big blue plum, and one eye was swollen shut\nand hideously discolored. Grandmother said we must have the doctor at\nonce, but I implored her, as I had never begged for anything before, not\nto send for him. I could stand anything, I told her, so long as nobody saw\nme or knew what had happened to me. I entreated her not to let\ngrandfather, even, come into my room. She seemed to understand, though I\nwas too faint and miserable to go into explanations. When she took off my\nnightshirt, she found such bruises on my chest and shoulders that she\nbegan to cry. She spent the whole morning bathing and poulticing me, and\nrubbing me with arnica. I heard Antonia sobbing outside my door, but I\nasked grandmother to send her away. I felt that I never wanted to see her\nagain. I hated her almost as much as I hated Cutter. She had let me in for\nall this disgustingness. Grandmother kept saying how thankful we ought to\nbe that I had been there instead of Antonia. But I lay with my disfigured\nface to the wall and felt no particular gratitude. My one concern was that\ngrandmother should keep every one away from me. If the story once got\nabroad, I would never hear the last of it. I could well imagine what the\nold men down at the drug-store would do with such a theme.\n\nWhile grandmother was trying to make me comfortable, grandfather went to\nthe depot and learned that Wick Cutter had come home on the night express\nfrom the east, and had left again on the six o'clock train for Denver that\nmorning. The agent said his face was striped with court-plaster, and he\ncarried his left hand in a sling. He looked so used up, that the agent\nasked him what had happened to him since ten o'clock the night before;\nwhereat Cutter began to swear at him and said he would have him discharged\nfor incivility.\n\nThat afternoon, while I was asleep, Antonia took grandmother with her, and\nwent over to the Cutters' to pack her trunk. They found the place locked\nup, and they had to break the window to get into Antonia's bedroom. There\neverything was in shocking disorder. Her clothes had been taken out of her\ncloset, thrown into the middle of the room, and trampled and torn. My own\ngarments had been treated so badly that I never saw them again;\ngrandmother burned them in the Cutters' kitchen range.\n\nWhile Antonia was packing her trunk and putting her room in order, to\nleave it, the front-door bell rang violently. There stood Mrs.\nCutter,--locked out, for she had no key to the new lock--her head trembling\nwith rage. \"I advised her to control herself, or she would have a stroke,\"\ngrandmother said afterwards.\n\nGrandmother would not let her see Antonia at all, but made her sit down in\nthe parlor while she related to her just what had occurred the night\nbefore. Antonia was frightened, and was going home to stay for a while,\nshe told Mrs. Cutter; it would be useless to interrogate the girl, for she\nknew nothing of what had happened.\n\nThen Mrs. Cutter told her story. She and her husband had started home from\nOmaha together the morning before. They had to stop over several hours at\nWaymore Junction to catch the Black Hawk train. During the wait, Cutter\nleft her at the depot and went to the Waymore bank to attend to some\nbusiness. When he returned, he told her that he would have to stay\novernight there, but she could go on home. He bought her ticket and put\nher on the train. She saw him slip a twenty-dollar bill into her handbag\nwith her ticket. That bill, she said, should have aroused her suspicions\nat once--but did not.\n\nThe trains are never called at little junction towns; everybody knows when\nthey come in. Mr. Cutter showed his wife's ticket to the conductor, and\nsettled her in her seat before the train moved off. It was not until\nnearly nightfall that she discovered she was on the express bound for\nKansas City, that her ticket was made out to that point, and that Cutter\nmust have planned it so. The conductor told her the Black Hawk train was\ndue at Waymore twelve minutes after the Kansas City train left. She saw at\nonce that her husband had played this trick in order to get back to Black\nHawk without her. She had no choice but to go on to Kansas City and take\nthe first fast train for home.\n\nCutter could have got home a day earlier than his wife by any one of a\ndozen simpler devices; he could have left her in the Omaha hotel, and said\nhe was going on to Chicago for a few days. But apparently it was part of\nhis fun to outrage her feelings as much as possible.\n\n\"Mr. Cutter will pay for this, Mrs. Burden. He will pay!\" Mrs. Cutter\navouched, nodding her horselike head and rolling her eyes.\n\nGrandmother said she had n't a doubt of it.\n\nCertainly Cutter liked to have his wife think him a devil. In some way he\ndepended upon the excitement he could arouse in her hysterical nature.\nPerhaps he got the feeling of being a rake more from his wife's rage and\namazement than from any experiences of his own. His zest in debauchery\nmight wane, but never Mrs. Cutter's belief in it. The reckoning with his\nwife at the end of an escapade was something he counted on--like the last\npowerful liqueur after a long dinner. The one excitement he really could\nn't do without was quarreling with Mrs. Cutter!\n\n\n", "summary": "After his graduation, Jim moves his room upstairs so he can study in earnest without being disturbed. He studies Latin and trigonometry. He becomes friends with Mrs. Harling again, and she champions his case with his grandparents. They worry that he is too young to go off to college alone and she contends that he will do well. Since Mr. Burden respects her so much, Jim is sure he will go. He takes only one holiday that summer. Antonia invites him to come along with her and the others for picking elder for making elderblow wine. That Sunday morning, he goes to meet them. On the way he passes the river. It is very full after midsummer rains. He is early, so he decides to go in for a swim. He realizes suddenly that he will be homesick for this river when he goes away. After his swim, he hears their wagon approaching and joins them. While they pick the elder berries, he wanders around among the brush drowsy with contentment. He comes upon Antonia and finds that she has been crying. She tells him she is homesick for her homeland. She says she remembers sitting and listening to her father talk with his friend the most beautiful talk about music and the woods and God. She wonders if her fathers spirit has ever made it back home. He tells her of his strong feeling of that on the night of her fathers death. This thought comforts her. Antonia tells Jim of her father in the old country where he came from a middle-class family. He got her mother pregnant and decided against his family and friends wishes to marry her. Her grandmother had refused to let her mother come back into the house after that. When Antonia went to her grandmothers funeral, it was her first time in that house. As Antonia is telling him these stories, Jim thinks she is just like she was as a little girl when she would talk to him. He tells her that some day he will go to her home country to see the woods they have described. He wonders if she would remember the place and she assures him that she certainly would. They are interrupted by Lena who is furiously picking the flowers above them. At noon they stop for work and sit around talking about the troubles their families experienced in immigrating to the Midwest. Tiny says her mother is much happier now that her father has started growing rye so she can have rye bread. Lena says her own mother had lived in the city as a girl and must have suffered greatly in coming out to the prairie. Anna says her grandmother has become senile and thinks she is back in the old country. She craves fish every day. The women then talk of all the things they want to buy their families. They hate the fact that all their money has to go to farm equipment when their mothers and siblings are going without clothes, shoes, or toys. Lena talks about moving to another town and setting up a shop of her own so she can build her mother a house. Anna wishes she could teach school like Selma Kronn, a Scandinavian woman who has become the first one to get a position in the school as a teacher. Anna says Selmas father was from a wealthy family. Lena says her own maternal grandfather was too. Then her paternal grandfather married a Lapp, a member of a minority ethnic group, and was disowned from his family. That afternoon, they play a game and then lie down on the grass to rest. Antonia tells Jim to tell the others about the Spanish who explored in this territory. He tells them about Coronado who came in search of the Seven Golden Cities. The schoolbooks say he didnt get as far north as Nebraska, but people have found a sword with a Spanish inscription on it and several other Spanish relics in the area. The women wonder why Coronado didnt go back home to enjoy his riches. The books only say that he died of a broken heart in the wilderness. Antonia says, \"More than him has done that,\" and the others agree. They sit there watching the sunset. Suddenly they see a large black object in the sunset. They realize its an old plow that looks larger against the setting sun. It is in the dead center of the sun and looks magnified. \"There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing in the sun. \" As they watch, the sun sets and the plow diminishes in size \"s back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie."}, {"": "202", "document": "Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer.\n\nCYRANO:\n  What's o'clock?\n\nRAGUENEAU (bowing low):\n  Six o'clock.\n\nCYRANO (with emotion):\n  In one hour's time!\n\n(He paces up and down the shop.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (following him):\n  Bravo!  I saw. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Well, what saw you, then?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Your combat!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Which?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith!\n\nCYRANO (contemptuously):\n  Ah!. . .the duel!\n\nRAGUENEAU (admiringly):\n  Ay! the duel in verse!. . .\n\nLISE:\n  He can talk of naught else!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Well!  Good! let be!\n\nRAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up):\n  'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis\nfine, fine!\n(With increasing enthusiasm):\n  'At the envoi's end--'\n\nCYRANO:\n  What hour is it now, Ragueneau?\n\nRAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock):\n  Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!'\n(He straightens himself):\n  . . .Oh! to write a ballade!\n\nLISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands\nwith her):\n  What's wrong with your hand?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Naught; a slight cut.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Have you been in some danger?\n\nCYRANO:\n  None in the world.\n\nLISE (shaking her finger at him):\n  Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke?  'Faith, it must have been a\nmonstrous lie that should move it!\n(Changing his tone):\n  I wait some one here.  Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were\nnot for crack of doom!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . .\n\nLISE (ironically):\n  Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's\no'clock?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Ten minutes after six.\n\nCYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper\ntoward him):\n  A pen!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear):\n  Here--a swan's quill.\n\nA MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice):\n  Good-day!\n\n(Lise goes up to him quickly.)\n\nCYRANO (turning round):\n  Who's that?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself.\n\nCYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away):\n  Hush!\n(To himself):\n  I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly!\n(Throws down the pen):\n  Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one\nsingle word!\n(To Ragueneau):\n  What time is it?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  A quarter after six!. . .\n\nCYRANO (striking his breast):\n  Ay--a single word of all those here! here!  But writing, 'tis easier done. .\n.\n(He takes up the pen):\n  Go to, I will write it, that love-letter!  Oh!  I have writ it and rewrit it\nin my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay\nbut my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it.\n\n(He writes.  Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures\nmove uncertainly and hesitatingly.)\n\n\n\n\nRagueneau, Lise, the musketeer.  Cyrano at the little table writing.  The\npoets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud.\n\nLISE (entering, to Ragueneau):\n  Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends!\n\nFIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau):\n  Brother in art!. . .\n\nSECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands):\n  Dear brother!\n\nTHIRD POET:\n  High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks!\n(He sniffs):\n  Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie!\n\nFOURTH POET:\n  'Tis at Phoebus' own rays that thy roasts turn!\n\nFIFTH POET:\n  Apollo among master-cooks--\n\nRAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace):\n  Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . .\n\nFIRST POET:\n  We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. .\n.\n\nSECOND POET:\n  Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there--all slit open\nwith sword-gashes!\n\nCYRANO (raising his head a minute):\n  Eight?. . .hold, methought seven.\n\n(He goes on writing.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (to Cyrano):\n  Know you who might be the hero of the fray?\n\nCYRANO (carelessly):\n  Not I.\n\nLISE (to the musketeer):\n  And you?  Know you?\n\nTHE MUSKETEER (twirling his mustache):\n  Maybe!\n\nCYRANO (writing a little way off:--he is heard murmuring a word from time to\ntime):\n  'I love thee!'\n\nFIRST POET:\n  'Twas one man, say they all, ay, swear to it, one man who, single-handed,\nput the whole band to the rout!\n\nSECOND POET:\n  'Twas a strange sight!--pikes and cudgels strewed thick upon the ground.\n\nCYRANO (writing):\n  . . .'Thine eyes'. . .\n\nTHIRD POET:\n  And they were picking up hats all the way to the Quai d'Orfevres!\n\nFIRST POET:\n  Sapristi! but he must have been a ferocious. . .\n\nCYRANO (same play):\n  . . .'Thy lips'. . .\n\nFIRST POET:\n  'Twas a parlous fearsome giant that was the author of such exploits!\n\nCYRANO (same play):\n  . . .'And when I see thee come, I faint for fear.'\n\nSECOND POET (filching a cake):\n  What hast rhymed of late, Ragueneau?\n\nCYRANO (same play):\n  . . .'Who worships thee'. . .\n(He stops, just as he is about to sign, and gets up, slipping the letter into\nhis doublet):\n  No need I sign, since I give it her myself.\n\nRAGUENEAU (to second poet):\n  I have put a recipe into verse.\n\nTHIRD POET (seating himself by a plate of cream-puffs):\n  Go to!  Let us hear these verses!\n\nFOURTH POET (looking at a cake which he has taken):\n  Its cap is all a' one side!\n\n(He makes one bite of the top.)\n\nFIRST POET:\n  See how this gingerbread woos the famished rhymer with its almond eyes, and\nits eyebrows of angelica!\n\n(He takes it.)\n\nSECOND POET:\n  We listen.\n\nTHIRD POET (squeezing a cream-puff gently):\n  How it laughs!  Till its very cream runs over!\n\nSECOND POET (biting a bit off the great lyre of pastry):\n  This is the first time in my life that ever I drew any means of nourishing\nme from the lyre!\n\nRAGUENEAU (who has put himself ready for reciting, cleared his throat, settled\nhis cap, struck an attitude):\n  A recipe in verse!. . .\n\nSECOND POET (to first, nudging him):\n  You are breakfasting?\n\nFIRST POET (to second):\n  And you dining, methinks.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  How almond tartlets are made.\n\n  Beat your eggs up, light and quick;\n    Froth them thick;\n  Mingle with them while you beat\n  Juice of lemon, essence fine;\n    Then combine\n  The burst milk of almonds sweet.\n\n  Circle with a custard paste\n    The slim waist\n  Of your tartlet-molds; the top\n  With a skillful finger print,\n    Nick and dint,\n  Round their edge, then, drop by drop,\n  In its little dainty bed\n    Your cream shed:\n  In the oven place each mold:\n  Reappearing, softly browned,\n    The renowned\n  Almond tartlets you behold!\n\nTHE POETS (with mouths crammed full):\n  Exquisite!  Delicious!\n\nA POET (choking):\n  Homph!\n\n(They go up, eating.)\n\nCYRANO (who has been watching, goes toward Ragueneau):\n  Lulled by your voice, did you see how they were stuffing themselves?\n\nRAGUENEAU (in a low voice, smiling):\n  Oh, ay!  I see well enough, but I never will seem to look, fearing to\ndistress them; thus I gain a double pleasure when I recite to them my poems;\nfor I leave those poor fellows who have not breakfasted free to eat, even\nwhile I gratify my own dearest foible, see you?\n\nCYRANO (clapping him on the shoulder):\n  Friend, I like you right well!. . .\n(Ragueneau goes after his friends.  Cyrano follows him with his eyes, then,\nrather sharply):\n  Ho there!  Lise!\n(Lise, who is talking tenderly to the musketeer, starts, and comes down toward\nCyrano):\n  So this fine captain is laying siege to you?\n\nLISE (offended):\n  One haughty glance of my eye can conquer any man that should dare venture\naught 'gainst my virtue.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Pooh!  Conquering eyes, methinks, are oft conquered eyes.\n\nLISE (choking with anger):\n  But--\n\nCYRANO (incisively):\n  I like Ragueneau well, and so--mark me, Dame Lise--I permit not that he be\nrendered a laughing-stock by any. . .\n\nLISE:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO (who has raised his voice so as to be heard by the gallant):\n  A word to the wise. . .\n\n(He bows to the musketeer, and goes to the doorway to watch, after looking at\nthe clock.)\n\nLISE (to the musketeer, who has merely bowed in answer to Cyrano's bow):\n  How now?  Is this your courage?. . .Why turn you not a jest on his nose?\n\nTHE MUSKETEER:\n  On his nose?. . .ay, ay. . .his nose.\n\n(He goes quickly farther away; Lise follows him.)\n\nCYRANO (from the doorway, signing to Ragueneau to draw the poets away):\n  Hist!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (showing them the door on the right):\n  We shall be more private there. . .\n\nCYRANO (impatiently):\n  Hist!  Hist!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (drawing them farther):\n  To read poetry, 'tis better here. . .\n\nFIRST POET (despairingly, with his mouth full):\n  What! leave the cakes?. . .\n\nSECOND POET:\n  Never!  Let's take them with us!\n\n(They all follow Ragueneau in procession, after sweeping all the cakes off the\ntrays.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano enters and Ragueneau congratulates him on the duel in the theater the night before. But Cyrano is not interested in anything except his meeting with Roxane. He asks Ragueneau to clear the place out when he gives the signal, and Ragueneau agrees. A musketeer enters who will be mentioned again later. The poets come in, for their \"first meal,\" as Lise says. They are all excited about the feat of the evening before -- one man against a hundred, and no one knows who the brave one was. Cyrano is writing a love letter to Roxane and is not at all interested in the conversation around him. He does not sign the letter, because he plans to give it to Roxane himself. The poets flatter Ragueneau by asking for his latest poetic effort -- a recipe in rhyme. Cyrano constantly asks the time, and the hour finally arrives for his meeting with Roxane. The poets are rushed to another room so that Cyrano can see her alone."}, {"": "203", "document": "\nIt was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the\nmatron's room.  Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with\npalsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the\ngrotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature's hand.\n\nAlas!  How few of Nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with\ntheir beauty!  The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world,\nchange them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions\nsleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass\noff, and leave Heaven's surface clear.  It is a common thing for the\ncountenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to\nsubside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and\nsettle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they\ngrow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by\nthe coffin's side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.\n\nThe old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering\nsome indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at\nlength compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand,\nand remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble\nsuperior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.\n\nIt was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end.\nThere was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish\napothecary's apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick\nout of a quill.\n\n'Cold night, Mrs. Corney,' said this young gentleman, as the matron\nentered.\n\n'Very cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, in her most civil\ntones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.\n\n'You should get better coals out of your contractors,' said the\napothecary's deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the\nrusty poker; 'these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.'\n\n'They're the board's choosing, sir,' returned the matron. 'The least\nthey could do, would be to keep us pretty warm:  for our places are\nhard enough.'\n\nThe conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.\n\n'Oh!' said the young mag, turning his face towards the bed, as if he\nhad previously quite forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs.\nCorney.'\n\n'It is, is it, sir?' asked the matron.\n\n'If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,' said the\napothecary's apprentice, intent upon the toothpick's point. 'It's a\nbreak-up of the system altogether.  Is she dozing, old lady?'\n\nThe attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the\naffirmative.\n\n'Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row,' said\nthe young man.  'Put the light on the floor.  She won't see it there.'\n\nThe attendant did as she was told:  shaking her head meanwhile, to\nintimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she\nresumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time\nreturned.  The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped\nherself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.\n\nThe apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the\ntoothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it\nfor ten minutes or so:  when apparently growing rather dull, he wished\nMrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.\n\nWhen they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from\nthe bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to\ncatch the heat.  The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled\nfaces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position,\nthey began to converse in a low voice.\n\n'Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?' inquired the\nmessenger.\n\n'Not a word,' replied the other.  'She plucked and tore at her arms for\na little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off.  She\nhasn't much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet.  I ain't so\nweak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!'\n\n'Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?' demanded\nthe first.\n\n'I tried to get it down,' rejoined the other.  'But her teeth were\ntight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I\ncould do to get it back again.  So I drank it; and it did me good!'\n\nLooking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard,\nthe two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.\n\n'I mind the time,' said the first speaker, 'when she would have done\nthe same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.'\n\n'Ay, that she would,' rejoined the other; 'she had a merry heart. 'A\nmany, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as\nwaxwork.  My old eyes have seen them--ay, and those old hands touched\nthem too; for I have helped her, scores of times.'\n\nStretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature\nshook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket,\nbrought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook\na few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few\nmore into her own.  While they were thus employed, the matron, who had\nbeen impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her\nstupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to\nwait?\n\n'Not long, mistress,' replied the second woman, looking up into her\nface.  'We have none of us long to wait for Death.  Patience, patience!\nHe'll be here soon enough for us all.'\n\n'Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!' said the matron sternly. 'You,\nMartha, tell me; has she been in this way before?'\n\n'Often,' answered the first woman.\n\n'But will never be again,' added the second one; 'that is, she'll never\nwake again but once--and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!'\n\n'Long or short,' said the matron, snappishly, 'she won't find me here\nwhen she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for\nnothing.  It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house\ndie, and I won't--that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans.\nIf you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!'\n\nShe was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned\ntowards the bed, caused her to look round.  The patient had raised\nherself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.\n\n'Who's that?' she cried, in a hollow voice.\n\n'Hush, hush!' said one of the women, stooping over her.  'Lie down, lie\ndown!'\n\n'I'll never lie down again alive!' said the woman, struggling. 'I\n_will_ tell her!  Come here!  Nearer!  Let me whisper in your ear.'\n\nShe clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the\nbedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of\nthe two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.\n\n'Turn them away,' said the woman, drowsily; 'make haste! make haste!'\n\nThe two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous\nlamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best\nfriends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never\nleave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the\ndoor, and returned to the bedside.  On being excluded, the old ladies\nchanged their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was\ndrunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a\nmoderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring\nunder the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been\nprivily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy\nold ladies themselves.\n\n'Now listen to me,' said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great\neffort to revive one latent spark of energy.  'In this very room--in\nthis very bed--I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought\ninto the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all\nsoiled with dust and blood.  She gave birth to a boy, and died.  Let me\nthink--what was the year again!'\n\n'Never mind the year,' said the impatient auditor; 'what about her?'\n\n'Ay,' murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state,\n'what about her?--what about--I know!' she cried, jumping fiercely up:\nher face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head--'I robbed her,\nso I did!  She wasn't cold--I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole\nit!'\n\n'Stole what, for God's sake?' cried the matron, with a gesture as if\nshe would call for help.\n\n'_It_!' replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. 'The\nonly thing she had.  She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to\neat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom.  It was gold, I\ntell you!  Rich gold, that might have saved her life!'\n\n'Gold!' echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell\nback.  'Go on, go on--yes--what of it?  Who was the mother? When was\nit?'\n\n'She charged me to keep it safe,' replied the woman with a groan, 'and\ntrusted me as the only woman about her.  I stole it in my heart when\nshe first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death,\nperhaps, is on me besides!  They would have treated him better, if they\nhad known it all!'\n\n'Known what?' asked the other.  'Speak!'\n\n'The boy grew so like his mother,' said the woman, rambling on, and not\nheeding the question, 'that I could never forget it when I saw his\nface.  Poor girl! poor girl!  She was so young, too! Such a gentle\nlamb!  Wait; there's more to tell.  I have not told you all, have I?'\n\n'No, no,' replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as\nthey came more faintly from the dying woman.  'Be quick, or it may be\ntoo late!'\n\n'The mother,' said the woman, making a more violent effort than before;\n'the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in\nmy ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come\nwhen it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother\nnamed. \"And oh, kind Heaven!\" she said, folding her thin hands\ntogether, \"whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in\nthis troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child,\nabandoned to its mercy!\"'\n\n'The boy's name?' demanded the matron.\n\n'They _called_ him Oliver,' replied the woman, feebly.  'The gold I\nstole was--'\n\n'Yes, yes--what?' cried the other.\n\nShe was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew\nback, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a\nsitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered\nsome indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\n'Stone dead!' said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the\ndoor was opened.\n\n'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron, walking\ncarelessly away.\n\nThe two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the\npreparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left\nalone, hovering about the body.\n\n\n", "summary": "The matron went down to the room of the sick old woman. The apocrathy's apprentice was there but there was nothing he could do for the old woman and soon left. The two crones who were the woman's best friends hovered around her, and the matron decided that she would leave before the woman awoke again. As Mrs. Corney was leaving, the dying woman sat up in bed and called to her. Mrs. Corney went to her and the woman began telling her the tale of a young woman she nursed a long time ago. The woman was Oliver's mother, and the old nurse kept saying that she stole the gold from the young woman soon after she died. Before she could reveal the identity of the dead young mother, or the secrets that only the nurse knew, she herself died. Mrs. Corney was disappointed she did not find out more information and left the room"}, {"": "204", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\nA room in PAGE'S house.\n\n[Enter FENTON, ANNE PAGE, and MISTRESS QUICKLY. MISTRESS QUICKLY\nstands apart.]\n\nFENTON.\nI see I cannot get thy father's love;\nTherefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.\n\nANNE.\nAlas! how then?\n\nFENTON.\nWhy, thou must be thyself.\nHe doth object, I am too great of birth;\nAnd that my state being gall'd with my expense,\nI seek to heal it only by his wealth.\nBesides these, other bars he lays before me,\nMy riots past, my wild societies;\nAnd tells me 'tis a thing impossible\nI should love thee but as a property.\n\nANNE.\nMay be he tells you true.\n\nFENTON.\nNo, heaven so speed me in my time to come!\nAlbeit I will confess thy father's wealth\nWas the first motive that I wooed thee, Anne:\nYet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value\nThan stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags;\nAnd 'tis the very riches of thyself\nThat now I aim at.\n\nANNE.\nGentle Master Fenton,\nYet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir.\nIf opportunity and humblest suit\nCannot attain it, why then,--hark you hither.\n\n[They converse apart.]\n\n[Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.]\n\nSHALLOW.\nBreak their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall speak for himself.\n\nSLENDER.\nI'll make a shaft or a bolt on 't. 'Slid, 'tis but venturing.\n\nSHALLOW.\nBe not dismayed.\n\nSLENDER.\nNo, she shall not dismay me. I care not for that, but that I am afeard.\n\nQUICKLY.\nHark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you.\n\nANNE.\nI come to him. [Aside.] This is my father's choice.\nO, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults\nLooks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!\n\nQUICKLY.\nAnd how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a\nword with you.\n\nSHALLOW.\nShe's coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father!\n\nSLENDER.\nI had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests\nof him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest how my father\nstole two geese out of a pen, good uncle.\n\nSHALLOW.\nMistress Anne, my cousin loves you.\n\nSLENDER.\nAy, that I do; as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire.\n\nSHALLOW.\nHe will maintain you like a gentlewoman.\n\nSLENDER.\nAy, that I will come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire.\n\nSHALLOW.\nHe will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure.\n\nANNE.\nGood Master Shallow, let him woo for himself.\n\nSHALLOW.\nMarry, I thank you for it; I thank you for that good comfort. She\ncalls you, coz; I'll leave you.\n\nANNE.\nNow, Master Slender.\n\nSLENDER.\nNow, good Mistress Anne.--\n\nANNE.\nWhat is your will?\n\nSLENDER.\nMy will! 'od's heartlings, that's a pretty jest indeed! I ne'er\nmade my will yet, I thank heaven; I am not such a sickly creature,\nI give heaven praise.\n\nANNE.\nI mean, Master Slender, what would you with me?\n\nSLENDER.\nTruly, for mine own part I would little or nothing with you. Your\nfather and my uncle hath made motions; if it be my luck, so; if not,\nhappy man be his dole! They can tell you how things go better than\nI can. You may ask your father; here he comes.\n\n[Enter PAGE and MISTRESS PAGE.]\n\nPAGE.\nNow, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne.\nWhy, how now! what does Master Fenton here?\nYou wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:\nI told you, sir, my daughter is dispos'd of.\n\nFENTON.\nNay, Master Page, be not impatient.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nGood Master Fenton, come not to my child.\n\nPAGE.\nShe is no match for you.\n\nFENTON.\nSir, will you hear me?\n\nPAGE.\nNo, good Master Fenton.\nCome, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.\nKnowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton.\n\n[Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]\n\nQUICKLY.\nSpeak to Mistress Page.\n\nFENTON.\nGood Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter\nIn such a righteous fashion as I do,\nPerforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners,\nI must advance the colours of my love\nAnd not retire: let me have your good will.\n\nANNE.\nGood mother, do not marry me to yond fool.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nI mean it not; I seek you a better husband.\n\nQUICKLY.\nThat's my master, Master doctor.\n\nANNE.\nAlas! I had rather be set quick i' the earth.\nAnd bowl'd to death with turnips.\n\nMRS. PAGE.\nCome, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton,\nI will not be your friend, nor enemy;\nMy daughter will I question how she loves you,\nAnd as I find her, so am I affected.\nTill then, farewell, sir: she must needs go in;\nHer father will be angry.\n\nFENTON.\nFarewell, gentle mistress. Farewell, Nan.\n\n[Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ANNE.}\n\nQUICKLY.\nThis is my doing now: 'Nay,' said I, 'will you cast away your child\non a fool, and a physician? Look on Master Fenton.' This is my doing.\n\nFENTON.\nI thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-night\nGive my sweet Nan this ring. There's for thy pains.\n\nQUICKLY.\nNow Heaven send thee good fortune!\n\n[Exit FENTON.]\n\nA kind heart he hath; a woman would run through fire and water for\nsuch a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or\nI would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton\nhad her; I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have\npromised, and I'll be as good as my word; but speciously for Master\nFenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my\ntwo mistresses: what a beast am I to slack it!\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Fenton tells Anne Page that he is discouraged in his attempt to win her hand, because her father is refusing to support him. He says that at first he courted Anne because her father was wealthy, but he has since come to see that she is worth more than any amount of gold. Anne tells him not to give up, but to continue to seek her father's favor. . Shallow, Slender and Mistress Quickly enter. They have brought the painfully shy Slender to talk to Anne. He is scared of approaching her, and when he and Shallow do approach, he lets Shallow do all the talking, merely echoing what Shallow says. Anne finally asks Shallow to let Slender woo her by himself. Slender does not do much to advance his cause. He tells Anne that he is wooing her only because her father and his uncle put his name forward. He does not seem to care much whether he marries Anne or not. . Page enters with his wife, and urges Anne to love Slender. He is annoyed to see Fenton there as well, and reiterates that he will not give Fenton permission to marry his daughter. . After Page, Shallow and Slender have gone, Fenton presses his claims with Mrs. Page, saying that he loves Anne. Anne pleads that she does not want to marry Slender, whom she thinks is a fool. Nor does she want to marry Caius, whose suit Mrs. Page appears to be considering. After her daughter's protests, Mrs. Page softens her tone, and tells Fenton she will talk to Anne and find out how she feels about him. . Left alone with Fenton, Quickly tells him that is it because of her that he now appears to have a chance with Anne. After Fenton exits, Quickly says that she will in fact continue to act as advocate for Caius and Slender, but also, and specially, for Fenton. ."}, {"": "205", "document": "ACT III. SCENE I.\n\nThe King of Navarre's park.\n\n[Enter ARMADO and MOTH.]\n\nARMADO.\nWarble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.\n\nMOTH [Singing.]\nConcolinel,--\n\nARMADO.\nSweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give\nenlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I must\nemploy him in a letter to my love.\n\nMOTH.\nMaster, will you win your love with a French brawl?\n\nARMADO.\nHow meanest thou? brawling in French?\n\nMOTH.\nNo, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's\nend, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your\neyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the\nthroat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime\nthrough the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love;\nwith your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with\nyour arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a\nspit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old\npainting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away.\nThese are complements, these are humours; these betray nice\nwenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men\nof note,--do you note me?--that most are affected to these.\n\nARMADO.\nHow hast thou purchased this experience?\n\nMOTH.\nBy my penny of observation.\n\nARMADO.\nBut O--but O,--\n\nMOTH.\n'The hobby-horse is forgot.'\n\nARMADO.\nCall'st thou my love 'hobby-horse'?\n\nMOTH.\nNo, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love\nperhaps, a hackney. But have you forgot your love?\n\nARMADO.\nAlmost I had.\n\nMOTH.\nNegligent student! learn her by heart.\n\nARMADO.\nBy heart and in heart, boy.\n\nMOTH.\nAnd out of heart, master: all those three I will prove.\n\nARMADO.\nWhat wilt thou prove?\n\nMOTH.\nA man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the\ninstant: by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by\nher; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with\nher; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you\ncannot enjoy her.\n\nARMADO.\nI am all these three.\n\nMOTH.\nAnd three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.\n\nARMADO.\nFetch hither the swain: he must carry me a letter.\n\nMOTH.\nA message well sympathized; a horse to be ambassador for an\nass.\n\nARMADO.\nHa, ha! what sayest thou?\n\nMOTH.\nMarry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is\nvery slow-gaited. But I go.\n\nARMADO.\nThe way is but short: away!\n\nMOTH.\nAs swift as lead, sir.\n\nARMADO.\nThe meaning, pretty ingenious?\nIs not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?\n\nMOTH.\nMinime, honest master; or rather, master, no.\n\nARMADO.\nI say lead is slow.\n\nMOTH.\nYou are too swift, sir, to say so:\nIs that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun?\n\nARMADO.\nSweet smoke of rhetoric!\nHe reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he;\nI shoot thee at the swain.\n\nMOTH.\nThump then, and I flee.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nARMADO.\nA most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace!\nBy thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:\nMost rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.\nMy herald is return'd.\n\n[Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD.]\n\nMOTH.\nA wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin.\n\nARMADO.\nSome enigma, some riddle: come, thy l'envoy; begin.\n\nCOSTARD.\nNo egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail, sir.\nO! sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy; no\nsalve, sir, but a plantain.\n\nARMADO.\nBy virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my\nspleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous\nsmiling: O! pardon me, my stars. Doth the inconsiderate take\nsalve for l'envoy, and the word l'envoy for a salve?\n\nMOTH.\nDo the wise think them other? Is not l'envoy a salve?\n\nARMADO.\nNo, page: it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain\nSome obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.\nI will example it:\n  The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,\n  Were still at odds, being but three.\nThere's the moral. Now the l'envoy.\n\nMOTH.\nI will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again.\n\nARMADO.\n  The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,\n  Were still at odds, being but three.\n\nMOTH.\n  Until the goose came out of door,\n  And stay'd the odds by adding four.\nNow will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l'envoy.\n  The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,\n  Were still at odds, being but three.\n\nARMADO.\n  Until the goose came out of door,\n  Staying the odds by adding four.\n\nMOTH.\nA good l'envoy, ending in the goose; would you desire more?\n\nCOSTARD.\nThe boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat.\nSir, your pennyworth is good an your goose be fat.\nTo sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose:\nLet me see: a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose.\n\nARMADO.\nCome hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?\n\nMOTH.\nBy saying that a costard was broken in a shin.\nThen call'd you for the l'envoy.\n\nCOSTARD.\nTrue, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in;\nThen the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought;\nAnd he ended the market.\n\nARMADO.\nBut tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin?\n\nMOTH.\nI will tell you sensibly.\n\nCOSTARD.\nThou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that\nl'envoy:\n  I, Costard, running out, that was safely within,\n  Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.\n\nARMADO.\nWe will talk no more of this matter.\n\nCOSTARD.\nTill there be more matter in the shin.\n\nARMADO.\nSirrah Costard. I will enfranchise thee.\n\nCOSTARD.\nO! marry me to one Frances: I smell some l'envoy, some\ngoose, in this.\n\nARMADO.\nBy my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty,\nenfreedoming thy person: thou wert immured, restrained,\ncaptivated, bound.\n\nCOSTARD.\nTrue, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me\nloose.\n\nARMADO.\nI give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in\nlieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:--[Giving a\nletter.] Bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta.\n[Giving money.] there is remuneration; for the best ward of mine\nhonour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nMOTH.\nLike the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu.\n\nCOSTARD.\nMy sweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew!\n\n[Exit MOTH.]\n\nNow will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O! that's the\nLatin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration.\n'What's the price of this inkle?' 'One penny.' 'No, I'll give\nyou a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why, it is\na fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of\nthis word.\n\n[Enter BEROWNE.]\n\nBEROWNE.\nO! My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met.\n\nCOSTARD.\nPray you, sir, how much carnation riband may a man buy for\na remuneration?\n\nBEROWNE.\nWhat is a remuneration?\n\nCOSTARD.\nMarry, sir, halfpenny farthing.\n\nBEROWNE.\nWhy, then, three-farthing worth of silk.\n\nCOSTARD.\nI thank your worship. God be wi' you!\n\nBEROWNE.\nStay, slave; I must employ thee:\nAs thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,\nDo one thing for me that I shall entreat.\n\nCOSTARD.\nWhen would you have it done, sir?\n\nBEROWNE.\nO, this afternoon.\n\nCOSTARD.\nWell, I will do it, sir! fare you well.\n\nBEROWNE.\nO, thou knowest not what it is.\n\nCOSTARD.\nI shall know, sir, when I have done it.\n\nBEROWNE.\nWhy, villain, thou must know first.\n\nCOSTARD.\nI will come to your worship to-morrow morning.\n\nBEROWNE.\nIt must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this:\nThe princess comes to hunt here in the park,\nAnd in her train there is a gentle lady;\nWhen tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,\nAnd Rosaline they call her: ask for her\nAnd to her white hand see thou do commend\nThis seal'd-up counsel.\n\n[Gives him a shilling.]\n\nThere's thy guerdon: go.\n\nCOSTARD.\nGardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a\n'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it,\nsir, in print. Gardon- remuneration!\n\n[Exit.]\n\nBEROWNE.\nAnd I,--\nForsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip;\nA very beadle to a humorous sigh;\nA critic, nay, a night-watch constable;\nA domineering pedant o'er the boy,\nThan whom no mortal so magnificent!\nThis wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,\nThis senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;\nRegent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,\nThe anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,\nLiege of all loiterers and malcontents,\nDread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,\nSole imperator, and great general\nOf trotting 'paritors: O my little heart!\nAnd I to be a corporal of his field,\nAnd wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!\nWhat! I love! I sue, I seek a wife!\nA woman, that is like a German clock,\nStill a-repairing, ever out of frame,\nAnd never going aright, being a watch,\nBut being watch'd that it may still go right!\nNay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;\nAnd, among three, to love the worst of all,\nA wightly wanton with a velvet brow,\nWith two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;\nAy, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,\nThough Argus were her eunuch and her guard:\nAnd I to sigh for her! to watch for her!\nTo pray for her! Go to; it is a plague\nThat Cupid will impose for my neglect\nOf his almighty dreadful little might.\nWell, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:\nSome men must love my lady, and some Joan.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Armando is sitting at his house, again talking to his pageboy about his love for the peasant woman. The boy, making silent jibes at his lord, listens as his master professes his love for Jaquenetta. With the boys help, he decides to write a letter to his love, and ends up freeing Costard to deliver it. While on his way, Berowne also gives Costard a letter to deliver to Rosaline who he has fallen in love with."}, {"": "206", "document": "SCENE II.\nAthens. QUINCE'S house\n\nEnter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING\n\n  QUINCE. Have you sent to Bottom's house? Is he come home yet?\n  STARVELING. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is\ntransported.\n  FLUTE. If he come not, then the play is marr'd; it goes not\n    forward, doth it?\n  QUINCE. It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens\nable\n    to discharge Pyramus but he.\n  FLUTE. No; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in\n    Athens.\n  QUINCE. Yea, and the best person too; and he is a very paramour\nfor\n    a sweet voice.\n  FLUTE. You must say 'paragon.' A paramour is- God bless us!- A\n    thing of naught.\n\n                           Enter SNUG\n\n  SNUG. Masters, the Duke is coming from the temple; and there is\ntwo\n    or three lords and ladies more married. If our sport had gone\n\n    forward, we had all been made men.\n  FLUTE. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day\n    during his life; he could not have scaped sixpence a day. An\nthe\n    Duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus,\nI'll\n    be hanged. He would have deserved it: sixpence a day in\nPyramus,\n    or nothing.\n\n                           Enter BOTTOM\n\n  BOTTOM. Where are these lads? Where are these hearts?\n  QUINCE. Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour!\n  BOTTOM. Masters, I am to discourse wonders; but ask me not\nwhat;\n    for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you\n    everything, right as it fell out.\n  QUINCE. Let us hear, sweet Bottom.\n  BOTTOM. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the\n    Duke hath dined. Get your apparel together; good strings to\nyour\n    beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the\npalace;\n    every man look o'er his part; for the short and the long is,\nour\n    play is preferr'd. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen;\nand\n    let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they\nshall\n    hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no\n    onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do\nnot\n    doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more\nwords.\n    Away, go, away!                                       Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In this short scene, Quince and Flute are searching for their missing friend, Bottom. They worry that \"Pyramus and Thisbe\" won't be performed without him. Theseus is known for his generosity, and the actors believe they will potentially be rewarded with a lifelong pension for their stellar performance of this play. As they lament this lost opportunity, Bottom suddenly returns. His friends want to hear his story, but Bottom tells them there isn't time for that now: They must prepare for the play. He warns them to avoid onions and garlic so their breath will be sweet for the \"sweet comedy\" they will perform."}, {"": "207", "document": "\n\n|AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?\" asked\nMarilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office. \"Have\nyou discovered another kindred spirit?\" Excitement hung around Anne like\na garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come\ndancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow\nsunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening.\n\n\"No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am invited to tea at the\nmanse tomorrow afternoon! Mrs. Allan left the letter for me at the post\noffice. Just look at it, Marilla. 'Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables.'\nThat is the first time I was ever called 'Miss.' Such a thrill as it\ngave me! I shall cherish it forever among my choicest treasures.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Allan told me she meant to have all the members of her\nSunday-school class to tea in turn,\" said Marilla, regarding the\nwonderful event very coolly. \"You needn't get in such a fever over it.\nDo learn to take things calmly, child.\"\n\nFor Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature. All\n\"spirit and fire and dew,\" as she was, the pleasures and pains of life\ncame to her with trebled intensity. Marilla felt this and was vaguely\ntroubled over it, realizing that the ups and downs of existence would\nprobably bear hardly on this impulsive soul and not sufficiently\nunderstanding that the equally great capacity for delight might more\nthan compensate. Therefore Marilla conceived it to be her duty to drill\nAnne into a tranquil uniformity of disposition as impossible and alien\nto her as to a dancing sunbeam in one of the brook shallows. She did not\nmake much headway, as she sorrowfully admitted to herself. The downfall\nof some dear hope or plan plunged Anne into \"deeps of affliction.\" The\nfulfillment thereof exalted her to dizzy realms of delight. Marilla had\nalmost begun to despair of ever fashioning this waif of the world into\nher model little girl of demure manners and prim deportment. Neither\nwould she have believed that she really liked Anne much better as she\nwas.\n\nAnne went to bed that night speechless with misery because Matthew had\nsaid the wind was round northeast and he feared it would be a rainy day\ntomorrow. The rustle of the poplar leaves about the house worried her,\nit sounded so like pattering raindrops, and the full, faraway roar of\nthe gulf, to which she listened delightedly at other times, loving its\nstrange, sonorous, haunting rhythm, now seemed like a prophecy of storm\nand disaster to a small maiden who particularly wanted a fine day. Anne\nthought that the morning would never come.\n\nBut all things have an end, even nights before the day on which you are\ninvited to take tea at the manse. The morning, in spite of Matthew's\npredictions, was fine and Anne's spirits soared to their highest.\n\"Oh, Marilla, there is something in me today that makes me just love\neverybody I see,\" she exclaimed as she washed the breakfast dishes.\n\"You don't know how good I feel! Wouldn't it be nice if it could last? I\nbelieve I could be a model child if I were just invited out to tea every\nday. But oh, Marilla, it's a solemn occasion too. I feel so anxious.\nWhat if I shouldn't behave properly? You know I never had tea at a\nmanse before, and I'm not sure that I know all the rules of etiquette,\nalthough I've been studying the rules given in the Etiquette Department\nof the Family Herald ever since I came here. I'm so afraid I'll do\nsomething silly or forget to do something I should do. Would it be\ngood manners to take a second helping of anything if you wanted to _very_\nmuch?\"\n\n\"The trouble with you, Anne, is that you're thinking too much about\nyourself. You should just think of Mrs. Allan and what would be nicest\nand most agreeable to her,\" said Marilla, hitting for once in her life\non a very sound and pithy piece of advice. Anne instantly realized this.\n\n\"You are right, Marilla. I'll try not to think about myself at all.\"\n\nAnne evidently got through her visit without any serious breach of\n\"etiquette,\" for she came home through the twilight, under a great,\nhigh-sprung sky gloried over with trails of saffron and rosy cloud, in\na beatified state of mind and told Marilla all about it happily, sitting\non the big red-sandstone slab at the kitchen door with her tired curly\nhead in Marilla's gingham lap.\n\nA cool wind was blowing down over the long harvest fields from the rims\nof firry western hills and whistling through the poplars. One clear star\nhung over the orchard and the fireflies were flitting over in Lover's\nLane, in and out among the ferns and rustling boughs. Anne watched them\nas she talked and somehow felt that wind and stars and fireflies were\nall tangled up together into something unutterably sweet and enchanting.\n\n\"Oh, Marilla, I've had a most _fascinating_ time. I feel that I have not\nlived in vain and I shall always feel like that even if I should never\nbe invited to tea at a manse again. When I got there Mrs. Allan met me\nat the door. She was dressed in the sweetest dress of pale-pink organdy,\nwith dozens of frills and elbow sleeves, and she looked just like a\nseraph. I really think I'd like to be a minister's wife when I grow up,\nMarilla. A minister mightn't mind my red hair because he wouldn't be\nthinking of such worldly things. But then of course one would have to\nbe naturally good and I'll never be that, so I suppose there's no use in\nthinking about it. Some people are naturally good, you know, and others\nare not. I'm one of the others. Mrs. Lynde says I'm full of original\nsin. No matter how hard I try to be good I can never make such a success\nof it as those who are naturally good. It's a good deal like geometry,\nI expect. But don't you think the trying so hard ought to count for\nsomething? Mrs. Allan is one of the naturally good people. I love her\npassionately. You know there are some people, like Matthew and Mrs.\nAllan that you can love right off without any trouble. And there are\nothers, like Mrs. Lynde, that you have to try very hard to love. You\nknow you _ought_ to love them because they know so much and are such\nactive workers in the church, but you have to keep reminding yourself of\nit all the time or else you forget. There was another little girl at the\nmanse to tea, from the White Sands Sunday school. Her name was Laurette\nBradley, and she was a very nice little girl. Not exactly a kindred\nspirit, you know, but still very nice. We had an elegant tea, and I\nthink I kept all the rules of etiquette pretty well. After tea Mrs.\nAllan played and sang and she got Lauretta and me to sing too.\nMrs. Allan says I have a good voice and she says I must sing in the\nSunday-school choir after this. You can't think how I was thrilled at\nthe mere thought. I've longed so to sing in the Sunday-school choir,\nas Diana does, but I feared it was an honor I could never aspire to.\nLauretta had to go home early because there is a big concert in the\nWhite Sands Hotel tonight and her sister is to recite at it. Lauretta\nsays that the Americans at the hotel give a concert every fortnight in\naid of the Charlottetown hospital, and they ask lots of the White\nSands people to recite. Lauretta said she expected to be asked herself\nsomeday. I just gazed at her in awe. After she had gone Mrs. Allan and I\nhad a heart-to-heart talk. I told her everything--about Mrs. Thomas and\nthe twins and Katie Maurice and Violetta and coming to Green Gables and\nmy troubles over geometry. And would you believe it, Marilla? Mrs.\nAllan told me she was a dunce at geometry too. You don't know how that\nencouraged me. Mrs. Lynde came to the manse just before I left, and what\ndo you think, Marilla? The trustees have hired a new teacher and it's\na lady. Her name is Miss Muriel Stacy. Isn't that a romantic name? Mrs.\nLynde says they've never had a female teacher in Avonlea before and she\nthinks it is a dangerous innovation. But I think it will be splendid\nto have a lady teacher, and I really don't see how I'm going to live\nthrough the two weeks before school begins. I'm so impatient to see\nher.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Anne Is Invited Out to Tea Returning from the post office, Anne is filled with excitement because Mrs. Allan has invited her to tea. Marilla explains that Mrs. Allan has invited all the children in her Sunday school class, but this news does not diminish Anne's excitement. As usual, Marilla is troubled by Anne's enthusiasm, believing it will cause Anne pain when reality does not live up to her expectations. Anne is nervous that she will forget her manners and offend Mrs. Allan. Marilla gives her etiquette advice and tells her not to think about how she should behave but to imagine what sorts of behavior would please Mrs. Allan. After tea, Anne describes her time at Mrs. Allan's home. She admires Mrs. Allan so much that she says she wants to become a minister's wife. She tells Marilla that, according to Mrs. Rachel, the school is getting a new teacher named Miss Muriel Stacy"}, {"": "208", "document": "\n\"You see,\" said Cacambo to Candide, as soon as they had reached the\nfrontiers of the Oreillons, \"that this hemisphere is not better than the\nothers, take my word for it; let us go back to Europe by the shortest\nway.\"\n\n\"How go back?\" said Candide, \"and where shall we go? to my own country?\nThe Bulgarians and the Abares are slaying all; to Portugal? there I\nshall be burnt; and if we abide here we are every moment in danger of\nbeing spitted. But how can I resolve to quit a part of the world where\nmy dear Cunegonde resides?\"\n\n\"Let us turn towards Cayenne,\" said Cacambo, \"there we shall find\nFrenchmen, who wander all over the world; they may assist us; God will\nperhaps have pity on us.\"\n\nIt was not easy to get to Cayenne; they knew vaguely in which direction\nto go, but rivers, precipices, robbers, savages, obstructed them all the\nway. Their horses died of fatigue. Their provisions were consumed; they\nfed a whole month upon wild fruits, and found themselves at last near a\nlittle river bordered with cocoa trees, which sustained their lives and\ntheir hopes.\n\nCacambo, who was as good a counsellor as the old woman, said to Candide:\n\n\"We are able to hold out no longer; we have walked enough. I see an\nempty canoe near the river-side; let us fill it with cocoanuts, throw\nourselves into it, and go with the current; a river always leads to some\ninhabited spot. If we do not find pleasant things we shall at least find\nnew things.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said Candide, \"let us recommend ourselves to\nProvidence.\"\n\nThey rowed a few leagues, between banks, in some places flowery, in\nothers barren; in some parts smooth, in others rugged. The stream ever\nwidened, and at length lost itself under an arch of frightful rocks\nwhich reached to the sky. The two travellers had the courage to commit\nthemselves to the current. The river, suddenly contracting at this\nplace, whirled them along with a dreadful noise and rapidity. At the end\nof four-and-twenty hours they saw daylight again, but their canoe was\ndashed to pieces against the rocks. For a league they had to creep from\nrock to rock, until at length they discovered an extensive plain,\nbounded by inaccessible mountains. The country was cultivated as much\nfor pleasure as for necessity. On all sides the useful was also the\nbeautiful. The roads were covered, or rather adorned, with carriages of\na glittering form and substance, in which were men and women of\nsurprising beauty, drawn by large red sheep which surpassed in fleetness\nthe finest coursers of Andalusia, Tetuan, and Mequinez.[18]\n\n\"Here, however, is a country,\" said Candide, \"which is better than\nWestphalia.\"\n\nHe stepped out with Cacambo towards the first village which he saw. Some\nchildren dressed in tattered brocades played at quoits on the outskirts.\nOur travellers from the other world amused themselves by looking on. The\nquoits were large round pieces, yellow, red, and green, which cast a\nsingular lustre! The travellers picked a few of them off the ground;\nthis was of gold, that of emeralds, the other of rubies--the least of\nthem would have been the greatest ornament on the Mogul's throne.\n\n\"Without doubt,\" said Cacambo, \"these children must be the king's sons\nthat are playing at quoits!\"\n\nThe village schoolmaster appeared at this moment and called them to\nschool.\n\n\"There,\" said Candide, \"is the preceptor of the royal family.\"\n\nThe little truants immediately quitted their game, leaving the quoits\non the ground with all their other playthings. Candide gathered them up,\nran to the master, and presented them to him in a most humble manner,\ngiving him to understand by signs that their royal highnesses had\nforgotten their gold and jewels. The schoolmaster, smiling, flung them\nupon the ground; then, looking at Candide with a good deal of surprise,\nwent about his business.\n\nThe travellers, however, took care to gather up the gold, the rubies,\nand the emeralds.\n\n\"Where are we?\" cried Candide. \"The king's children in this country must\nbe well brought up, since they are taught to despise gold and precious\nstones.\"\n\nCacambo was as much surprised as Candide. At length they drew near the\nfirst house in the village. It was built like an European palace. A\ncrowd of people pressed about the door, and there were still more in the\nhouse. They heard most agreeable music, and were aware of a delicious\nodour of cooking. Cacambo went up to the door and heard they were\ntalking Peruvian; it was his mother tongue, for it is well known that\nCacambo was born in Tucuman, in a village where no other language was\nspoken.\n\n\"I will be your interpreter here,\" said he to Candide; \"let us go in, it\nis a public-house.\"\n\nImmediately two waiters and two girls, dressed in cloth of gold, and\ntheir hair tied up with ribbons, invited them to sit down to table with\nthe landlord. They served four dishes of soup, each garnished with two\nyoung parrots; a boiled condor[19] which weighed two hundred pounds; two\nroasted monkeys, of excellent flavour; three hundred humming-birds in\none dish, and six hundred fly-birds in another; exquisite ragouts;\ndelicious pastries; the whole served up in dishes of a kind of\nrock-crystal. The waiters and girls poured out several liqueurs drawn\nfrom the sugar-cane.\n\nMost of the company were chapmen and waggoners, all extremely polite;\nthey asked Cacambo a few questions with the greatest circumspection, and\nanswered his in the most obliging manner.\n\nAs soon as dinner was over, Cacambo believed as well as Candide that\nthey might well pay their reckoning by laying down two of those large\ngold pieces which they had picked up. The landlord and landlady shouted\nwith laughter and held their sides. When the fit was over:\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the landlord, \"it is plain you are strangers, and such\nguests we are not accustomed to see; pardon us therefore for laughing\nwhen you offered us the pebbles from our highroads in payment of your\nreckoning. You doubtless have not the money of the country; but it is\nnot necessary to have any money at all to dine in this house. All\nhostelries established for the convenience of commerce are paid by the\ngovernment. You have fared but very indifferently because this is a poor\nvillage; but everywhere else, you will be received as you deserve.\"\n\nCacambo explained this whole discourse with great astonishment to\nCandide, who was as greatly astonished to hear it.\n\n\"What sort of a country then is this,\" said they to one another; \"a\ncountry unknown to all the rest of the world, and where nature is of a\nkind so different from ours? It is probably the country where all is\nwell; for there absolutely must be one such place. And, whatever Master\nPangloss might say, I often found that things went very ill in\nWestphalia.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cacambo and Candide start to feel paranoid, and quite rightly so since they are being pursued from basically every direction. They decide to seek refuge in Cayenne. They travel to the point of \"are we there yet?\" feelings of distress. One day, they see a river lined with coconut trees. They spot an empty boat, fill it with coconuts, and begin to float downstream. At the end of the river they discover a lush land. They find the nearest town and see children playing with gold and jewels in the road. A schoolmaster calls the children and they abandon the riches outside. Astounded, Candide and Cacambo gather the riches and return them to the schoolmaster. With a confused look, the schoolmaster drops the riches and walks inside. Candide and Cacambo are left perplexed. They go to eat at an inn where they are very kindly received. They attempt to pay for their meal with gold nuggets, but are received with hysterical laughter. The other diners explain that the food is free and that the gold nuggets are simply worthless stones from the road. Astounded, Candide begins to doubt that Westphalia could have been the best of all possible worlds, since this one has money and lacks rape, disembowelment, flogging, gauntlets, cannibalism, execution, earthquakes, and drownings."}, {"": "209", "document": "\n\n|IT was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school--a\nglorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the\nvalleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had\npoured them in for the sun to drain--amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and\nsmoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth\nof silver and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of\nmany-stemmed woods to run crisply through. The Birch Path was a canopy\nof yellow and the ferns were sear and brown all along it. There was a\ntang in the very air that inspired the hearts of small maidens tripping,\nunlike snails, swiftly and willingly to school; and it _was_ jolly to\nbe back again at the little brown desk beside Diana, with Ruby Gillis\nnodding across the aisle and Carrie Sloane sending up notes and Julia\nBell passing a \"chew\" of gum down from the back seat. Anne drew a long\nbreath of happiness as she sharpened her pencil and arranged her picture\ncards in her desk. Life was certainly very interesting.\n\nIn the new teacher she found another true and helpful friend. Miss Stacy\nwas a bright, sympathetic young woman with the happy gift of winning and\nholding the affections of her pupils and bringing out the best that was\nin them mentally and morally. Anne expanded like a flower under this\nwholesome influence and carried home to the admiring Matthew and the\ncritical Marilla glowing accounts of schoolwork and aims.\n\n\"I love Miss Stacy with my whole heart, Marilla. She is so ladylike\nand she has such a sweet voice. When she pronounces my name I feel\n_instinctively_ that she's spelling it with an E. We had recitations\nthis afternoon. I just wish you could have been there to hear me recite\n'Mary, Queen of Scots.' I just put my whole soul into it. Ruby Gillis\ntold me coming home that the way I said the line, 'Now for my father's\narm,' she said, 'my woman's heart farewell,' just made her blood run\ncold.\"\n\n\"Well now, you might recite it for me some of these days, out in the\nbarn,\" suggested Matthew.\n\n\"Of course I will,\" said Anne meditatively, \"but I won't be able to do\nit so well, I know. It won't be so exciting as it is when you have a\nwhole schoolful before you hanging breathlessly on your words. I know I\nwon't be able to make your blood run cold.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Lynde says it made _her_ blood run cold to see the boys climbing to\nthe very tops of those big trees on Bell's hill after crows' nests last\nFriday,\" said Marilla. \"I wonder at Miss Stacy for encouraging it.\"\n\n\"But we wanted a crow's nest for nature study,\" explained Anne. \"That\nwas on our field afternoon. Field afternoons are splendid, Marilla.\nAnd Miss Stacy explains everything so beautifully. We have to write\ncompositions on our field afternoons and I write the best ones.\"\n\n\"It's very vain of you to say so then. You'd better let your teacher say\nit.\"\n\n\"But she _did_ say it, Marilla. And indeed I'm not vain about it. How can\nI be, when I'm such a dunce at geometry? Although I'm really beginning\nto see through it a little, too. Miss Stacy makes it so clear. Still,\nI'll never be good at it and I assure you it is a humbling reflection.\nBut I love writing compositions. Mostly Miss Stacy lets us choose\nour own subjects; but next week we are to write a composition on some\nremarkable person. It's hard to choose among so many remarkable people\nwho have lived. Mustn't it be splendid to be remarkable and have\ncompositions written about you after you're dead? Oh, I would dearly\nlove to be remarkable. I think when I grow up I'll be a trained nurse\nand go with the Red Crosses to the field of battle as a messenger of\nmercy. That is, if I don't go out as a foreign missionary. That would\nbe very romantic, but one would have to be very good to be a missionary,\nand that would be a stumbling block. We have physical culture exercises\nevery day, too. They make you graceful and promote digestion.\"\n\n\"Promote fiddlesticks!\" said Marilla, who honestly thought it was all\nnonsense.\n\nBut all the field afternoons and recitation Fridays and physical culture\ncontortions paled before a project which Miss Stacy brought forward in\nNovember. This was that the scholars of Avonlea school should get up\na concert and hold it in the hall on Christmas Night, for the laudable\npurpose of helping to pay for a schoolhouse flag. The pupils one and\nall taking graciously to this plan, the preparations for a program\nwere begun at once. And of all the excited performers-elect none was so\nexcited as Anne Shirley, who threw herself into the undertaking heart\nand soul, hampered as she was by Marilla's disapproval. Marilla thought\nit all rank foolishness.\n\n\"It's just filling your heads up with nonsense and taking time that\nought to be put on your lessons,\" she grumbled. \"I don't approve of\nchildren's getting up concerts and racing about to practices. It makes\nthem vain and forward and fond of gadding.\"\n\n\"But think of the worthy object,\" pleaded Anne. \"A flag will cultivate a\nspirit of patriotism, Marilla.\"\n\n\"Fudge! There's precious little patriotism in the thoughts of any of\nyou. All you want is a good time.\"\n\n\"Well, when you can combine patriotism and fun, isn't it all right? Of\ncourse it's real nice to be getting up a concert. We're going to have\nsix choruses and Diana is to sing a solo. I'm in two dialogues--'The\nSociety for the Suppression of Gossip' and 'The Fairy Queen.' The boys\nare going to have a dialogue too. And I'm to have two recitations,\nMarilla. I just tremble when I think of it, but it's a nice thrilly kind\nof tremble. And we're to have a tableau at the last--'Faith, Hope and\nCharity.' Diana and Ruby and I are to be in it, all draped in white with\nflowing hair. I'm to be Hope, with my hands clasped--so--and my eyes\nuplifted. I'm going to practice my recitations in the garret. Don't be\nalarmed if you hear me groaning. I have to groan heartrendingly in one\nof them, and it's really hard to get up a good artistic groan, Marilla.\nJosie Pye is sulky because she didn't get the part she wanted in\nthe dialogue. She wanted to be the fairy queen. That would have been\nridiculous, for who ever heard of a fairy queen as fat as Josie? Fairy\nqueens must be slender. Jane Andrews is to be the queen and I am to be\none of her maids of honor. Josie says she thinks a red-haired fairy is\njust as ridiculous as a fat one, but I do not let myself mind what Josie\nsays. I'm to have a wreath of white roses on my hair and Ruby Gillis\nis going to lend me her slippers because I haven't any of my own. It's\nnecessary for fairies to have slippers, you know. You couldn't imagine\na fairy wearing boots, could you? Especially with copper toes? We are\ngoing to decorate the hall with creeping spruce and fir mottoes with\npink tissue-paper roses in them. And we are all to march in two by two\nafter the audience is seated, while Emma White plays a march on the\norgan. Oh, Marilla, I know you are not so enthusiastic about it as I am,\nbut don't you hope your little Anne will distinguish herself?\"\n\n\"All I hope is that you'll behave yourself. I'll be heartily glad when\nall this fuss is over and you'll be able to settle down. You are simply\ngood for nothing just now with your head stuffed full of dialogues and\ngroans and tableaus. As for your tongue, it's a marvel it's not clean\nworn out.\"\n\nAnne sighed and betook herself to the back yard, over which a young new\nmoon was shining through the leafless poplar boughs from an apple-green\nwestern sky, and where Matthew was splitting wood. Anne perched herself\non a block and talked the concert over with him, sure of an appreciative\nand sympathetic listener in this instance at least.\n\n\"Well now, I reckon it's going to be a pretty good concert. And I\nexpect you'll do your part fine,\" he said, smiling down into her eager,\nvivacious little face. Anne smiled back at him. Those two were the best\nof friends and Matthew thanked his stars many a time and oft that he had\nnothing to do with bringing her up. That was Marilla's exclusive duty;\nif it had been his he would have been worried over frequent conflicts\nbetween inclination and said duty. As it was, he was free to, \"spoil\nAnne\"--Marilla's phrasing--as much as he liked. But it was not such a\nbad arrangement after all; a little \"appreciation\" sometimes does quite\nas much good as all the conscientious \"bringing up\" in the world.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert Anne enjoys her return to school in October. She especially adores her new teacher, and flourishes academically and personally in Miss Stacy's innovative schoolhouse. Both Mrs. Rachel and Marilla disapprove of Miss Stacy's novel teaching methods, which include sending boys to retrieve birds' nests from the tops of trees to use as teaching tools and leading the children in daily exercises. In November, Miss Stacy announces that the school will put on a Christmas concert to raise money to buy a Canadian flag for the schoolhouse. Anne is even more excited than the rest of the students and anxiously awaits the performance of her two recitations. Marilla declares the concert \"foolishness,\" so Anne talks to Matthew about the concert. He reflects that he is glad that he has no part in bringing up Anne, since his lack of involvement allows him to spoil her."}, {"": "210", "document": "The same.  Roxane.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  On the King's service!  You?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay,--King Love's!  What other king?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Great God!\n\nCHRISTIAN (rushing forward):\n  Why have you come?\n\nROXANE:\n  This siege--'tis too long!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But why?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  I will tell you all!\n\nCYRANO (who, at the sound of her voice, has stood still, rooted to the ground,\nafraid to raise his eyes):\n  My God! dare I look at her?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You cannot remain here!\n\nROXANE (merrily):\n  But I say yes!  Who will push a drum hither for me?\n(She seats herself on the drum they roll forward):\n  So!  I thank you.\n(She laughs):\n  My carriage was fired at\n(proudly):\n  by the patrol!  Look! would you not think 'twas made of a pumpkin, like\nCinderella's chariot in the tale,--and the footmen out of rats?\n(Sending a kiss with her lips to Christian):\n  Good-morrow!\n(Examining them all):\n  You look not merry, any of you!  Ah! know you that 'tis a long road to get\nto Arras?\n(Seeing Cyrano):\n  Cousin, delighted!\n\nCYRANO (coming up to her):\n  But how, in Heaven's name?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  How found I the way to the army?  It was simple enough, for I had but to\npass on and on, as far as I saw the country laid waste.  Ah, what horrors were\nthere!  Had I not seen, then I could never have believed it!  Well, gentlemen,\nif such be the service of your King, I would fainer serve mine!\n\nCYRANO:\n  But 'tis sheer madness!  Where in the fiend's name did you get through?\n\nROXANE:\n  Where?  Through the Spanish lines.\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  --For subtle craft, give me a woman!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But how did you pass through their lines?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Faith! that must have been a hard matter!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  None too hard.  I but drove quietly forward in my carriage, and when some\nhidalgo of haughty mien would have stayed me, lo! I showed at the window my\nsweetest smile, and these Senors being (with no disrespect to you) the most\ngallant gentlemen in the world,--I passed on!\n\nCARBON:\n  True, that smile is a passport!  But you must have been asked frequently to\ngive an account of where you were going, Madame?\n\nROXANE:\n  Yes, frequently.  Then I would answer, 'I go to see my lover.'  At that word\nthe very fiercest Spaniard of them all would gravely shut the carriage-door,\nand, with a gesture that a king might envy, make signal to his men to lower\nthe muskets leveled at me;--then, with melancholy but withal very graceful\ndignity--his beaver held to the wind that the plumes might flutter bravely, he\nwould bow low, saying to me, 'Pass on, Senorita!'\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But, Roxane. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Forgive me that I said, 'my lover!'  But bethink you, had I said 'my\nhusband,' not one of them had let me pass!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  What ails you?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You must leave this place!\n\nROXANE:\n  I?\n\nCYRANO:\n  And that instantly!\n\nLE BRET:\n  No time to lose.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Indeed, you must.\n\nROXANE:\n  But wherefore must I?\n\nCHRISTIAN (embarrassed):\n  'Tis that. . .\n\nCYRANO (the same):\n  --In three quarters of an hour. . .\n\nDE GUICHE (the same):\n  --Or for. . .\n\nCARBON (the same):\n  It were best. . .\n\nLE BRET (the same):\n  You might. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  You are going to fight?--I stay here.\n\nALL:\n  No, no!\n\nROXANE:\n  He is my husband!\n(She throws herself into Christian's arms):\n  They shall kill us both together!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Why do you look at me thus?\n\nROXANE:\n  I will tell you why!\n\nDE GUICHE (in despair):\n  'Tis a post of mortal danger!\n\nROXANE (turning round):\n  Mortal danger!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Proof enough, that he has put us here!\n\nROXANE (to De Guiche):\n  So, Sir, you would have made a widow of me?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Nay, on my oath. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  I will not go!  I am reckless now, and I shall not stir from here!--Besides,\n'tis amusing!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh-ho!  So our precieuse is a heroine!\n\nROXANE:\n  Monsieur de Bergerac, I am your cousin.\n\nA CADET:\n  We will defend you well!\n\nROXANE (more and more excited):\n  I have no fear of that, my friends!\n\nANOTHER (in ecstasy):\n  The whole camp smells sweet of orris-root!\n\nROXANE:\n  And, by good luck, I have chosen a hat that will suit well with the\nbattlefield!\n(Looking at De Guiche):\n  But were it not wisest that the Count retire?\n  They may begin the attack.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  That is not to be brooked!  I go to inspect the cannon, and shall return.\nYou have still time--think better of it!\n\nROXANE:\n  Never!\n\n(De Guiche goes out.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Roxane has passed through the ravages of war in the service of her king, which is love. Using her smile as a passport and telling the gallant Spaniards that she was going to see her lover, she has charmed her way through enemy lines. No one can believe she has risked her life to come here; and everyone wants her to leave at once. No one, however, dares to tell here that they will soon be going into battle. When she deduces the situation, she claims that she wants to stay and die with Christian. She also accuses De Guiche of trying to make her a widow, by having her husband killed in the battle. The cadets are filled with admiration for her courage and stirred to battle to defend her."}, {"": "211", "document": "\n\nThe astronomical, mechanical, and topographical difficulties\nresolved, finally came the question of finance.  The sum\nrequired was far too great for any individual, or even any\nsingle State, to provide the requisite millions.\n\nPresident Barbicane undertook, despite of the matter being a\npurely American affair, to render it one of universal interest,\nand to request the financial co-operation of all peoples.\nIt was, he maintained, the right and duty of the whole earth\nto interfere in the affairs of its satellite.  The subscription\nopened at Baltimore extended properly to the whole world-- _Urbi\net orbi_.\n\nThis subscription was successful beyond all expectation;\nnotwithstanding that it was a question not of lending but of\ngiving the money.  It was a purely disinterested operation in\nthe strictest sense of the term, and offered not the slightest\nchance of profit.\n\nThe effect, however, of Barbicane's communication was not\nconfined to the frontiers of the United States; it crossed\nthe Atlantic and Pacific, invading simultaneously Asia and\nEurope, Africa and Oceanica.  The observatories of the Union\nplaced themselves in immediate communication with those of\nforeign countries.  Some, such as those of Paris, Petersburg,\nBerlin, Stockholm, Hamburg, Malta, Lisbon, Benares, Madras,\nand others, transmitted their good wishes; the rest maintained\na prudent silence, quietly awaiting the result.  As for the\nobservatory at Greenwich, seconded as it was by the twenty-\ntwo astronomical establishments of Great Britain, it spoke\nplainly enough.  It boldly denied the possibility of success,\nand pronounced in favor of the theories of Captain Nicholl.\nBut this was nothing more than mere English jealousy.\n\nOn the 8th of October President Barbicane published a manifesto\nfull of enthusiasm, in which he made an appeal to \"all persons\nof good will upon the face of the earth.\"  This document,\ntranslated into all languages, met with immense success.\n\nSubscription lists were opened in all the principal cities of\nthe Union, with a central office at the Baltimore Bank, 9\nBaltimore Street.\n\nIn addition, subscriptions were received at the following banks\nin the different states of the two continents:\n\n     At Vienna, with S. M. de Rothschild.\n     At Petersburg, Stieglitz and Co.\n     At Paris, The Credit Mobilier.\n     At Stockholm, Tottie and Arfuredson.\n     At London, N. M. Rothschild and Son.\n     At Turin, Ardouin and Co.\n     At Berlin, Mendelssohn.\n     At Geneva, Lombard, Odier and Co.\n     At Constantinople, The Ottoman Bank.\n     At Brussels, J. Lambert.\n     At Madrid, Daniel Weisweller.\n     At Amsterdam, Netherlands Credit Co.\n     At Rome, Torlonia and Co.\n     At Lisbon, Lecesne.\n     At Copenhagen, Private Bank.\n     At Rio de Janeiro, Private Bank.\n     At Montevideo, Private Bank.\n     At Valparaiso and Lima, Thomas la Chambre and Co.\n     At Mexico, Martin Daran and Co.\n\nThree days after the manifesto of President Barbicane $4,000,000\nwere paid into the different towns of the Union.  With such a\nbalance the Gun Club might begin operations at once.  But some\ndays later advices were received to the effect that foreign\nsubscriptions were being eagerly taken up.  Certain countries\ndistinguished themselves by their liberality; others untied\ntheir purse-strings with less facility--a matter of temperament.\nFigures are, however, more eloquent than words, and here is the\nofficial statement of the sums which were paid in to the credit\nof the Gun Club at the close of the subscription.\n\nRussia paid in as her contingent the enormous sum of 368,733 roubles.\nNo one need be surprised at this, who bears in mind the scientific\ntaste of the Russians, and the impetus which they have given to\nastronomical studies--thanks to their numerous observatories.\n\nFrance began by deriding the pretensions of the Americans.\nThe moon served as a pretext for a thousand stale puns and\na score of ballads, in which bad taste contested the palm\nwith ignorance.  But as formerly the French paid before singing,\nso now they paid after having had their laugh, and they subscribed\nfor a sum of 1,253,930 francs.  At that price they had a right\nto enjoy themselves a little.\n\nAustria showed herself generous in the midst of her financial crisis.\nHer public contributions amounted to the sum of 216,000 florins--\na perfect godsend.\n\nFifty-two thousand rix-dollars were the remittance of Sweden\nand Norway; the amount is large for the country, but it would\nundoubtedly have been considerably increased had the\nsubscription been opened in Christiana simultaneously with that\nat Stockholm.  For some reason or other the Norwegians do not\nlike to send their money to Sweden.\n\nPrussia, by a remittance of 250,000 thalers, testified her high\napproval of the enterprise.\n\nTurkey behaved generously; but she had a personal interest in\nthe matter.  The moon, in fact, regulates the cycle of her years\nand her fast of Ramadan.  She could not do less than give\n1,372,640 piastres; and she gave them with an eagerness which\ndenoted, however, some pressure on the part of the government.\n\nBelgium distinguished herself among the second-rate states by\na grant of 513,000 francs-- about two centimes per head of\nher population.\n\nHolland and her colonies interested themselves to the extent of\n110,000 florins, only demanding an allowance of five per cent.\ndiscount for paying ready money.\n\nDenmark, a little contracted in territory, gave nevertheless\n9,000 ducats, proving her love for scientific experiments.\n\nThe Germanic Confederation pledged itself to 34,285 florins.\nIt was impossible to ask for more; besides, they would not have\ngiven it.\n\nThough very much crippled, Italy found 200,000 lire in the\npockets of her people.  If she had had Venetia she would have\ndone better; but she had not.\n\nThe States of the Church thought that they could not send less\nthan 7,040 Roman crowns; and Portugal carried her devotion to\nscience as far as 30,000 cruzados.  It was the widow's mite--\neighty-six piastres; but self-constituted empires are always\nrather short of money.\n\nTwo hundred and fifty-seven francs, this was the modest\ncontribution of Switzerland to the American work.  One must\nfreely admit that she did not see the practical side of\nthe matter.  It did not seem to her that the mere despatch of\na shot to the moon could possibly establish any relation of\naffairs with her; and it did not seem prudent to her to embark\nher capital in so hazardous an enterprise.  After all, perhaps\nshe was right.\n\nAs to Spain, she could not scrape together more than 110 reals.\nShe gave as an excuse that she had her railways to finish.\nThe truth is, that science is not favorably regarded in that\ncountry, it is still in a backward state; and moreover, certain\nSpaniards, not by any means the least educated, did not form a\ncorrect estimate of the bulk of the projectile compared with\nthat of the moon.  They feared that it would disturb the\nestablished order of things.  In that case it were better to\nkeep aloof; which they did to the tune of some reals.\n\nThere remained but England; and we know the contemptuous\nantipathy with which she received Barbicane's proposition.\nThe English have but one soul for the whole twenty-six millions\nof inhabitants which Great Britain contains.  They hinted that\nthe enterprise of the Gun Club was contrary to the \"principle of\nnon-intervention.\"  And they did not subscribe a single farthing.\n\nAt this intimation the Gun Club merely shrugged its shoulders\nand returned to its great work.  When South America, that is to\nsay, Peru, Chili, Brazil, the provinces of La Plata and Columbia,\nhad poured forth their quota into their hands, the sum of $300,000,\nit found itself in possession of a considerable capital, of which\nthe following is a statement:\n\n     United States subscriptions, .     .  $4,000,000\n     Foreign subscriptions  .     .     .  $1,446,675\n                                          -----------\n            Total,    .     .     .     .  $5,446,675\n\n\nSuch was the sum which the public poured into the treasury of\nthe Gun Club.\n\nLet no one be surprised at the vastness of the amount.  The work\nof casting, boring, masonry, the transport of workmen, their\nestablishment in an almost uninhabited country, the construction\nof furnaces and workshops, the plant, the powder, the projectile,\nand incipient expenses, would, according to the estimates, absorb\nnearly the whole.  Certain cannon-shots in the Federal war cost\none thousand dollars apiece.  This one of President Barbicane,\nunique in the annals of gunnery, might well cost five thousand\ntimes more.\n\nOn the 20th of October a contract was entered into with the\nmanufactory at Coldspring, near New York, which during the war\nhad furnished the largest Parrott, cast-iron guns.  It was\nstipulated between the contracting parties that the manufactory\nof Coldspring should engage to transport to Tampa Town,\nin southern Florida, the necessary materials for casting\nthe Columbiad.  The work was bound to be completed at latest\nby the 15th of October following, and the cannon delivered\nin good condition under penalty of a forfeit of one hundred\ndollars a day to the moment when the moon should again present\nherself under the same conditions-- that is to say, in eighteen\nyears and eleven days.\n\nThe engagement of the workmen, their pay, and all the necessary\ndetails of the work, devolved upon the Coldspring Company.\n\nThis contract, executed in duplicate, was signed by Barbicane,\npresident of the Gun Club, of the one part, and T. Murchison\ndirector of the Coldspring manufactory, of the other, who thus\nexecuted the deed on behalf of their respective principals.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "With that settled, the Gun Club turns its attention to financing. Barbicane decides to offer \"subscriptions\" to the public, giving people all over the world a way to support the project. They make four million dollars in the United States alone. Wait: Did Barbicane just invent Kickstarter? They make a solid amount of money internationally, too. Some countries--like Russia, Turkey, Belgium and France--are very generous with donations, while others, like England, refuse to \"subscribe a farthing\" out of principle. In the end, they pull in about five and a half million dollars. Not too shabby, eh?"}, {"": "212", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\n                        France. Before Orleans\n\n               Enter, on the walls, the MASTER-GUNNER\n                       OF ORLEANS and his BOY\n\n  MASTER-GUNNER. Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is\n    besieg'd,\n    And how the English have the suburbs won.\n  BOY. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them,\n    Howe'er unfortunate I miss'd my aim.\n  MASTER-GUNNER. But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul'd\n    by me.\n    Chief master-gunner am I of this town;\n    Something I must do to procure me grace.\n    The Prince's espials have informed me\n    How the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd,\n    Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars\n    In yonder tower, to overpeer the city,\n    And thence discover how with most advantage\n    They may vex us with shot or with assault.\n    To intercept this inconvenience,\n    A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have plac'd;\n    And even these three days have I watch'd\n    If I could see them. Now do thou watch,\n    For I can stay no longer.\n    If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word;\n    And thou shalt find me at the Governor's.               Exit\n  BOY. Father, I warrant you; take you no care;\n    I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them.              Exit\n\n          Enter SALISBURY and TALBOT on the turrets, with\n            SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE,\n                            and others\n\n  SALISBURY. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd!\n    How wert thou handled being prisoner?\n    Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd?\n    Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top.\n  TALBOT. The Earl of Bedford had a prisoner\n    Call'd the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles;\n    For him was I exchang'd and ransomed.\n    But with a baser man of arms by far\n    Once, in contempt, they would have barter'd me;\n    Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death\n    Rather than I would be so vile esteem'd.\n    In fine, redeem'd I was as I desir'd.\n    But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart\n    Whom with my bare fists I would execute,\n    If I now had him brought into my power.\n  SALISBURY. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain'd.\n  TALBOT. With scoffs, and scorns, and contumelious taunts,\n    In open market-place produc'd they me\n    To be a public spectacle to all;\n    Here, said they, is the terror of the French,\n    The scarecrow that affrights our children so.\n    Then broke I from the officers that led me,\n    And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground\n    To hurl at the beholders of my shame;\n    My grisly countenance made others fly;\n    None durst come near for fear of sudden death.\n    In iron walls they deem'd me not secure;\n    So great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread\n    That they suppos'd I could rend bars of steel\n    And spurn in pieces posts of adamant;\n    Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had\n    That walk'd about me every minute-while;\n    And if I did but stir out of my bed,\n    Ready they were to shoot me to the heart.\n\n                Enter the BOY with a linstock\n\n  SALISBURY. I grieve to hear what torments you endur'd;\n    But we will be reveng'd sufficiently.\n    Now it is supper-time in Orleans:\n    Here, through this grate, I count each one\n    And view the Frenchmen how they fortify.\n    Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.\n    Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale,\n    Let me have your express opinions\n    Where is best place to make our batt'ry next.\n  GARGRAVE. I think at the North Gate; for there stand lords.\n  GLANSDALE. And I here, at the bulwark of the bridge.\n  TALBOT. For aught I see, this city must be famish'd,\n    Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.\n                     [Here they shoot and SALISBURY and GARGRAVE\n                                                      fall down]\n  SALISBURY. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners!\n  GARGRAVE. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man!\n  TALBOT. What chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us?\n    Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak.\n    How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men?\n    One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off!\n    Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand\n    That hath contriv'd this woeful tragedy!\n    In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame;\n    Henry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars;\n    Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up,\n    His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field.\n    Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail,\n    One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace;\n    The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.\n    Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive\n    If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!\n    Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it.\n    Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?\n    Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him.\n    Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort,\n    Thou shalt not die whiles\n    He beckons with his hand and smiles on me,\n    As who should say 'When I am dead and gone,\n    Remember to avenge me on the French.'\n    Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero,\n    Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn.\n    Wretched shall France be only in my name.\n                  [Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens]\n    What stir is this? What tumult's in the heavens?\n    Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?\n\n                          Enter a MESSENGER\n\n  MESSENGER. My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd\n    head\n    The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd,\n    A holy prophetess new risen up,\n    Is come with a great power to raise the siege.\n                  [Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans]\n  TALBOT. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan.\n    It irks his heart he cannot be reveng'd.\n    Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you.\n    Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,\n    Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels\n    And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.\n    Convey me Salisbury into his tent,\n    And then we'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.\n                                                  Alarum. Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The action shifts to France. The French Master Gunner of Orleans tells his son that the English have occupied a tower, to which they gained entrance through a secret gate. From this tower they are planning their attack on Orleans. The Gunner has placed a cannon near the place to prevent any further incursions. He asks his son to keep watch and let him know if he sees any Englishmen there. The Boy agrees, but once his father is out of earshot, says he will avoid telling his father of any activity: he wants to claim any glory for himself"}, {"": "213", "document": "\n\nThe immediate result of Barbicane's proposition was to place upon\nthe orders of the day all the astronomical facts relative to the\nQueen of the Night.  Everybody set to work to study assiduously.\nOne would have thought that the moon had just appeared for the\nfirst time, and that no one had ever before caught a glimpse of\nher in the heavens.  The papers revived all the old anecdotes in\nwhich the \"sun of the wolves\" played a part; they recalled the\ninfluences which the ignorance of past ages ascribed to her; in\nshort, all America was seized with selenomania, or had become moon-mad.\n\nThe scientific journals, for their part, dealt more especially with\nthe questions which touched upon the enterprise of the Gun Club.\nThe letter of the Observatory of Cambridge was published by them,\nand commented upon with unreserved approval.\n\nUntil that time most people had been ignorant of the mode in which\nthe distance which separates the moon from the earth is calculated.\nThey took advantage of this fact to explain to them that this\ndistance was obtained by measuring the parallax of the moon.\nThe term parallax proving \"caviare to the general,\" they further\nexplained that it meant the angle formed by the inclination of two\nstraight lines drawn from either extremity of the earth's radius\nto the moon.  On doubts being expressed as to the correctness of\nthis method, they immediately proved that not only was the mean\ndistance 234,347 miles, but that astronomers could not possibly\nbe in error in their estimate by more than seventy miles either way.\n\nTo those who were not familiar with the motions of the moon,\nthey demonstrated that she possesses two distinct motions, the\nfirst being that of rotation upon her axis, the second being\nthat of revolution round the earth, accomplishing both together\nin an equal period of time, that is to say, in twenty-seven and\none-third days.\n\nThe motion of rotation is that which produces day and night on\nthe surface of the moon; save that there is only one day and one\nnight in the lunar month, each lasting three hundred and\nfifty-four and one-third hours.  But, happily for her, the face\nturned toward the terrestrial globe is illuminated by it with an\nintensity equal to that of fourteen moons.  As to the other\nface, always invisible to us, it has of necessity three hundred\nand fifty-four hours of absolute night, tempered only by that\n\"pale glimmer which falls upon it from the stars.\"\n\nSome well-intentioned, but rather obstinate persons, could not\nat first comprehend how, if the moon displays invariably the\nsame face to the earth during her revolution, she can describe\none turn round herself.  To such they answered, \"Go into your\ndining-room, and walk round the table in such a way as to always\nkeep your face turned toward the center; by the time you will\nhave achieved one complete round you will have completed one\nturn around yourself, since your eye will have traversed\nsuccessively every point of the room.  Well, then, the room is\nthe heavens, the table is the earth, and the moon is yourself.\"\nAnd they would go away delighted.\n\nSo, then the moon displays invariably the same face to the\nearth; nevertheless, to be quite exact, it is necessary to add\nthat, in consequence of certain fluctuations of north and south,\nand of west and east, termed her libration, she permits rather\nmore than half, that is to say, five-sevenths, to be seen.\n\nAs soon as the ignoramuses came to understand as much as the\ndirector of the observatory himself knew, they began to worry\nthemselves regarding her revolution round the earth, whereupon\ntwenty scientific reviews immediately came to the rescue.\nThey pointed out to them that the firmament, with its infinitude\nof stars, may be considered as one vast dial-plate, upon which the\nmoon travels, indicating the true time to all the inhabitants of\nthe earth; that it is during this movement that the Queen of\nNight exhibits her different phases; that the moon is _full_\nwhen she is in _opposition_ with the sun, that is when the three\nbodies are on the same straight line, the earth occupying the\ncenter; that she is _new_ when she is in _conjunction_ with the\nsun, that is, when she is between it and the earth; and, lastly\nthat she is in her _first_ or _last_ quarter, when she makes\nwith the sun and the earth an angle of which she herself occupies\nthe apex.\n\nRegarding the altitude which the moon attains above the horizon,\nthe letter of the Cambridge Observatory had said all that was to\nbe said in this respect.  Every one knew that this altitude\nvaries according to the latitude of the observer.  But the only\nzones of the globe in which the moon passes the zenith, that is,\nthe point directly over the head of the spectator, are of\nnecessity comprised between the twenty-eighth parallels and\nthe equator.  Hence the importance of the advice to try the\nexperiment upon some point of that part of the globe, in order\nthat the projectile might be discharged perpendicularly, and so\nthe soonest escape the action of gravitation.  This was an\nessential condition to the success of the enterprise, and\ncontinued actively to engage the public attention.\n\nRegarding the path described by the moon in her revolution round\nthe earth, the Cambridge Observatory had demonstrated that this\npath is a re-entering curve, not a perfect circle, but an\nellipse, of which the earth occupies one of the _foci_.  It was\nalso well understood that it is farthest removed from the earth\nduring its _apogee_, and approaches most nearly to it at its _perigee_.\n\nSuch was then the extent of knowledge possessed by every\nAmerican on the subject, and of which no one could decently\nprofess ignorance.  Still, while these principles were being\nrapidly disseminated many errors and illusory fears proved less\neasy to eradicate.\n\nFor instance, some worthy persons maintained that the moon was\nan ancient comet which, in describing its elongated orbit round\nthe sun, happened to pass near the earth, and became confined\nwithin her circle of attraction.  These drawing-room astronomers\nprofessed to explain the charred aspect of the moon-- a disaster\nwhich they attributed to the intensity of the solar heat; only,\non being reminded that comets have an atmosphere, and that the\nmoon has little or none, they were fairly at a loss for a reply.\n\nOthers again, belonging to the doubting class, expressed certain\nfears as to the position of the moon.  They had heard it said\nthat, according to observations made in the time of the Caliphs,\nher revolution had become accelerated in a certain degree.\nHence they concluded, logically enough, that an acceleration of\nmotion ought to be accompanied by a corresponding diminution in\nthe distance separating the two bodies; and that, supposing the\ndouble effect to be continued to infinity, the moon would end by\none day falling into the earth.  However, they became reassured\nas to the fate of future generations on being apprised that,\naccording to the calculations of Laplace, this acceleration of\nmotion is confined within very restricted limits, and that a\nproportional diminution of speed will be certain to succeed it.\nSo, then, the stability of the solar system would not be deranged\nin ages to come.\n\nThere remains but the third class, the superstitious.\nThese worthies were not content merely to rest in ignorance;\nthey must know all about things which had no existence whatever,\nand as to the moon, they had long known all about her.  One set\nregarded her disc as a polished mirror, by means of which people\ncould see each other from different points of the earth and\ninterchange their thoughts.  Another set pretended that out of\none thousand new moons that had been observed, nine hundred and\nfifty had been attended with remarkable disturbances, such as\ncataclysms, revolutions, earthquakes, the deluge, etc.  Then they\nbelieved in some mysterious influence exercised by her over human\ndestinies-- that every Selenite was attached to some inhabitant\nof the earth by a tie of sympathy; they maintained that the\nentire vital system is subject to her control, etc.  But in time\nthe majority renounced these vulgar errors, and espoused the true\nside of the question.  As for the Yankees, they had no other\nambition than to take possession of this new continent of the sky,\nand to plant upon the summit of its highest elevation the star-\nspangled banner of the United States of America.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Now, even \"the most illiterate Yankee\" is trying to learn about the moon. Good for you, illiterate Yankees. While there's plenty of factual information making the rounds, there's no shortage of malarkey out there, too. These are some classic conspiracy theories, touching on aliens, telepathy, and supernatural disasters."}, {"": "214", "document": "Cyrano, De Guiche.\n\nDE GUICHE (who enters, masked, feeling his way in the dark):\n  What can that cursed Friar be about?\n\nCYRANO:\n  The devil!. . .If he knows my voice!\n(Letting go with one hand, he pretends to turn an invisible key.  Solemnly):\n  Cric!  Crac!\n  Assume thou, Cyrano, to serve the turn,\n  The accent of thy native Bergerac!. . .\n\nDE GUICHE (looking at the house):\n  'Tis there.  I see dim,--this mask hinders me!\n(He is about to enter, when Cyrano leaps from the balcony, holding on to the\nbranch, which bends, dropping him between the door and De Guiche; he pretends\nto fall heavily, as from a great height, and lies flat on the ground,\nmotionless, as if stunned.  De Guiche starts back):\n  What's this?\n(When he looks up, the branch has sprung back into its place.  He sees only\nthe sky, and is lost in amazement):\n  Where fell that man from?\n\nCYRANO (sitting up, and speaking with a Gascon accent):\n  From the moon!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  From?. . .\n\nCYRANO (in a dreamy voice):\n  What's o'clock?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  He's lost his mind, for sure!\n\nCYRANO:\n  What hour?  What country this?  What month?  What day?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  I am stupefied!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Sir!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Like a bomb\n  I fell from the moon!\n\nDE GUICHE (impatiently):\n  Come now!\n\nCYRANO (rising, in a terrible voice):\n  I say,--the moon!\n\nDE GUICHE (recoiling):\n  Good, good! let it be so!. . .He's raving mad!\n\nCYRANO (walking up to him):\n  I say from the moon!  I mean no metaphor!. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Was't a hundred years--a minute, since?\n  --I cannot guess what time that fall embraced!--\n  That I was in that saffron-colored ball?\n\nDE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders):\n  Good! let me pass!\n\nCYRANO (intercepting him):\n  Where am I?  Tell the truth!\n  Fear not to tell!  Oh, spare me not!  Where? where?\n  Have I fallen like a shooting star?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Morbleu!\n\nCYRANO:\n  The fall was lightning-quick! no time to choose\n  Where I should fall--I know not where it be!\n  Oh, tell me!  Is it on a moon or earth,\n  that my posterior weight has landed me?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I tell you, Sir. . .\n\nCYRANO (with a screech of terror, which makes De Guiche start back):\n  No?  Can it be?  I'm on\n  A planet where men have black faces?\n\nDE GUICHE (putting a hand to his face):\n  What?\n\nCYRANO (feigning great alarm):\n  Am I in Africa?  A native you?\n\nDE GUICHE (who has remembered his mask):\n  This mask of mine. . .\n\nCYRANO (pretending to be reassured):\n  In Venice? ha!--or Rome?\n\nDE GUICHE (trying to pass):\n  A lady waits. .\n\nCYRANO (quite reassured):\n  Oh-ho!  I am in Paris!\n\nDE GUICHE (smiling in spite of himself):\n  The fool is comical!\n\nCYRANO:\n  You laugh?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I laugh,\n  But would get by!\n\nCYRANO (beaming with joy):\n  I have shot back to Paris!\n(Quite at ease, laughing, dusting himself, bowing):\n  Come--pardon me--by the last water-spout,\n  Covered with ether,--accident of travel!\n  My eyes still full of star-dust, and my spurs\n  Encumbered by the planets' filaments!\n(Picking something off his sleeve):\n  Ha! on my doublet?--ah, a comet's hair!. . .\n\n(He puffs as if to blow it away.)\n\nDE GUICHE (beside himself):\n  Sir!. . .\n\nCYRANO (just as he is about to pass, holds out his leg as if to show him\nsomething and stops him):\n  In my leg--the calf--there is a tooth\n  Of the Great Bear, and, passing Neptune close,\n  I would avoid his trident's point, and fell,\n  Thus sitting, plump, right in the Scales!  My weight\n  Is marked, still registered, up there in heaven!\n(Hurriedly preventing De Guiche from passing, and detaining him by the button\nof his doublet):\n  I swear to you that if you squeezed my nose\n  It would spout milk!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Milk?\n\nCYRANO:\n  From the Milky Way!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Oh, go to hell!\n\nCYRANO (crossing his arms):\n  I fall, Sir, out of heaven!\n  Now, would you credit it, that as I fell\n  I saw that Sirius wears a nightcap?  True!\n(Confidentially):\n  The other Bear is still too small to bite.\n(Laughing):\n  I went through the Lyre, but I snapped a cord;\n(Grandiloquent):\n  I mean to write the whole thing in a book;\n  The small gold stars, that, wrapped up in my cloak,\n  I carried safe away at no small risks,\n  Will serve for asterisks i' the printed page!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Come, make an end!  I want. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh-ho!  You are sly!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Sir!\n\nCYRANO:\n  You would worm all out of me!--the way\n  The moon is made, and if men breathe and live\n  In its rotund cucurbita?\n\nDE GUICHE (angrily):\n  No, no!\n  I want. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ha, ha!--to know how I got up?\n  Hark, it was by a method all my own.\n\nDE GUICHE (wearied):\n  He's mad!\n\nCYRANO(contemptuously):\n  No! not for me the stupid eagle\n  Of Regiomontanus, nor the timid\n  Pigeon of Archytas--neither of those!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay, 'tis a fool!  But 'tis a learned fool!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No imitator I of other men!\n(De Guiche has succeeded in getting by, and goes toward Roxane's door.  Cyrano\nfollows him, ready to stop him by force):\n  Six novel methods, all, this brain invented!\n\nDE GUICHE (turning round):\n  Six?\n\nCYRANO (volubly):\n  First, with body naked as your hand,\n  Festooned about with crystal flacons, full\n  O' th' tears the early morning dew distils;\n  My body to the sun's fierce rays exposed\n  To let it suck me up, as 't sucks the dew!\n\nDE GUICHE (surprised, making one step toward Cyrano):\n  Ah! that makes one!\n\nCYRANO (stepping back, and enticing him further away):\n  And then, the second way,\n  To generate wind--for my impetus--\n  To rarefy air, in a cedar case,\n  By mirrors placed icosahedron-wise.\n\nDE GUICHE (making another step):\n  Two!\n\nCYRANO (still stepping backward):\n  Or--for I have some mechanic skill--\n  To make a grasshopper, with springs of steel,\n  And launch myself by quick succeeding fires\n  Saltpeter-fed to the stars' pastures blue!\n\nDE GUICHE (unconsciously following him and counting on his fingers):\n  Three!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Or (since fumes have property to mount)--\n  To charge a globe with fumes, sufficiently\n  To carry me aloft!\n\nDE GUICHE (same play, more and more astonished):\n  Well, that makes four!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Or smear myself with marrow from a bull,\n  Since, at the lowest point of Zodiac,\n  Phoebus well loves to suck that marrow up!\n\nDE GUICHE (amazed):\n  Five!\n\nCYRANO (who, while speaking, had drawn him to the other side of the square\nnear a bench):\n  Sitting on an iron platform--thence\n  To throw a magnet in the air.  This is\n  A method well conceived--the magnet flown,\n  Infallibly the iron will pursue:\n  Then quick! relaunch your magnet, and you thus\n  Can mount and mount unmeasured distances!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Here are six excellent expedients!\n  Which of the six chose you?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Why, none!--a seventh!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Astonishing!  What was it?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I'll recount.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  This wild eccentric becomes interesting!\n\nCYRANO (making a noise like the waves, with weird gestures):\n  Houuh!  Houuh!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Well.\n\nCYRANO:\n  You have guessed?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Not I!\n\nCYRANO:\n  The tide!\n  I' th' witching hour when the moon woos the wave,\n  I laid me, fresh from a sea-bath, on the shore--\n  And, failing not to put head foremost--for\n  The hair holds the sea-water in its mesh--\n  I rose in air, straight! straight! like angel's flight,\n  And mounted, mounted, gently, effortless,. . .\n  When lo! a sudden shock!  Then. . .\n\nDE GUICHE (overcome by curiosity, sitting down on the bench):\n  Then?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh! then. . .\n(Suddenly returning to his natural voice):\n  The quarter's gone--I'll hinder you no more:\n  The marriage-vows are made.\n\nDE GUICHE (springing up):\n  What?  Am I mad?\n  That voice?\n(The house-door opens.  Lackeys appear carrying lighted candelabra.  Light.\nCyrano gracefully uncovers):\n  That nose--Cyrano?\n\nCYRANO (bowing):\n  Cyrano.\n  While we were chatting, they have plighted troth.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Who?\n(He turns round.  Tableau.  Behind the lackeys appear Roxane and Christian,\nholding each other by the hand.  The friar follows them, smiling.  Ragueneau\nalso holds a candlestick.  The duenna closes the rear, bewildered, having made\na hasty toilet):\n  Heavens!\n\n\n\n\nThe same.  Roxane, Christian, the friar, Ragueneau, lackeys, the duenna.\n\nDE GUICHE (to Roxane):\n  You?\n(Recognizing Christian, in amazement):\n  He?\n(Bowing, with admiration, to Roxane):\n  Cunningly contrived!\n(To Cyrano):\n  My compliments--Sir Apparatus-maker!\n  Your story would arrest at Peter's gate\n  Saints eager for their Paradise!  Note well\n  The details.  'Faith!  They'd make a stirring book!\n\nCYRANO (bowing):\n  I shall not fail to follow your advice.\n\nTHE FRIAR (showing with satisfaction the two lovers to De Guiche):\n  A handsome couple, son, made one by you!\n\nDE GUICHE (with a freezing look):\n  Ay!\n(To Roxane):\n  Bid your bridegroom, Madame, fond farewell.\n\nROXANE:\n  Why so?\n\nDE GUICHE (to Christian):\n  Even now the regiment departs.\n  Join it!\n\nROXANE:\n  It goes to battle?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Without doubt.\n\nROXANE:\n  But the Cadets go not?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Oh ay! they go.\n(Drawing out the paper he had put in his pocket):\n  Here is the order.\n(To Christian):\n  Baron, bear it, quick!\n\nROXANE (throwing herself in Christian's arms):\n  Christian!\n\nDE GUICHE (sneeringly to Cyrano):\n  The wedding-night is far, methinks!\n\nCYRANO (aside):\n  He thinks to give me pain of death by this!\n\nCHRISTIAN (to Roxane):\n  Oh! once again!  Your lips!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Come, come, enough!\n\nCHRISTIAN (still kissing Roxane):\n  --'Tis hard to leave her, you know not. . .\n\nCYRANO (trying to draw him away):\n  I know.\n\n(Sound of drums beating a march in the distance.)\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  The regiment starts!\n\nROXANE (To Cyrano, holding back Christian, whom Cyrano is drawing away):\n  Oh!--I trust him you!\n  Promise me that no risks shall put his life\n  In danger!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I will try my best, but promise. . .\n  That I cannot!\n\nROXANE:\n  But swear he shall be prudent?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Again, I'll do my best, but. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  In the siege\n  Let him not suffer!\n\nCYRANO:\n  All that man can do,\n  I. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  That he shall be faithful!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Doubtless, but. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  That he will write oft?\n\nCYRANO (pausing):\n  That, I promise you!\n\n\nCurtain.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano has climbed to the top of the wall, and when De Guiche enters, Cyrano swings from a branch and drops down in front of him. He tells De Guiche that he came from the moon and asks where he is. In spite of himself, De Guiche is amused. When Cyrano says that he has invented six ways to travel to the moon, De Guiche is curious enough to listen to what they are. Then, after telling him the six ways, Cyrano says, in his own voice, that the quarter of an hour is up, and the marriage completed. He believes there is nothing De Guiche can do about the marriage. De Guiche, however, gains revenge by sending the cadets to the front immediately."}, {"": "215", "document": "XI. A Companion Picture\n\n\n\"Sydney,\" said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his\njackal; \"mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.\"\n\nSydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,\nand the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making\na grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in\nof the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver\narrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until\nNovember should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and\nbring grist to the mill again.\n\nSydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much\napplication. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him\nthrough the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded\nthe towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled\nhis turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at\nintervals for the last six hours.\n\n\"Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?\" said Stryver the portly, with\nhis hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on\nhis back.\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather\nsurprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as\nshrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.\"\n\n\"_Do_ you?\"\n\n\"Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?\"\n\n\"I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?\"\n\n\"Guess.\"\n\n\"Do I know her?\"\n\n\"Guess.\"\n\n\"I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains\nfrying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask\nme to dinner.\"\n\n\"Well then, I'll tell you,\" said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting\nposture. \"Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,\nbecause you are such an insensible dog.\"\n\n\"And you,\" returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, \"are such a\nsensitive and poetical spirit--\"\n\n\"Come!\" rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, \"though I don't prefer\nany claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still\nI am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.\"\n\n\"You are a luckier, if you mean that.\"\n\n\"I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--\"\n\n\"Say gallantry, while you are about it,\" suggested Carton.\n\n\"Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,\" said Stryver,\ninflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, \"who cares more to\nbe agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how\nto be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.\"\n\n\"Go on,\" said Sydney Carton.\n\n\"No; but before I go on,\" said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying\nway, \"I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house\nas much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your\nmoroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and\nhangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,\nSydney!\"\n\n\"It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to\nbe ashamed of anything,\" returned Sydney; \"you ought to be much obliged\nto me.\"\n\n\"You shall not get off in that way,\" rejoined Stryver, shouldering the\nrejoinder at him; \"no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you\nto your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned\nfellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.\"\n\nSydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.\n\n\"Look at me!\" said Stryver, squaring himself; \"I have less need to make\nmyself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.\nWhy do I do it?\"\n\n\"I never saw you do it yet,\" muttered Carton.\n\n\"I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I\nget on.\"\n\n\"You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,\"\nanswered Carton, with a careless air; \"I wish you would keep to that. As\nto me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?\"\n\nHe asked the question with some appearance of scorn.\n\n\"You have no business to be incorrigible,\" was his friend's answer,\ndelivered in no very soothing tone.\n\n\"I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,\" said Sydney Carton.\n\"Who is the lady?\"\n\n\"Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,\nSydney,\" said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness\nfor the disclosure he was about to make, \"because I know you don't mean\nhalf you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I\nmake this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to\nme in slighting terms.\"\n\n\"I did?\"\n\n\"Certainly; and in these chambers.\"\n\nSydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;\ndrank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.\n\n\"You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young\nlady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or\ndelicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a\nlittle resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.\nYou want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I\nthink of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of\na picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music\nof mine, who had no ear for music.\"\n\nSydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,\nlooking at his friend.\n\n\"Now you know all about it, Syd,\" said Mr. Stryver. \"I don't care about\nfortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to\nplease myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She\nwill have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,\nand a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,\nbut she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?\"\n\nCarton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, \"Why should I be\nastonished?\"\n\n\"You approve?\"\n\nCarton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, \"Why should I not approve?\"\n\n\"Well!\" said his friend Stryver, \"you take it more easily than I fancied\nyou would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would\nbe; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your\nancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had\nenough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I\nfeel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels\ninclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel\nthat Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me\ncredit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to\nsay a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you\nknow; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,\nyou live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;\nyou really ought to think about a nurse.\"\n\nThe prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as\nbig as he was, and four times as offensive.\n\n\"Now, let me recommend you,\" pursued Stryver, \"to look it in the face.\nI have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,\nyou, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of\nyou. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor\nunderstanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some\nrespectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,\nor lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the\nkind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.\"\n\n\"I'll think of it,\" said Sydney.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sydney Carton spends many long nights clearing up Mr. Stryver's legal matters before Stryver goes on his long vacation. Finally, on one such night after the work is complete, Mr. Stryver announces to Carton his intentions to marry. Mr. Stryver assumes that women find him tactful, ambitious, and successful and would be happy to become his wife. He thinks that Lucie would be a suitable choice even though she is poor. Mr. Stryver does not mention even once that he is in love with Lucie. Stryver also assumes that Carton is disagreeable to women and informs him of this. Carton is amused with Stryver's attitude and pokes fun at him. Stryver fails to notice the satire in Carton's remarks and aggressively continues his assault on Carton's faults. He finally says that perhaps Carton can marry a commoner, someone with property who will look after him when he ages."}, {"": "216", "document": "PART III. OF A CHRISTIAN COMMON-WEALTH. CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE PRINCIPLES OF CHRISTIAN POLITIQUES\n\n\n\nThe Word Of God Delivered By Prophets Is The Main Principle\n\nOf Christian Politiques\n\nI have derived the Rights of Soveraigne Power, and the duty of Subjects\nhitherto, from the Principles of Nature onely; such as Experience has\nfound true, or Consent (concerning the use of words) has made so; that\nis to say, from the nature of Men, known to us by Experience, and\nfrom Definitions (of such words as are Essentiall to all Politicall\nreasoning) universally agreed on. But in that I am next to handle, which\nis the Nature and Rights of a CHRISTIAN COMMON-WEALTH, whereof there\ndependeth much upon Supernaturall Revelations of the Will of God; the\nground of my Discourse must be, not only the Naturall Word of God, but\nalso the Propheticall.\n\nNeverthelesse, we are not to renounce our Senses, and Experience; nor\n(that which is the undoubted Word of God) our naturall Reason. For they\nare the talents which he hath put into our hands to negotiate, till the\ncoming again of our blessed Saviour; and therefore not to be folded up\nin the Napkin of an Implicate Faith, but employed in the purchase of\nJustice, Peace, and true Religion, For though there be many things in\nGods Word above Reason; that is to say, which cannot by naturall reason\nbe either demonstrated, or confuted; yet there is nothing contrary\nto it; but when it seemeth so, the fault is either in our unskilfull\nInterpretation, or erroneous Ratiocination.\n\nTherefore, when any thing therein written is too hard for our\nexamination, wee are bidden to captivate our understanding to the Words;\nand not to labour in sifting out a Philosophicall truth by Logick, of\nsuch mysteries as are not comprehensible, nor fall under any rule of\nnaturall science. For it is with the mysteries of our Religion, as with\nwholsome pills for the sick, which swallowed whole, have the vertue to\ncure; but chewed, are for the most part cast up again without effect.\n\n\n\n\nWhat It Is To Captivate The Understanding\n\nBut by the Captivity of our Understanding, is not meant a Submission of\nthe Intellectual faculty, to the Opinion of any other man; but of\nthe Will to Obedience, where obedience is due. For Sense, Memory,\nUnderstanding, Reason, and Opinion are not in our power to change; but\nalwaies, and necessarily such, as the things we see, hear, and consider\nsuggest unto us; and therefore are not effects of our Will, but our Will\nof them. We then Captivate our Understanding and Reason, when we forbear\ncontradiction; when we so speak, as (by lawfull Authority) we are\ncommanded; and when we live accordingly; which in sum, is Trust, and\nFaith reposed in him that speaketh, though the mind be incapable of any\nNotion at all from the words spoken.\n\n\n\n\nHow God Speaketh To Men\n\nWhen God speaketh to man, it must be either immediately; or by mediation\nof another man, to whom he had formerly spoken by himself immediately.\nHow God speaketh to a man immediately, may be understood by those well\nenough, to whom he hath so spoken; but how the same should be understood\nby another, is hard, if not impossible to know. For if a man pretend to\nme, that God hath spoken to him supernaturally, and immediately, and I\nmake doubt of it, I cannot easily perceive what argument he can produce,\nto oblige me to beleeve it. It is true, that if he be my Soveraign,\nhe may oblige me to obedience, so, as not by act or word to declare I\nbeleeve him not; but not to think any otherwise then my reason perswades\nme. But if one that hath not such authority over me, shall pretend the\nsame, there is nothing that exacteth either beleefe, or obedience.\n\nFor to say that God hath spoken to him in the Holy Scripture, is not\nto say God hath spoken to him immediately, but by mediation of the\nProphets, or of the Apostles, or of the Church, in such manner as he\nspeaks to all other Christian men. To say he hath spoken to him in a\nDream, is no more than to say he dreamed that God spake to him; which is\nnot of force to win beleef from any man, that knows dreams are for\nthe most part naturall, and may proceed from former thoughts; and such\ndreams as that, from selfe conceit, and foolish arrogance, and false\nopinion of a mans own godlinesse, or other vertue, by which he thinks he\nhath merited the favour of extraordinary Revelation. To say he hath\nseen a Vision, or heard a Voice, is to say, that he hath dreamed between\nsleeping and waking: for in such manner a man doth many times naturally\ntake his dream for a vision, as not having well observed his own\nslumbering. To say he speaks by supernaturall Inspiration, is to say he\nfinds an ardent desire to speak, or some strong opinion of himself, for\nwhich he can alledge no naturall and sufficient reason. So that\nthough God Almighty can speak to a man, by Dreams, Visions, Voice, and\nInspiration; yet he obliges no man to beleeve he hath so done to him\nthat pretends it; who (being a man), may erre, and (which is more) may\nlie.\n\n\n\n\nBy What Marks Prophets Are Known\n\nHow then can he, to whom God hath never revealed his Wil immediately\n(saving by the way of natural reason) know when he is to obey, or not\nto obey his Word, delivered by him, that sayes he is a Prophet? (1 Kings\n22) Of 400 Prophets, of whom the K. of Israel asked counsel, concerning\nthe warre he made against Ramoth Gilead, only Micaiah was a true one.(1\nKings 13) The Prophet that was sent to prophecy against the Altar set up\nby Jeroboam, though a true Prophet, and that by two miracles done in\nhis presence appears to be a Prophet sent from God, was yet deceived by\nanother old Prophet, that perswaded him as from the mouth of God, to eat\nand drink with him. If one Prophet deceive another, what certainty is\nthere of knowing the will of God, by other way than that of Reason? To\nwhich I answer out of the Holy Scripture, that there be two marks, by\nwhich together, not asunder, a true Prophet is to be known. One is the\ndoing of miracles; the other is the not teaching any other Religion than\nthat which is already established. Asunder (I say) neither of these is\nsufficient. (Deut. 13 v. 1,2,3,4,5 ) \"If a Prophet rise amongst you, or\na Dreamer of dreams, and shall pretend the doing of a miracle, and the\nmiracle come to passe; if he say, Let us follow strange Gods, which thou\nhast not known, thou shalt not hearken to him, &c. But that Prophet and\nDreamer of dreams shall be put to death, because he hath spoken to you\nto Revolt from the Lord your God.\" In which words two things are to\nbe observed, First, that God wil not have miracles alone serve for\narguments, to approve the Prophets calling; but (as it is in the third\nverse) for an experiment of the constancy of our adherence to himself.\nFor the works of the Egyptian Sorcerers, though not so great as those\nof Moses, yet were great miracles. Secondly, that how great soever the\nmiracle be, yet if it tend to stir up revolt against the King, or him\nthat governeth by the Kings authority, he that doth such miracle, is\nnot to be considered otherwise than as sent to make triall of their\nallegiance. For these words, \"revolt from the Lord your God,\" are in\nthis place equivalent to \"revolt from your King.\" For they had made God\ntheir King by pact at the foot of Mount Sinai; who ruled them by Moses\nonly; for he only spake with God, and from time to time declared Gods\nCommandements to the people. In like manner, after our Saviour Christ\nhad made his Disciples acknowledge him for the Messiah, (that is to say,\nfor Gods anointed, whom the nation of the Jews daily expected for their\nKing, but refused when he came,) he omitted not to advertise them of the\ndanger of miracles. \"There shall arise,\" (saith he) \"false Christs, and\nfalse Prophets, and shall doe great wonders and miracles, even to the\nseducing (if it were possible) of the very Elect.\" (Mat. 24. 24) By\nwhich it appears, that false Prophets may have the power of miracles;\nyet are wee not to take their doctrin for Gods Word. St. Paul says\nfurther to the Galatians, that \"if himself, or an Angell from heaven\npreach another Gospel to them, than he had preached, let him be\naccursed.\" (Gal. 1. 8) That Gospel was, that Christ was King; so that\nall preaching against the power of the King received, in consequence\nto these words, is by St. Paul accursed. For his speech is addressed to\nthose, who by his preaching had already received Jesus for the Christ,\nthat is to say, for King of the Jews.\n\n\n\n\nThe Marks Of A Prophet In The Old Law, Miracles, And Doctrine\n\nConformable To The Law\n\nAnd as Miracles, without preaching that Doctrine which God hath\nestablished; so preaching the true Doctrine, without the doing of\nMiracles, is an unsufficient argument of immediate Revelation. For if\na man that teacheth not false Doctrine, should pretend to bee a Prophet\nwithout shewing any Miracle, he is never the more to bee regarded for\nhis pretence, as is evident by Deut. 18. v. 21, 22. \"If thou say in\nthy heart, How shall we know that the Word (of the Prophet) is not that\nwhich the Lord hath spoken. When the Prophet shall have spoken in the\nname of the Lord, that which shall not come to passe, that's the word\nwhich the Lord hath not spoken, but the Prophet has spoken it out of\nthe pride of his own heart, fear him not.\" But a man may here again ask,\nWhen the Prophet hath foretold a thing, how shal we know whether it will\ncome to passe or not? For he may foretel it as a thing to arrive after\na certain long time, longer then the time of mans life; or indefinitely,\nthat it will come to passe one time or other: in which case this mark\nof a Prophet is unusefull; and therefore the miracles that oblige us to\nbeleeve a Prophet, ought to be confirmed by an immediate, or a not\nlong deferr'd event. So that it is manifest, that the teaching of\nthe Religion which God hath established, and the showing of a present\nMiracle, joined together, were the only marks whereby the Scripture\nwould have a true Prophet, that is to say immediate Revelation to be\nacknowledged; neither of them being singly sufficient to oblige any\nother man to regard what he saith.\n\n\n\n\nMiracles Ceasing, Prophets Cease, The Scripture Supplies Their Place\n\nSeeing therefore Miracles now cease, we have no sign left, whereby to\nacknowledge the pretended Revelations, or Inspirations of any private\nman; nor obligation to give ear to any Doctrine, farther than it is\nconformable to the Holy Scriptures, which since the time of our Saviour,\nsupply the want of all other Prophecy; and from which, by wise and\ncareful ratiocination, all rules and precepts necessary to the knowledge\nof our duty both to God and man, without Enthusiasme, or supernaturall\nInspiration, may easily be deduced. And this Scripture is it, out of\nwhich I am to take the Principles of my Discourse, concerning the\nRights of those that are the Supream Govenors on earth, of Christian\nCommon-wealths; and of the duty of Christian Subjects towards their\nSoveraigns. And to that end, I shall speak in the next Chapter, or the\nBooks, Writers, Scope and Authority of the Bible.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Aboard the walker once more, Deryn realizes Klopp is ready to help shoot down the zeppelins, who will both destroy the Leviathan and capture, kill, or report on Alek. The zeppelins start putting men down on the ground, and Dr. Barlow says their goal is to capture the ship. Alek puts Deryn on the machine guns to fire at the Germans on the ground--one group of Germans is heading for the Leviathan, and the other is getting ready to fire on the walker. In the battle, Alek manages to stomp on the anti-walker gun, and things seem to be going their way. Then there's a loud explosion and the walker tips over."}, {"": "217", "document": "SCENE 4.\n\nBelmont. A room in PORTIA's house.\n\n[Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and BALTHASAR.]\n\nLORENZO.\nMadam, although I speak it in your presence,\nYou have a noble and a true conceit\nOf godlike amity, which appears most strongly\nIn bearing thus the absence of your lord.\nBut if you knew to whom you show this honour,\nHow true a gentleman you send relief,\nHow dear a lover of my lord your husband,\nI know you would be prouder of the work\nThan customary bounty can enforce you.\n\nPORTIA.\nI never did repent for doing good,\nNor shall not now; for in companions\nThat do converse and waste the time together,\nWhose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,\nThere must be needs a like proportion\nOf lineaments, of manners, and of spirit,\nWhich makes me think that this Antonio,\nBeing the bosom lover of my lord,\nMust needs be like my lord. If it be so,\nHow little is the cost I have bestowed\nIn purchasing the semblance of my soul\nFrom out the state of hellish cruelty!\nThis comes too near the praising of myself;\nTherefore, no more of it; hear other things.\nLorenzo, I commit into your hands\nThe husbandry and manage of my house\nUntil my lord's return; for mine own part,\nI have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow\nTo live in prayer and contemplation,\nOnly attended by Nerissa here,\nUntil her husband and my lord's return.\nThere is a monastery two miles off,\nAnd there we will abide. I do desire you\nNot to deny this imposition,\nThe which my love and some necessity\nNow lays upon you.\n\nLORENZO.\nMadam, with all my heart\nI shall obey you in an fair commands.\n\nPORTIA.\nMy people do already know my mind,\nAnd will acknowledge you and Jessica\nIn place of Lord Bassanio and myself.\nSo fare you well till we shall meet again.\n\nLORENZO.\nFair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!\n\nJESSICA.\nI wish your ladyship all heart's content.\n\nPORTIA.\nI thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd\nTo wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica.\n\n[Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO.]\n\nNow, Balthasar,\nAs I have ever found thee honest-true,\nSo let me find thee still. Take this same letter,\nAnd use thou all th' endeavour of a man\nIn speed to Padua; see thou render this\nInto my cousin's hands, Doctor Bellario;\nAnd look what notes and garments he doth give thee,\nBring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed\nUnto the traject, to the common ferry\nWhich trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,\nBut get thee gone; I shall be there before thee.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nMadam, I go with all convenient speed.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nPORTIA.\nCome on, Nerissa, I have work in hand\nThat you yet know not of; we'll see our husbands\nBefore they think of us.\n\nNERISSA.\nShall they see us?\n\nPORTIA.\nThey shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit\nThat they shall think we are accomplished\nWith that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,\nWhen we are both accoutred like young men,\nI'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,\nAnd wear my dagger with the braver grace,\nAnd speak between the change of man and boy\nWith a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps\nInto a manly stride; and speak of frays\nLike a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies,\nHow honourable ladies sought my love,\nWhich I denying, they fell sick and died;\nI could not do withal. Then I'll repent,\nAnd wish for all that, that I had not kill'd them.\nAnd twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,\nThat men shall swear I have discontinu'd school\nAbout a twelvemonth. I have within my mind\nA thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,\nWhich I will practise.\n\nNERISSA.\nWhy, shall we turn to men?\n\nPORTIA.\nFie, what a question's that,\nIf thou wert near a lewd interpreter!\nBut come, I'll tell thee all my whole device\nWhen I am in my coach, which stays for us\nAt the park gate; and therefore haste away,\nFor we must measure twenty miles to-day.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Belmont, Lorenzo is practicing his flattery on the ladies as usual, except this time it's with Bassanio's new wife--in front of Jessica! He compliments her for bearing the absence of her new husband so graciously and nobly. Still, he says, if Portia knew what a great guy Antonio is, and how good he is to her husband Bassanio, then she'd be even happier to do her wifely duty. Portia says, \"Shucks, it's nothing.\" Basically, if Antonio is such a great friend to her lord Bassanio, then Antonio might as well be her lord, too. Bassanio's absence is a small price to pay to get Antonio out of hellish cruelty. Portia cuts to the chase and tells Lorenzo that she's going to go off to a nearby monastery with Nerissa to pray and contemplate for two days while the men are gone. In the meantime, Portia asks Lorenzo, \"Will you house-sit my sweet mansion with all its servants and stuff, and basically be the lord of the house while Bassanio and I are out?\" Lorenzo generously says yes, and well wishes are made to Nerissa and Portia all-around from Jessica and Lorenzo. As Jessica and Lorenzo leave, Portia is left alone with her attendant Balthazar and Nerissa. She sends Balthazar on his way with some instructions: he's to take these letters to Padua and deliver them to Portia's cousin, a Doctor Bellario. The Doctor will likely give Balthazar some letters and clothes in return, and he is to take them and rush over to the ferry that goes to trade with Venice. She promises she'll be there waiting to meet him and then promptly rushes him off. None of this has actually sounded like a plan to go to a monastery, and Portia announces cryptically to Nerissa that the two women will see their husbands sooner than they think. Portia explains further: their husbands will indeed see them, but they won't recognize them. The women will be dressed convincingly as men. The other men will think the disguised girls are accomplished men. Portia is clearly going to have some fun with this one--she promises to be a prettier, daintier-looking boy than Nerissa. Portia says she's studied many young fools and can mimic their foolish mannerisms quite convincingly. Such foolish mannerisms include boasting of the fights they've been in, bragging of the women they've spurned, and several other idiotic behaviors. She'll work convincingly to portray a recently graduated man who's a pompous idiot--as all young men tend to be. Nerissa wonders what all the fuss is about and why they need to dress up like men anyway. Portia says there's a naughty way to answer this question, but it won't come from her. She says she'll explain everything in the coach, which is waiting for them. They have no time to lose, as they've got twenty miles and two drag king costumes to throw together in a jiffy."}, {"": "218", "document": "\n\nAn observer endued with an infinite range of vision, and placed\nin that unknown center around which the entire world revolves,\nmight have beheld myriads of atoms filling all space during the\nchaotic epoch of the universe.  Little by little, as ages went\non, a change took place; a general law of attraction manifested\nitself, to which the hitherto errant atoms became obedient:\nthese atoms combined together chemically according to their\naffinities, formed themselves into molecules, and composed those\nnebulous masses with which the depths of the heavens are strewed.\nThese masses became immediately endued with a rotary motion\naround their own central point.  This center, formed of\nindefinite molecules, began to revolve around its own axis\nduring its gradual condensation; then, following the immutable\nlaws of mechanics, in proportion as its bulk diminished by\ncondensation, its rotary motion became accelerated, and these\ntwo effects continuing, the result was the formation of one\nprincipal star, the center of the nebulous mass.\n\nBy attentively watching, the observer would then have perceived\nthe other molecules of the mass, following the example of this\ncentral star, become likewise condensed by gradually accelerated\nrotation, and gravitating round it in the shape of innumerable stars.\nThus was formed the _Nebulae_, of which astronomers have reckoned\nup nearly 5,000.\n\nAmong these 5,000 nebulae there is one which has received the\nname of the Milky Way, and which contains eighteen millions of\nstars, each of which has become the center of a solar world.\n\nIf the observer had then specially directed his attention to one\nof the more humble and less brilliant of these stellar bodies,\na star of the fourth class, that which is arrogantly called the\nSun, all the phenomena to which the formation of the Universe is to\nbe ascribed would have been successively fulfilled before his eyes.\nIn fact, he would have perceived this sun, as yet in the gaseous\nstate, and composed of moving molecules, revolving round its axis\nin order to accomplish its work of concentration.  This motion,\nfaithful to the laws of mechanics, would have been accelerated\nwith the diminution of its volume; and a moment would have arrived\nwhen the centrifugal force would have overpowered the centripetal,\nwhich causes the molecules all to tend toward the center.\n\nAnother phenomenon would now have passed before the observer's\neye, and the molecules situated on the plane of the equator,\nescaping like a stone from a sling of which the cord had\nsuddenly snapped, would have formed around the sun sundry\nconcentric rings resembling that of Saturn.  In their turn,\nagain, these rings of cosmical matter, excited by a rotary\nmotion about the central mass, would have been broken up and\ndecomposed into secondary nebulosities, that is to say,\ninto planets.  Similarly he would have observed these planets\nthrow off one or more rings each, which became the origin of the\nsecondary bodies which we call satellites.\n\nThus, then, advancing from atom to molecule, from molecule to\nnebulous mass, from that to principal star, from star to sun,\nfrom sun to planet, and hence to satellite, we have the whole\nseries of transformations undergone by the heavenly bodies\nduring the first days of the world.\n\nNow, of those attendant bodies which the sun maintains in their\nelliptical orbits by the great law of gravitation, some few in\nturn possess satellites.  Uranus has eight, Saturn eight, Jupiter\nfour, Neptune possibly three, and the Earth one.  This last, one\nof the least important of the entire solar system, we call the\nMoon; and it is she whom the daring genius of the Americans\nprofessed their intention of conquering.\n\nThe moon, by her comparative proximity, and the constantly\nvarying appearances produced by her several phases, has always\noccupied a considerable share of the attention of the\ninhabitants of the earth.\n\nFrom the time of Thales of Miletus, in the fifth century B.C.,\ndown to that of Copernicus in the fifteenth and Tycho Brahe in\nthe sixteenth century A.D., observations have been from time to\ntime carried on with more or less correctness, until in the\npresent day the altitudes of the lunar mountains have been\ndetermined with exactitude.  Galileo explained the phenomena of\nthe lunar light produced during certain of her phases by the\nexistence of mountains, to which he assigned a mean altitude of\n27,000 feet.  After him Hevelius, an astronomer of Dantzic,\nreduced the highest elevations to 15,000 feet; but the\ncalculations of Riccioli brought them up again to 21,000 feet.\n\nAt the close of the eighteenth century Herschel, armed with a powerful\ntelescope, considerably reduced the preceding measurements.\nHe assigned a height of 11,400 feet to the maximum elevations,\nand reduced the mean of the different altitudes to little more\nthan 2,400 feet.  But Herschel's calculations were in their turn\ncorrected by the observations of Halley, Nasmyth, Bianchini,\nGruithuysen, and others; but it was reserved for the labors of\nBoeer and Maedler finally to solve the question.  They succeeded\nin measuring 1,905 different elevations, of which six exceed\n15,000 feet, and twenty-two exceed 14,400 feet.  The highest\nsummit of all towers to a height of 22,606 feet above the surface\nof the lunar disc.  At the same period the examination of the moon\nwas completed.  She appeared completely riddled with craters, and\nher essentially volcanic character was apparent at each observation.\nBy the absence of refraction in the rays of the planets occulted\nby her we conclude that she is absolutely devoid of an atmosphere.\nThe absence of air entails the absence of water.  It became,\ntherefore, manifest that the Selenites, to support life under\nsuch conditions, must possess a special organization of their\nown, must differ remarkably from the inhabitants of the earth.\n\nAt length, thanks to modern art, instruments of still higher\nperfection searched the moon without intermission, not leaving\na single point of her surface unexplored; and notwithstanding\nthat her diameter measures 2,150 miles, her surface equals the\none-fifteenth part of that of our globe, and her bulk the\none-forty-ninth part of that of the terrestrial spheroid-- not\none of her secrets was able to escape the eyes of the\nastronomers; and these skillful men of science carried to an\neven greater degree their prodigious observations.\n\nThus they remarked that, during full moon, the disc appeared\nscored in certain parts with white lines; and, during the\nphases, with black.  On prosecuting the study of these with\nstill greater precision, they succeeded in obtaining an exact\naccount of the nature of these lines.  They were long and narrow\nfurrows sunk between parallel ridges, bordering generally upon\nthe edges of the craters.  Their length varied between ten and 100\nmiles, and their width was about 1,600 yards.  Astronomers called\nthem chasms, but they could not get any further.  Whether these\nchasms were the dried-up beds of ancient rivers or not they were\nunable thoroughly to ascertain.\n\nThe Americans, among others, hoped one day or other to\ndetermine this geological question.  They also undertook to\nexamine the true nature of that system of parallel ramparts\ndiscovered on the moon's surface by Gruithuysen, a learned\nprofessor of Munich, who considered them to be \"a system of\nfortifications thrown up by the Selenitic engineers.\"  These two\npoints, yet obscure, as well as others, no doubt, could not be\ndefinitely settled except by direct communication with the moon.\n\nRegarding the degree of intensity of its light, there was\nnothing more to learn on this point.  It was known that it is\n300,000 times weaker than that of the sun, and that its heat has\nno appreciable effect upon the thermometer.  As to the\nphenomenon known as the \"ashy light,\" it is explained naturally\nby the effect of the transmission of the solar rays from the\nearth to the moon, which give the appearance of completeness to\nthe lunar disc, while it presents itself under the crescent form\nduring its first and last phases.\n\nSuch was the state of knowledge acquired regarding the earth's\nsatellite, which the Gun Club undertook to perfect in all its\naspects, cosmographic, geological, political, and moral.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Verne spends this chapter outlining everything he knows about the moon. And guess what? The bulk of his science still holds true today. He is wrong about one thing, though: The moon is not, in fact, inhabited by an alien race called the \"selenites\" . Go figure, right?"}, {"": "219", "document": "CHAPTER II\n\n\n\n Come, weep with me;--past hope, past cure, past help!\n     ROMEO AND JULIET\n\nValancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.\nThe sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first loved\nher, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the\npassing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set\nout for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him in\nruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this from her. But\nhe lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must give to their\nmarriage, and did not foresee, that the information could induce her to\nbreak their connection forever. While the prospect of this separation\noverwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach, he awaited their\nsecond interview, in a state little short of distraction, yet was still\ninclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exact\nit. In the morning, he sent to know at what hour she would see him;\nand his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought an\nopportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceived\nthe extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her\nfortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, the\nCount returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his\nfear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her the\nlengthened misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to encounter\nsome present uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alone\nhave protected her from the affection she still felt for Valancourt, and\nshe resolved to be governed by them.\n\nThe hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least,\nwith composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that\nhe could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were\nalternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.\nAfterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you--I do love you, better than\nmy life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangle\nyou in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather than subject\nmyself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of you. I am a\nwretch, but I will be a villain no longer.--I will not endeavour to\nshake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion. I resign\nyou, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in considering, that,\nthough I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy. The merit of the\nsacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never have attained\nstrength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded\nit.'\n\nHe paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which\ncame to her eyes. She would have said, 'You speak now, as you were wont\nto do,' but she checked herself.--'Forgive me, Emily,' said he, 'all the\nsufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of the\nwretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to\nbelieve, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.' The tears now\nfell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the phrensy of\ndespair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to terminate\nan interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of both.\nPerceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt\nstruggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers.\n'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he, 'shall in future be my\nprotection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power to\nseduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your\ngrief for me.'\n\nEmily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. 'We are now parting for\never,' said she; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always\nremember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that\nyou have recovered your own esteem.' Valancourt took her hand;--his eyes\nwere covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost\nin sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion,\n'Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!' She repeated her 'farewell,'\nand attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed\nit with his tears. 'Why prolong these moments?' said Emily, in a voice\nscarcely audible, 'they are too painful to us both.' 'This is too--too\nmuch,' exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself\ninto a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome,\nfor some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause, during which\nEmily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling with his grief,\nshe again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his\ncomposure, 'I am again afflicting you,' said he, 'but let the anguish I\nsuffer plead for me.' He then added, in a solemn voice, which frequently\ntrembled with the agitation of his heart, 'Farewell, Emily, you will\nalways be the only object of my tenderness. Sometimes you will think of\nthe unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not be\nwith esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you--without your\nesteem!' He checked himself--'I am falling again into the error I have\njust lamented. I must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shall\nrelapse into despair.'\n\nHe once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at\nher, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.\n\nEmily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with\na pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and\nlistening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as\nhe crossed the hall. She was, at length, roused by the voice of the\nCountess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the\nfirst object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where\nValancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some time, repressed\nby the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came to\nher relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return to\nher own room.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Oh yeah, did we mention that Em agreed to see Valancourt one more time? They meet again and continue to lament their fates. Em can't marry Valancourt because he screwed up big-time, and Valancourt can't marry Em because he isn't worth the scum on her shoes. The pair promises to part forever. Looks like Emmencourt wasn't meant to be."}, {"": "220", "document": "Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha.\n\nROXANE (without turning round):\n  What was I saying?. . .\n(She embroiders.  Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes,\nappears.  The sister who had announced him retires.  He descends the steps\nslowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily\non his cane.  Roxane still works at her tapestry):\n  Time has dimmed the tints. . .\n  How harmonize them now?\n(To Cyrano, with playful reproach):\n  For the first time\n  Late!--For the first time, all these fourteen years!\n\nCYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself--in a\nlively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face):\n  Ay!  It is villainous!  I raged--was stayed. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  By?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  By a bold, unwelcome visitor.\n\nROXANE (absently, working):\n  Some creditor?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, cousin,--the last creditor\n  Who has a debt to claim from me.\n\nROXANE:\n  And you\n  Have paid it?\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, not yet!  I put it off;\n  --Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday,\n  When I have get a standing rendezvous\n  That naught defers.  Call in an hour's time!'\n\nROXANE (carelessly):\n  Oh, well, a creditor can always wait!\n  I shall not let you go ere twilight falls.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls!\n\n(He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment.  Sister Martha crosses the\npark from the chapel to the flight of steps.  Roxane, seeing her, signs to her\nto approach.)\n\nROXANE (to Cyrano):\n  How now?  You have not teased the Sister?\n\nCYRANO (hastily opening his eyes):\n  True!\n(In a comically loud voice):\n  Sister! come here!\n(The sister glides up to him):\n  Ha! ha!  What?  Those bright eyes\n  Bent ever on the ground?\n\nSISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face):\n  Oh!\n\nCYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane):\n  Hush! 'tis naught!--\n(Loudly, in a blustering voice):\n  I broke fast yesterday!\n\nSISTER MARTHA (aside):\n  I know, I know!\n  That's how he is so pale!  Come presently\n  To the refectory, I'll make you drink\n  A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, ay!\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  There, see!  You are more reasonable to-day!\n\nROXANE (who hears them whispering):\n  The Sister would convert you?\n\nSISTER MARTHA:\n  Nay, not I!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Hold! but it's true!  You preach to me no more,\n  You, once so glib with holy words!  I am\n  Astonished!. . .\n(With burlesque fury):\n  Stay, I will surprise you too!\n  Hark!  I permit you. . .\n(He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found\nit):\n  . . .It is something new!--\n  To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time!\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh! oh!\n\nCYRANO (laughing):\n  Good Sister Martha is struck dumb!\n\nSISTER MARTHA (gently):\n  I did not wait your leave to pray for you.\n\n(She goes out.)\n\nCYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work):\n  That tapestry!  Beshrew me if my eyes\n  Will ever see it finished!\n\nROXANE:\n  I was sure\n  To hear that well-known jest!\n\n(A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  The autumn leaves!\n\nROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley):\n  Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair.\n  --See how they fall!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, see how brave they fall,\n  In their last journey downward from the bough,\n  To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still,\n  Hiding the horror of the last decay,\n  With all the wayward grace of careless flight!\n\nROXANE:\n  What, melancholy--you?\n\nCYRANO (collecting himself):\n  Nay, nay, Roxane!\n\nROXANE:\n  Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . .\n  And chat.  What, have you nothing new to tell,\n  My Court Gazette?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Listen.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!\n\nCYRANO (growing whiter and whiter):\n  Saturday\n  The nineteenth:  having eaten to excess\n  Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish;\n  The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt,\n  And the august pulse beats at normal pace.\n  At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score\n  Of best white waxen tapers were consumed.\n  Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians.\n  Four sorcerers were hanged.  The little dog\n  Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  I bid\n  You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Monday--not much--Claire changed protector.\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh!\n\nCYRANO (whose face changes more and more):\n  Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau.\n  Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . .\n  No!  Thursday--Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!)\n  Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said--'Yes!'\n  And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . .\n\n(He closes his eyes.  His head falls forward.  Silence.)\n\nROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising,\nterrified):\n  He swoons!\n(She runs toward him crying):\n  Cyrano!\n\nCYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice):\n  What is this?\n(He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head,\nand shrinking back in his chair):\n  Nay, on my word\n  'Tis nothing!  Let me be!\n\nROXANE:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  That old wound\n  Of Arras, sometimes,--as you know. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Dear friend!\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon;\n(He smiles with an effort):\n  See!--it has passed!\n\nROXANE:\n  Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,--\n  Never healed up--not healed yet, my old wound!\n(She puts her hand on her breast):\n  'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age,\n  All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood.\n\n(Twilight begins to fall.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  His letter!  Ah! you promised me one day\n  That I should read it.\n\nROXANE:\n  What would you?--His letter?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Yes, I would fain,--to-day. . .\n\nROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck):\n  See! here it is!\n\nCYRANO (taking it):\n  Have I your leave to open?\n\nROXANE:\n  Open--read!\n\n(She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.)\n\nCYRANO (reading):\n  'Roxane, adieu!  I soon must die!\n  This very night, beloved; and I\n  Feel my soul heavy with love untold.\n  I die!  No more, as in days of old,\n  My loving, longing eyes will feast\n  On your least gesture--ay, the least!\n  I mind me the way you touch your cheek\n  With your finger, softly, as you speak!\n  Ah me!  I know that gesture well!\n  My heart cries out!--I cry \"Farewell\"!'\n\nROXANE:\n  But how you read that letter!  One would think. . .\n\nCYRANO (continuing to read):\n  'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet,\n  My heart has been yours in every beat!'\n\n(The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.)\n\nROXANE:\n  You read in such a voice--so strange--and yet--\n  It is not the first time I hear that voice!\n\n(She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his\nchair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter.  The darkness\ndeepens.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high,\n  I am he who loved, who loves you,--I. . .'\n\nROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder):\n  How can you read?  It is too dark to see!\n(He starts, turns, sees her close to him.  Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head\ndown.  Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says,\nvery slowly, with clasped hands):\n  And, fourteen years long, he has played this part\n  Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Roxane!\n\nROXANE:\n  'Twas you!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, never; Roxane, no!\n\nROXANE:\n  I should have guessed, each time he said my name!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, it was not I!\n\nROXANE:\n  It was you!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I swear!\n\nROXANE:\n  I see through all the generous counterfeit--\n  The letters--you!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No.\n\nROXANE:\n  The sweet, mad love-words!\n  You!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No!\n\nROXANE:\n  The voice that thrilled the night--you, you!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I swear you err.\n\nROXANE:\n  The soul--it was your soul!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I loved you not.\n\nROXANE:\n  You loved me not?\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Twas he!\n\nROXANE:\n  You loved me!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No!\n\nROXANE:\n  See! how you falter now!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, my sweet love, I never loved you!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!\n  Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again!\n  --Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years,\n  When, on this letter, which he never wrote,\n  The tears were your tears?\n\nCYRANO (holding out the letter to her):\n  The bloodstains were his.\n\nROXANE:\n  Why, then, that noble silence,--kept so long--\n  Broken to-day for the first time--why?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Why?. . .\n\n(Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano enters, looking pale and walking with difficulty. He warns her that he may have to leave before evening. He teases Sister Martha and surprises her by saying that she can pray for him this evening. As he begins to tell Roxane the latest gossip, he is obviously struggling to continue. He almost faints, but tells Roxane it is an old war wound. Roxane tells him that her wound is in her heart, under Christian's letter. She says that the letter is stained with blood and tears. Cyrano asks to read it. Cyrano begins to read the letter aloud. The letter says that the writer will die today, and says goodbye to \"My dearest love\" Roxane. Roxane suddenly realizes that she has heard that voice before, beneath her balcony. She notices that it has grown so dark by now that Cyrano cannot possibly see to read, but still he is speaking the words in the letter. She realizes that it is he who has loved her all these years, he who spoke to her from beneath the balcony and who wrote the letters. Cyrano denies that he loved her, saying that Christian did. She does not believe him. She asks why he kept silent for fourteen years about a letter that Christian did not write. Cyrano replies, \"The tears were mine, but Christian shed the blood. Roxane asks why he has broken his silence today"}, {"": "221", "document": "\n\nHalf dead of that inconceivable anguish which the rolling of a ship\nproduces, one-half of the passengers were not even sensible of the\ndanger. The other half shrieked and prayed. The sheets were rent, the\nmasts broken, the vessel gaped. Work who would, no one heard, no one\ncommanded. The Anabaptist being upon deck bore a hand; when a brutish\nsailor struck him roughly and laid him sprawling; but with the violence\nof the blow he himself tumbled head foremost overboard, and stuck upon a\npiece of the broken mast. Honest James ran to his assistance, hauled him\nup, and from the effort he made was precipitated into the sea in sight\nof the sailor, who left him to perish, without deigning to look at him.\nCandide drew near and saw his benefactor, who rose above the water one\nmoment and was then swallowed up for ever. He was just going to jump\nafter him, but was prevented by the philosopher Pangloss, who\ndemonstrated to him that the Bay of Lisbon had been made on purpose for\nthe Anabaptist to be drowned. While he was proving this _a priori_, the\nship foundered; all perished except Pangloss, Candide, and that brutal\nsailor who had drowned the good Anabaptist. The villain swam safely to\nthe shore, while Pangloss and Candide were borne thither upon a plank.\n\nAs soon as they recovered themselves a little they walked toward Lisbon.\nThey had some money left, with which they hoped to save themselves from\nstarving, after they had escaped drowning. Scarcely had they reached the\ncity, lamenting the death of their benefactor, when they felt the earth\ntremble under their feet. The sea swelled and foamed in the harbour, and\nbeat to pieces the vessels riding at anchor. Whirlwinds of fire and\nashes covered the streets and public places; houses fell, roofs were\nflung upon the pavements, and the pavements were scattered. Thirty\nthousand inhabitants of all ages and sexes were crushed under the\nruins.[4] The sailor, whistling and swearing, said there was booty to be\ngained here.\n\n\"What can be the _sufficient reason_ of this phenomenon?\" said Pangloss.\n\n\"This is the Last Day!\" cried Candide.\n\nThe sailor ran among the ruins, facing death to find money; finding it,\nhe took it, got drunk, and having slept himself sober, purchased the\nfavours of the first good-natured wench whom he met on the ruins of the\ndestroyed houses, and in the midst of the dying and the dead. Pangloss\npulled him by the sleeve.\n\n\"My friend,\" said he, \"this is not right. You sin against the _universal\nreason_; you choose your time badly.\"\n\n\"S'blood and fury!\" answered the other; \"I am a sailor and born at\nBatavia. Four times have I trampled upon the crucifix in four voyages to\nJapan[5]; a fig for thy universal reason.\"\n\nSome falling stones had wounded Candide. He lay stretched in the street\ncovered with rubbish.\n\n\"Alas!\" said he to Pangloss, \"get me a little wine and oil; I am dying.\"\n\n\"This concussion of the earth is no new thing,\" answered Pangloss. \"The\ncity of Lima, in America, experienced the same convulsions last year;\nthe same cause, the same effects; there is certainly a train of sulphur\nunder ground from Lima to Lisbon.\"\n\n\"Nothing more probable,\" said Candide; \"but for the love of God a little\noil and wine.\"\n\n\"How, probable?\" replied the philosopher. \"I maintain that the point is\ncapable of being demonstrated.\"\n\nCandide fainted away, and Pangloss fetched him some water from a\nneighbouring fountain. The following day they rummaged among the ruins\nand found provisions, with which they repaired their exhausted strength.\nAfter this they joined with others in relieving those inhabitants who\nhad escaped death. Some, whom they had succoured, gave them as good a\ndinner as they could in such disastrous circumstances; true, the repast\nwas mournful, and the company moistened their bread with tears; but\nPangloss consoled them, assuring them that things could not be\notherwise.\n\n\"For,\" said he, \"all that is is for the best. If there is a volcano at\nLisbon it cannot be elsewhere. It is impossible that things should be\nother than they are; for everything is right.\"\n\nA little man dressed in black, Familiar of the Inquisition, who sat by\nhim, politely took up his word and said:\n\n\"Apparently, then, sir, you do not believe in original sin; for if all\nis for the best there has then been neither Fall nor punishment.\"\n\n\"I humbly ask your Excellency's pardon,\" answered Pangloss, still more\npolitely; \"for the Fall and curse of man necessarily entered into the\nsystem of the best of worlds.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the Familiar, \"you do not then believe in liberty?\"\n\n\"Your Excellency will excuse me,\" said Pangloss; \"liberty is consistent\nwith absolute necessity, for it was necessary we should be free; for, in\nshort, the determinate will----\"\n\nPangloss was in the middle of his sentence, when the Familiar beckoned\nto his footman, who gave him a glass of wine from Porto or Opporto.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The ship starts splitting and taking on water. The people on the ship act accordingly; that is, they scream and run around. James the Anabaptist saves a sailor from drowning, but in doing so falls overboard himself. The sailor, in plain sight of the Anabaptist, does nothing to help him. Everyone on the ship drowns with the exception of the ungrateful sailor, Pangloss, and Candide, who are able to float ashore on a plank. They get ashore and are still pulling seaweed out of their clothes when a massive earthquake hits. 30,000 people are killed. The sailor, still a jerk, steals money from the pockets of the dead in order to buy booze and sleep with prostitutes. Candide was injured in the earthquake. Collapsed on the ground, he believes he is dying and begs Pangloss to help him. Pangloss, however, wants to philosophize about how necessary the earthquake was in this best of all worlds. Candide says something along the lines of \"For heaven's sake, man! Get me water before I faint.\" Pangloss continues to philosophize while Candide faints. Pangloss figures it's about time to get some water for his former student. Water does the trick. Candide and Pangloss go about helping people and preaching the necessity of the earthquake. Pangloss is questioned by an officer of the Inquisition about the compatibility of his beliefs with original sin and the Fall of Man. He says that if everything has always been for the best, there would have been no original sin. Pangloss counters that the Fall of Man was a fall into the best world ever. The man retorts that, if the world is necessarily the best, how can there be free will? Through some incredibly contrived logic, Pangloss says it is necessarily the best thing ever for us to have free will, so we do."}, {"": "222", "document": "\nI am a sick man....  I am a spiteful man.  I am an unattractive man.  I\nbelieve my liver is diseased.  However, I know nothing at all about my\ndisease, and do not know for certain what ails me.  I don't consult a\ndoctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and\ndoctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to\nrespect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be\nsuperstitious, but I am superstitious).  No, I refuse to consult a\ndoctor from spite.  That you probably will not understand.  Well, I\nunderstand it, though.  Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely\nthat I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well\naware that I cannot \"pay out\" the doctors by not consulting them; I\nknow better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and\nno one else.  But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite.\nMy liver is bad, well--let it get worse!\n\nI have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years.  Now I am\nforty.  I used to be in the government service, but am no longer.  I\nwas a spiteful official.  I was rude and took pleasure in being so.  I\ndid not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in\nthat, at least.  (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out.  I wrote\nit thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself\nthat I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch\nit out on purpose!)\n\nWhen petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I\nsat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when\nI succeeded in making anybody unhappy.  I almost did succeed.  For the\nmost part they were all timid people--of course, they were petitioners.\nBut of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not\nendure.  He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a\ndisgusting way.  I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over\nthat sword.  At last I got the better of him.  He left off clanking it.\nThat happened in my youth, though.\n\nBut do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite?\nWhy, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that\ncontinually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly\nconscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an\nembittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and\namusing myself by it.  I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll\nto play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should\nbe appeased.  I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I\nshould grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with\nshame for months after.  That was my way.\n\nI was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official.  I was\nlying from spite.  I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and\nwith the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful.  I was\nconscious every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely\nopposite to that.  I felt them positively swarming in me, these\nopposite elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life\nand craving some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not\nlet them, purposely would not let them come out.  They tormented me\ntill I was ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and--sickened me, at\nlast, how they sickened me!  Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that\nI am expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your\nforgiveness for something?  I am sure you are fancying that ...\nHowever, I assure you I do not care if you are....\n\nIt was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to\nbecome anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an\nhonest man, neither a hero nor an insect.  Now, I am living out my life\nin my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation\nthat an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is\nonly the fool who becomes anything.  Yes, a man in the nineteenth\ncentury must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless\ncreature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited\ncreature.  That is my conviction of forty years.  I am forty years old\nnow, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is\nextreme old age.  To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is\nvulgar, immoral.  Who does live beyond forty?  Answer that, sincerely\nand honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows.  I\ntell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all\nthese silver-haired and reverend seniors!  I tell the whole world that\nto its face!  I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to\nsixty myself.  To seventy!  To eighty! ...  Stay, let me take breath\n...\n\nYou imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you.  You are\nmistaken in that, too.  I am by no means such a mirthful person as you\nimagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble\n(and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who I\nam--then my answer is, I am a collegiate assessor.  I was in the\nservice that I might have something to eat (and solely for that\nreason), and when last year a distant relation left me six thousand\nroubles in his will I immediately retired from the service and settled\ndown in my corner.  I used to live in this corner before, but now I\nhave settled down in it.  My room is a wretched, horrid one in the\noutskirts of the town.  My servant is an old country-woman, ill-natured\nfrom stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her.\nI am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my\nsmall means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg.  I know all\nthat better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and\nmonitors....  But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away\nfrom Petersburg!  I am not going away because ... ech!  Why, it is\nabsolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away.\n\nBut what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?\n\nAnswer: Of himself.\n\nWell, so I will talk about myself.\n\n\n", "summary": "Dostoevsky begins with a footnote in which he explains that the narrator is imaginary; but he claims people such as the narrator must exist, for he represents all of those who are forced to live \"underground\" because they cannot relate to or accept the society as it exists."}, {"": "223", "document": "SCENE VII    ORGON, TARTUFFE\n\n\n  ORGON\n  What! So insult a saintly man of God!\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Heaven, forgive him all the pain he gives me! [4]\n\n  [Footnote 4: Some modern editions have adopted the reading, preserved\n  by tradition as that of the earliest stage version: Heaven, forgive\n  him even as I forgive him! Voltaire gives still another reading:\n  Heaven, forgive me even as I forgive him! Whichever was the original\n  version, it appears in none of the early editions, and Moliere\n  probably felt forced to change it on account of its too close\n  resemblance to the Biblical phrase.]\n\n  (To Orgon)\n  Could you but know with what distress I see\n  Them try to vilify me to my brother!\n\n  ORGON\n  Ah!\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  The mere thought of such ingratitude\n  Makes my soul suffer torture, bitterly ...\n  My horror at it ... Ah! my heart's so full\n  I cannot speak ... I think I'll die of it.\n\n  ORGON (in tears, running to the door through which he drove away his\n  son)\n  Scoundrel! I wish I'd never let you go,\n  But slain you on the spot with my own hand.\n\n  (To Tartuffe)\n  Brother, compose yourself, and don't be angry.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Nay, brother, let us end these painful quarrels.\n  I see what troublous times I bring upon you,\n  And think 'tis needful that I leave this house.\n\n  ORGON\n  What! You can't mean it?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Yes, they hate me here,\n  And try, I find, to make you doubt my faith.\n\n  ORGON\n  What of it? Do you find I listen to them?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  No doubt they won't stop there. These same reports\n  You now reject, may some day win a hearing.\n\n  ORGON\n  No, brother, never.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Ah! my friend, a woman\n  May easily mislead her husband's mind.\n\n  ORGON\n  No, no.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  So let me quickly go away\n  And thus remove all cause for such attacks.\n\n  ORGON\n  No, you shall stay; my life depends upon it.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Then I must mortify myself. And yet,\n  If you should wish ...\n\n  ORGON\n  No, never!\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Very well, then;\n  No more of that. But I shall rule my conduct\n  To fit the case. Honour is delicate,\n  And friendship binds me to forestall suspicion,\n  Prevent all scandal, and avoid your wife.\n\n  ORGON\n  No, you shall haunt her, just to spite them all.\n  'Tis my delight to set them in a rage;\n  You shall be seen together at all hours\n  And what is more, the better to defy them,\n  I'll have no other heir but you; and straightway\n  I'll go and make a deed of gift to you,\n  Drawn in due form, of all my property.\n  A good true friend, my son-in-law to be,\n  Is more to me than son, and wife, and kindred.\n  You will accept my offer, will you not?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Heaven's will be done in everything!\n\n  ORGON\n  Poor man!\n  We'll go make haste to draw the deed aright,\n  And then let envy burst itself with spite!\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Once Damis's out of the room, Tartuffe tells Orgon how awful Damis has made him feel. Orgon runs to the doorway through which Damis has just exited and shakes his fist, cursing his son some more. Tartuffe tells Orgon he simply has to leave, that he's caused too much trouble for everyone. Again, Tartuffe proves himself a master of reverse psychology...or maybe just proves that Orgon is a buffoon. Or both. Orgon talks Tartuffe into staying - as if he really needed the encouragement. When all that is settled, Tartuffe makes one more request: he tells Orgon that he simply must avoid Elmire, just in case, you know, something might happen. Orgon will hear nothing of the sort. He wants to get back at his mean, deceitful relatives. In order to do so, he tells Tartuffe to spend as much time as possible with his wife. He also decides to make him \"his only son and heir\"; he matters more, he tells Tartuffe, \"than wife, child or kin\" . Tartuffe is cool with the arrangement; as far as he's concerned it's God's will. He and Orgon set off to write up the contract."}, {"": "224", "document": "SCENE 2.\n\n                  France. Before Orleans\n\n      Sound a flourish. Enter CHARLES THE DAUPHIN, ALENCON,\n           and REIGNIER, marching with drum and soldiers\n\n  CHARLES. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens\n    So in the earth, to this day is not known.\n    Late did he shine upon the English side;\n    Now we are victors, upon us he smiles.\n    What towns of any moment but we have?\n    At pleasure here we lie near Orleans;\n    Otherwhiles the famish'd English, like pale ghosts,\n    Faintly besiege us one hour in a month.\n  ALENCON. They want their porridge and their fat bull\n    beeves.\n    Either they must be dieted like mules\n    And have their provender tied to their mouths,\n    Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice.\n  REIGNIER. Let's raise the siege. Why live we idly here?\n    Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear;\n    Remaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury,\n    And he may well in fretting spend his gall\n    Nor men nor money hath he to make war.\n  CHARLES. Sound, sound alarum; we will rush on them.\n    Now for the honour of the forlorn French!\n    Him I forgive my death that killeth me,\n    When he sees me go back one foot or flee.             Exeunt\n\n       Here alarum. They are beaten back by the English, with\n         great loss. Re-enter CHARLES, ALENCON, and REIGNIER\n\n  CHARLES. Who ever saw the like? What men have I!\n    Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled\n    But that they left me midst my enemies.\n  REIGNIER. Salisbury is a desperate homicide;\n    He fighteth as one weary of his life.\n    The other lords, like lions wanting food,\n    Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.\n  ALENCON. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records\n    England all Olivers and Rowlands bred\n    During the time Edward the Third did reign.\n    More truly now may this be verified;\n    For none but Samsons and Goliases\n    It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!\n    Lean raw-bon'd rascals! Who would e'er suppose\n    They had such courage and audacity?\n  CHARLES. Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brain'd\n    slaves,\n    And hunger will enforce them to be more eager.\n    Of old I know them; rather with their teeth\n    The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege.\n  REIGNIER. I think by some odd gimmers or device\n    Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on;\n    Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do.\n    By my consent, we'll even let them alone.\n  ALENCON. Be it so.\n\n                   Enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS\n\n  BASTARD. Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him.\n  CHARLES. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.\n  BASTARD. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd.\n    Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?\n    Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand.\n    A holy maid hither with me I bring,\n    Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven,\n    Ordained is to raise this tedious siege\n    And drive the English forth the bounds of France.\n    The spirit of deep prophecy she hath,\n    Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome:\n    What's past and what's to come she can descry.\n    Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,\n    For they are certain and unfallible.\n  CHARLES. Go, call her in.                       [Exit BASTARD]\n    But first, to try her skill,\n    Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place;\n    Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern;\n    By this means shall we sound what skill she hath.\n\n                  Re-enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS with\n                          JOAN LA PUCELLE\n\n  REIGNIER. Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats?\n  PUCELLE. Reignier, is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me?\n    Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind;\n    I know thee well, though never seen before.\n    Be not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me.\n    In private will I talk with thee apart.\n    Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile.\n  REIGNIER. She takes upon her bravely at first dash.\n  PUCELLE. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter,\n    My wit untrain'd in any kind of art.\n    Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas'd\n    To shine on my contemptible estate.\n    Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs\n    And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks,\n    God's Mother deigned to appear to me,\n    And in a vision full of majesty\n    Will'd me to leave my base vocation\n    And free my country from calamity\n    Her aid she promis'd and assur'd success.\n    In complete glory she reveal'd herself;\n    And whereas I was black and swart before,\n    With those clear rays which she infus'd on me\n    That beauty am I bless'd with which you may see.\n    Ask me what question thou canst possible,\n    And I will answer unpremeditated.\n    My courage try by combat if thou dar'st,\n    And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.\n    Resolve on this: thou shalt be fortunate\n    If thou receive me for thy warlike mate.\n  CHARLES. Thou hast astonish'd me with thy high terms.\n    Only this proof I'll of thy valour make\n    In single combat thou shalt buckle with me;\n    And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;\n    Otherwise I renounce all confidence.\n  PUCELLE. I am prepar'd; here is my keen-edg'd sword,\n    Deck'd with five flower-de-luces on each side,\n    The which at Touraine, in Saint Katherine's churchyard,\n    Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.\n  CHARLES. Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman.\n  PUCELLE. And while I live I'll ne'er fly from a man.\n                 [Here they fight and JOAN LA PUCELLE overcomes]\n  CHARLES. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon,\n    And fightest with the sword of Deborah.\n  PUCELLE. Christ's Mother helps me, else I were too weak.\n  CHARLES. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me.\n    Impatiently I burn with thy desire;\n    My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu'd.\n    Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,\n    Let me thy servant and not sovereign be.\n    'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.\n  PUCELLE. I must not yield to any rites of love,\n    For my profession's sacred from above.\n    When I have chased all thy foes from hence,\n    Then will I think upon a recompense.\n  CHARLES. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.\n  REIGNIER. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.\n  ALENCON. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;\n    Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech.\n  REIGNIER. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean?\n  ALENCON. He may mean more than we poor men do know;\n    These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.\n  REIGNIER. My lord, where are you? What devise you on?\n    Shall we give o'er Orleans, or no?\n  PUCELLE. Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants!\n    Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.\n  CHARLES. What she says I'll confirm; we'll fight it out.\n  PUCELLE. Assign'd am I to be the English scourge.\n    This night the siege assuredly I'll raise.\n    Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days,\n    Since I have entered into these wars.\n    Glory is like a circle in the water,\n    Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself\n    Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.\n    With Henry's death the English circle ends;\n    Dispersed are the glories it included.\n    Now am I like that proud insulting ship\n    Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once.\n  CHARLES. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?\n    Thou with an eagle art inspired then.\n    Helen, the mother of great Constantine,\n    Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters were like thee.\n    Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth,\n    How may I reverently worship thee enough?\n  ALENCON. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege.\n  REIGNIER. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours;\n    Drive them from Orleans, and be immortaliz'd.\n  CHARLES. Presently we'll try. Come, let's away about it.\n    No prophet will I trust if she prove false.           Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Here we bounce over to France, as we can tell by the entrance of the crown prince . He announces that the war is going well for the French and that they have all the most significant towns in the war again. Naturally he's pretty pleased about this. The French attack the English at Orleans and lose badly; they marvel that the English can fight so hard when they seem to be at a disadvantage. Sounds like the English are as scary as Darth Maul. The French even threaten to stop fighting because the English are so fierce. Then the Bastard of Orleans announces he has found Joan Puzel , and she can help the French because she is holy and has seen visions saying she's ordained to drive the English out. The Bastard claims Joan can see the past and future, so the Dauphin tests Joan's skill in prophecy by having someone else pretend to be him. She passes the test. Then she explains that she saw a vision of the Virgin Mary, who told her to help the French armies. Just in case, Charles also tests Joan by fighting hand to hand. He is amazed at her skill. It's like fighting Qui-Gon Jin or something. And guess what? She attributes her skills to the Virgin Mary. Dauphin asks Joan for a romantic relationship in exaggerated terms of courtly love, and she declines based on her calling to be a prophet and leader, though there's some hint she might be open to the idea later, or at least to some form of reward. As they wait for the French king and Joan, the other nobles hint that there may be a flirtation or some sort of sexual encounter going on. Joan comes out and incites them to war. The Dauphin pours on more exaggerated courtly praise invoking religious and classical precedents, and everyone enthusiastically agrees to fight the English again. It feels like The Return of the Jedi in here."}, {"": "225", "document": "Roxane, De Guiche, the duenna standing a little way off.\n\nROXANE (courtesying to De Guiche):\n  I was going out.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I come to take my leave.\n\nROXANE:\n  Whither go you?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  To the war.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay, to-night.\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I am ordered away.  We are to besiege Arras.\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah--to besiege?. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay.  My going moves you not, meseems.\n\nROXANE:\n  Nay. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I am grieved to the core of the heart.  Shall I again behold you?. . .When?\nI know not.  Heard you that I am named commander?. . .\n\nROXANE (indifferently):\n  Bravo!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Of the Guards regiment.\n\nROXANE (startled):\n  What! the Guards?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay, where serves your cousin, the swaggering boaster.  I will find a way to\nrevenge myself on him at Arras.\n\nROXANE (choking):\n  What mean you?  The Guards go to Arras?\n\nDE GUICHE (laughing):\n  Bethink you, is it not my own regiment?\n\nROXANE (falling seated on the bench--aside):\n  Christian!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  What ails you?\n\nROXANE (moved deeply):\n  Oh--I am in despair!  The man one loves!--at the war!\n\nDE GUICHE (surprised and delighted):\n  You say such sweet words to me!  'Tis the first time!--and just when I must\nquit you!\n\nROXANE (collected, and fanning herself):\n  Thus,--you would fain revenge your grudge against my cousin?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  My fair lady is on his side?\n\nROXANE:\n  Nay,--against him!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Do you see him often?\n\nROXANE:\n  But very rarely.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  He is ever to be met now in company with one of the cadets,. . .one New--\nvillen--viller--\n\nROXANE:\n  Of high stature?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Fair-haired!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, a red-headed fellow!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Handsome!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Tut!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But dull-witted.\n\nROXANE:\n  One would think so, to look at him!\n(Changing her tone):\n  How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano?  Perchance you think to put him\ni' the thick of the shots?  Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he\nwould love such a post better than aught else!  I know the way to wound his\npride far more keenly!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  What then?  Tell. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved\nboon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war\nlasted!  There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him\nof his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely.\n\nDE GUICHE (coming nearer):\n  O woman! woman!  Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick?\n\nROXANE:\n  See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their\nthick fists for that they are deprived of the battle?  So are you best\navenged.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You love me, then, a little?\n(She smiles):\n  I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof\nof love!\n\nROXANE:\n  'Tis a proof of love!\n\nDE GUICHE (showing some sealed papers):\n  Here are the marching orders; they will be sent instantly to each company--\nexcept--\n(He detaches one):\n  --This one!  'Tis that of the Cadets.\n(He puts it in his pocket):\n  This I keep.\n(Laughing):\n  Ha! ha! ha!  Cyrano!  His love of battle!. . .So you can play tricks on\npeople?. . .you, of all ladies!\n\nROXANE:\n  Sometimes!\n\nDE GUICHE (coming close to her):\n  Oh! how I love you!--to distraction!  Listen!  To-night--true, I ought to\nstart--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched!  Hard by, in\nthe Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of\nthe Capuchins.  True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the\ngood Fathers!  Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in.  'Tis they\nwho serve Richelieu's private chapel:  and from respect to the uncle, fear the\nnephew.  All will deem me gone.  I will come to you, masked.  Give me leave to\nwait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful!\n\nROXANE:\n  But, of this be rumored, your glory. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Bah!\n\nROXANE:\n  But the siege--Arras. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  'Twill take its chance.  Grant but permission.\n\nROXANE:\n  No!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Give me leave!\n\nROXANE (tenderly):\n  It were my duty to forbid you!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ah!\n\nROXANE:\n  You must go!\n(Aside):\n  Christian stays here.\n(Aloud):\n  I would have you heroic--Antoine!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  O heavenly word!  You love, then, him?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  . . .For whom I trembled.\n\nDE GUICHE (in an ecstasy):\n  Ah!  I go then!\n(He kisses her hand):\n  Are you content?\n\nROXANE:\n  Yes, my friend!\n\n(He goes out.)\n\nTHE DUENNA (making behind his back a mocking courtesy):\n  Yes, my friend!\n\nROXANE (to the duenna):\n  Not a word of what I have done.  Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing\nhis fighting from him!\n(She calls toward the house):\n  Cousin!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "De Guiche appears. Covering his face with his hat, Cyrano leaps onto de Guiche from a tree. Pretending to be a person who has just fallen from the moon, he distracts de Guiche with an insane speech about his experiences in space. At last he removes his hat, reveals himself as Cyrano, and announces that Roxane and Christian are now married"}, {"": "226", "document": "DEPARTURE\n\nYoung George Willard got out of bed at four in the\nmorning. It was April and the young tree leaves were\njust coming out of their buds. The trees along the\nresidence streets in Winesburg are maple and the seeds\nare winged. When the wind blows they whirl crazily\nabout, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot.\n\nGeorge came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a\nbrown leather bag. His trunk was packed for departure.\nSince two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the\njourney he was about to take and wondering what he\nwould find at the end of his journey. The boy who slept\nin the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. His mouth\nwas open and he snored lustily. George crept past the\ncot and went out into the silent deserted main street.\nThe east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of\nlight climbed into the sky where a few stars still\nshone.\n\nBeyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Winesburg\nthere is a great stretch of open fields. The fields are\nowned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at\nevening along Trunion Pike in light creaking wagons. In\nthe fields are planted berries and small fruits. In the\nlate afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the\nfields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over\nthe great flat basin of land. To look across it is like\nlooking out across the sea. In the spring when the land\nis green the effect is somewhat different. The land\nbecomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human\ninsects toil up and down.\n\nAll through his boyhood and young manhood George\nWillard had been in the habit of walking on Trunion\nPike. He had been in the midst of the great open place\non winter nights when it was covered with snow and only\nthe moon looked down at him; he had been there in the\nfall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when\nthe air vibrated with the song of insects. On the April\nmorning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in\nthe silence. He did walk to where the road dipped down\nby a little stream two miles from town and then turned\nand walked silently back again. When he got to Main\nStreet clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the\nstores. \"Hey, you George. How does it feel to be going\naway?\" they asked.\n\nThe westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven\nforty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. His\ntrain runs from Cleveland to where it connects with a\ngreat trunk line railroad with terminals in Chicago and\nNew York. Tom has what in railroad circles is called an\n\"easy run.\" Every evening he returns to his family. In\nthe fall and spring he spends his Sundays fishing in\nLake Erie. He has a round red face and small blue eyes.\nHe knows the people in the towns along his railroad\nbetter than a city man knows the people who live in his\napartment building.\n\nGeorge came down the little incline from the New\nWillard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried his\nbag. The son had become taller than the father.\n\nOn the station platform everyone shook the young man's\nhand. More than a dozen people waited about. Then they\ntalked of their own affairs. Even Will Henderson, who\nwas lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of\nbed. George was embarrassed. Gertrude Wilmot, a tall\nthin woman of fifty who worked in the Winesburg post\noffice, came along the station platform. She had never\nbefore paid any attention to George. Now she stopped\nand put out her hand. In two words she voiced what\neveryone felt. \"Good luck,\" she said sharply and then\nturning went on her way.\n\nWhen the train came into the station George felt\nrelieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen White\ncame running along Main Street hoping to have a parting\nword with him, but he had found a seat and did not see\nher. When the train started Tom Little punched his\nticket, grinned and, although he knew George well and\nknew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no\ncomment. Tom had seen a thousand George Willards go out\nof their towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough\nincident with him. In the smoking car there was a man\nwho had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to\nSandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and\ntalk over details.\n\nGeorge glanced up and down the car to be sure no one\nwas looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted\nhis money. His mind was occupied with a desire not to\nappear green. Almost the last words his father had said\nto him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got\nto the city. \"Be a sharp one,\" Tom Willard had said.\n\"Keep your eyes on your money. Be awake. That's the\nticket. Don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn.\"\n\nAfter George counted his money he looked out of the\nwindow and was surprised to see that the train was\nstill in Winesburg.\n\nThe young man, going out of his town to meet the\nadventure of life, began to think but he did not think\nof anything very big or dramatic. Things like his\nmother's death, his departure from Winesburg, the\nuncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious\nand larger aspects of his life did not come into his\nmind.\n\nHe thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheeling\nboards through the main street of his town in the\nmorning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once\nstayed overnight at his father's hotel, Butch Wheeler\nthe lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the\nstreets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his\nhand, Helen White standing by a window in the Winesburg\npost office and putting a stamp on an envelope.\n\nThe young man's mind was carried away by his growing\npassion for dreams. One looking at him would not have\nthought him particularly sharp. With the recollection\nof little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes\nand leaned back in the car seat. He stayed that way for\na long time and when he aroused himself and again\nlooked out of the car window the town of Winesburg had\ndisappeared and his life there had become but a\nbackground on which to paint the dreams of his manhood.\n", "summary": "George Willard leaves Winesburg to go make his way in the big city. Several people see him off at the station, but Helen White is too late to wish him farewell. He thinks of mundane things as he waits for the train to pull out of the station. The conductor, who has seen many young men starting off on this journey, says nothing to George about what an important day this is."}, {"": "227", "document": "\n\nIt was the 22nd of November; the departure was to take place in\nten days.  One operation alone remained to be accomplished to\nbring all to a happy termination; an operation delicate and\nperilous, requiring infinite precautions, and against the\nsuccess of which Captain Nicholl had laid his third bet.  It was,\nin fact, nothing less than the loading of the Columbiad, and the\nintroduction into it of 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton.  Nicholl had\nthought, not perhaps without reason, that the handling of such\nformidable quantities of pyroxyle would, in all probability,\ninvolve a grave catastrophe; and at any rate, that this immense\nmass of eminently inflammable matter would inevitably ignite when\nsubmitted to the pressure of the projectile.\n\nThere were indeed dangers accruing as before from the\ncarelessness of the Americans, but Barbicane had set his heart\non success, and took all possible precautions.  In the first\nplace, he was very careful as to the transportation of the\ngun-cotton to Stones Hill.  He had it conveyed in small\nquantities, carefully packed in sealed cases.  These were\nbrought by rail from Tampa Town to the camp, and from thence\nwere taken to the Columbiad by barefooted workmen, who deposited\nthem in their places by means of cranes placed at the orifice of\nthe cannon.  No steam-engine was permitted to work, and every\nfire was extinguished within two miles of the works.\n\nEven in November they feared to work by day, lest the sun's rays\nacting on the gun-cotton might lead to unhappy results.  This led\nto their working at night, by light produced in a vacuum by means\nof Ruhmkorff's apparatus, which threw an artificial brightness\ninto the depths of the Columbiad.  There the cartridges were\narranged with the utmost regularity, connected by a metallic thread,\ndestined to communicate to them all simultaneously the electric\nspark, by which means this mass of gun-cotton was eventually\nto be ignited.\n\nBy the 28th of November eight hundred cartridges had been\nplaced in the bottom of the Columbiad.  So far the operation had\nbeen successful!  But what confusion, what anxieties, what struggles\nwere undergone by President Barbicane!  In vain had he refused\nadmission to Stones Hill; every day the inquisitive neighbors\nscaled the palisades, some even carrying their imprudence to the\npoint of smoking while surrounded by bales of gun-cotton.\nBarbicane was in a perpetual state of alarm.  J. T. Maston\nseconded him to the best of his ability, by giving vigorous\nchase to the intruders, and carefully picking up the still\nlighted cigar ends which the Yankees threw about.  A somewhat\ndifficult task! seeing that more than 300,000 persons were\ngathered round the enclosure.  Michel Ardan had volunteered to\nsuperintend the transport of the cartridges to the mouth of the\nColumbiad; but the president, having surprised him with an\nenormous cigar in his mouth, while he was hunting out the rash\nspectators to whom he himself offered so dangerous an example,\nsaw that he could not trust this fearless smoker, and was\ntherefore obliged to mount a special guard over him.\n\nAt last, Providence being propitious, this wonderful loading\ncame to a happy termination, Captain Nicholl's third bet being\nthus lost.  It remained now to introduce the projectile into the\nColumbiad, and to place it on its soft bed of gun-cotton.\n\nBut before doing this, all those things necessary for the\njourney had to be carefully arranged in the projectile vehicle.\nThese necessaries were numerous; and had Ardan been allowed to\nfollow his own wishes, there would have been no space remaining\nfor the travelers.  It is impossible to conceive of half the\nthings this charming Frenchman wished to convey to the moon.\nA veritable stock of useless trifles!  But Barbicane interfered\nand refused admission to anything not absolutely needed.\nSeveral thermometers, barometers, and telescopes were packed in\nthe instrument case.\n\nThe travelers being desirous of examing the moon carefully\nduring their voyage, in order to facilitate their studies,\nthey took with them Boeer and Moeller's excellent _Mappa\nSelenographica_, a masterpiece of patience and observation,\nwhich they hoped would enable them to identify those physical\nfeatures in the moon, with which they were acquainted.\nThis map reproduced with scrupulous fidelity the smallest\ndetails of the lunar surface which faces the earth; the\nmountains, valleys, craters, peaks, and ridges were all\nrepresented, with their exact dimensions, relative positions,\nand names; from the mountains Doerfel and Leibnitz on the\neastern side of the disc, to the _Mare frigoris_ of the North Pole.\n\nThey took also three rifles and three fowling-pieces, and a\nlarge quantity of balls, shot, and powder.\n\n\"We cannot tell whom we shall have to deal with,\" said Michel Ardan.\n\"Men or beasts may possibly object to our visit.  It is only wise\nto take all precautions.\"\n\nThese defensive weapons were accompanied by pickaxes, crowbars,\nsaws, and other useful implements, not to mention clothing\nadapted to every temperature, from that of polar regions to that\nof the torrid zone.\n\nArdan wished to convey a number of animals of different sorts,\nnot indeed a pair of every known species, as he could not see\nthe necessity of acclimatizing serpents, tigers, alligators, or\nany other noxious beasts in the moon.  \"Nevertheless,\" he said\nto Barbicane, \"some valuable and useful beasts, bullocks, cows,\nhorses, and donkeys, would bear the journey very well, and would\nalso be very useful to us.\"\n\n\"I dare say, my dear Ardan,\" replied the president, \"but our\nprojectile-vehicle is no Noah's ark, from which it differs both in\ndimensions and object.  Let us confine ourselves to possibilities.\"\n\nAfter a prolonged discussion, it was agreed that the travelers\nshould restrict themselves to a sporting-dog belonging to\nNicholl, and to a large Newfoundland.  Several packets of seeds\nwere also included among the necessaries.  Michel Ardan, indeed,\nwas anxious to add some sacks full of earth to sow them in; as\nit was, he took a dozen shrubs carefully wrapped up in straw to\nplant in the moon.\n\nThe important question of provisions still remained; it being\nnecessary to provide against the possibility of their finding\nthe moon absolutely barren.  Barbicane managed so successfully,\nthat he supplied them with sufficient rations for a year.\nThese consisted of preserved meats and vegetables, reduced by\nstrong hydraulic pressure to the smallest possible dimensions.\nThey were also supplied with brandy, and took water enough for\ntwo months, being confident, from astronomical observations,\nthat there was no lack of water on the moon's surface.  As to\nprovisions, doubtless the inhabitants of the _earth_ would find\nnourishment somewhere in the _moon_.  Ardan never questioned\nthis; indeed, had he done so, he would never have undertaken\nthe journey.\n\n\"Besides,\" he said one day to his friends, \"we shall not be\ncompletely abandoned by our terrestrial friends; they will take\ncare not to forget us.\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" replied J. T. Maston.\n\n\"Nothing would be simpler,\" replied Ardan; \"the Columbiad will\nbe always there.  Well! whenever the moon is in a favorable\ncondition as to the zenith, if not to the perigee, that is to\nsay about once a year, could you not send us a shell packed\nwith provisions, which we might expect on some appointed day?\"\n\n\"Hurrah! hurrah!\" cried J. T. Matson; \"what an ingenious fellow!\nwhat a splendid idea!  Indeed, my good friends, we shall not\nforget you!\"\n\n\"I shall reckon upon you!  Then, you see, we shall receive news\nregularly from the earth, and we shall indeed be stupid if we\nhit upon no plan for communicating with our good friends here!\"\n\nThese words inspired such confidence, that Michel Ardan carried\nall the Gun Club with him in his enthusiasm.  What he said\nseemed so simple and so easy, so sure of success, that none\ncould be so sordidly attached to this earth as to hesitate to\nfollow the three travelers on their lunar expedition.\n\nAll being ready at last, it remained to place the projectile in\nthe Columbiad, an operation abundantly accompanied by dangers\nand difficulties.\n\nThe enormous shell was conveyed to the summit of Stones Hill.\nThere, powerful cranes raised it, and held it suspended over the\nmouth of the cylinder.\n\nIt was a fearful moment!  What if the chains should break under\nits enormous weight?  The sudden fall of such a body would\ninevitably cause the gun-cotton to explode!\n\nFortunately this did not happen; and some hours later the\nprojectile-vehicle descended gently into the heart of the cannon\nand rested on its couch of pyroxyle, a veritable bed of\nexplosive eider-down.  Its pressure had no result, other than\nthe more effectual ramming down of the charge in the Columbiad.\n\n\"I have lost,\" said the captain, who forthwith paid President\nBarbicane the sum of three thousand dollars.\n\nBarbicane did not wish to accept the money from one of his\nfellow-travelers, but gave way at last before the determination\nof Nicholl, who wished before leaving the earth to fulfill all\nhis engagements.\n\n\"Now,\" said Michel Ardan, \"I have only one thing more to wish\nfor you, my brave captain.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" asked Nicholl.\n\n\"It is that you may lose your two other bets!  Then we shall be\nsure not to be stopped on our journey!\"\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "It's now only ten days until the launch. The gun-cotton has been successfully loaded in, despite the fact that people \"did not hesitate to smoke their cigars\" right next to this highly explosive material. They can only bring a limited amount of food, however. To counteract this, they tell Maston to shoot capsules of food from the cannon whenever the moon gets close enough. Finally--and to much fanfare--they load the capsule into the cannon."}, {"": "228", "document": "\n\nThe doctor, more exasperated than ever, again tried to revenge himself on\nmy relatives. He arrested uncle Phillip on the charge of having aided my\nflight. He was carried before a court, and swore truly that he knew nothing\nof my intention to escape, and that he had not seen me since I left my\nmaster's plantation. The doctor then demanded that he should give bail for\nfive hundred dollars that he would have nothing to do with me. Several\ngentlemen offered to be security for him; but Mr. Sands told him he had\nbetter go back to jail, and he would see that he came out without giving\nbail.\n\nThe news of his arrest was carried to my grandmother, who conveyed it to\nBetty. In the kindness of her heart, she again stowed me away under the\nfloor; and as she walked back and forth, in the performance of her culinary\nduties, she talked apparently to herself, but with the intention that I\nshould hear what was going on. I hoped that my uncle's imprisonment would\nlast but few days; still I was anxious. I thought it likely Dr. Flint would\ndo his utmost to taunt and insult him, and I was afraid my uncle might lose\ncontrol of himself, and retort in some way that would be construed into a\npunishable offence; and I was well aware that in court his word would not\nbe taken against any white man's. The search for me was renewed. Something\nhad excited suspicions that I was in the vicinity. They searched the house\nI was in. I heard their steps and their voices. At night, when all were\nasleep, Betty came to release me from my place of confinement. The fright I\nhad undergone, the constrained posture, and the dampness of the ground,\nmade me ill for several days. My uncle was soon after taken out of prison;\nbut the movements of all my relatives, and of all our friends, were very\nclosely watched.\n\nWe all saw that I could not remain where I was much longer. I had already\nstaid longer than was intended, and I knew my presence must be a source of\nperpetual anxiety to my kind benefactress. During this time, my friends had\nlaid many plans for my escape, but the extreme vigilance of my persecutors\nmade it impossible to carry them into effect.\n\nOne morning I was much startled by hearing somebody trying to get into my\nroom. Several keys were tried, but none fitted. I instantly conjectured it\nwas one of the housemaids; and I concluded she must either have heard some\nnoise in the room, or have noticed the entrance of Betty. When my friend\ncame, at her usual time, I told her what had happened. \"I knows who it\nwas,\" said she. \"Tend upon it, 'twas dat Jenny. Dat nigger allers got de\ndebble in her.\" I suggested that she might have seen or heard something\nthat excited her curiosity.\n\n\"Tut! tut! chile!\" exclaimed Betty, \"she ain't seen notin', nor hearn\nnotin'. She only 'spects something. Dat's all. She wants to fine out who\nhab cut and make my gownd. But she won't nebber know. Dat's sartin. I'll\ngit missis to fix her.\"\n\nI reflected a moment, and said, \"Betty, I must leave here to-night.\"\n\n\"Do as you tink best, poor chile,\" she replied. \"I'se mighty 'fraid dat\n'ere nigger vill pop on you some time.\"\n\nShe reported the incident to her mistress, and received orders to keep\nJenny busy in the kitchen till she could see my uncle Phillip. He told her\nhe would send a friend for me that very evening. She told him she hoped I\nwas going to the north, for it was very dangerous for me to remain any\nwhere in the vicinity. Alas, it was not an easy thing, for one in my\nsituation, to go to the north. In order to leave the coast quite clear for\nme, she went into the country to spend the day with her brother, and took\nJenny with her. She was afraid to come and bid me good by, but she left a\nkind message with Betty. I heard her carriage roll from the door, and I\nnever again saw her who had so generously befriended the poor, trembling\nfugitive! Though she was a slaveholder, to this day my heart blesses her!\n\nI had not the slightest idea where I was going. Betty brought me a suit of\nsailor's clothes,--jacket, trowsers, and tarpaulin hat. She gave me a small\nbundle, saying I might need it where I was going. In cheery tones, she\nexclaimed, \"I'se _so_ glad you is gwine to free parts! Don't forget ole\nBetty. P'raps I'll come 'long by and by.\"\n\nI tried to tell her how grateful I felt for all her kindness. But she\ninterrupted me. \"I don't want no tanks, honey. I'se glad I could help you,\nand I hope de good Lord vill open de path for you. I'se gwine wid you to de\nlower gate. Put your hands in your pockets, and walk ricketty, like de\nsailors.\"\n\nI performed to her satisfaction. At the gate I found Peter, a young colored\nman, waiting for me. I had known him for years. He had been an apprentice\nto my father, and had always borne a good character. I was not afraid to\ntrust to him. Betty bade me a hurried good by, and we walked off. \"Take\ncourage, Linda,\" said my friend Peter. \"I've got a dagger, and no man shall\ntake you from me, unless he passes over my dead body.\"\n\nIt was a long time since I had taken a walk out of doors, and the fresh air\nrevived me. It was also pleasant to hear a human voice speaking to me above\na whisper. I passed several people whom I knew, but they did not recognize\nme in my disguise. I prayed internally that, for Peter's sake, as well as\nmy own, nothing might occur to bring out his dagger. We walked on till we\ncame to the wharf. My aunt Nancy's husband was a seafaring man, and it had\nbeen deemed necessary to let him into our secret. He took me into his boat,\nrowed out to a vessel not far distant, and hoisted me on board. We three\nwere the only occupants of the vessel. I now ventured to ask what they\nproposed to do with me. They said I was to remain on board till near dawn,\nand then they would hide me in Snaky Swamp, till my uncle Phillip had\nprepared a place of concealment for me. If the vessel had been bound north,\nit would have been of no avail to me, for it would certainly have been\nsearched. About four o'clock, we were again seated in the boat, and rowed\nthree miles to the swamp. My fear of snakes had been increased by the\nvenomous bite I had received, and I dreaded to enter this hiding place. But\nI was in no situation to choose, and I gratefully accepted the best that my\npoor, persecuted friends could do for me.\n\nPeter landed first, and with a large knife cut a path through bamboos and\nbriers of all descriptions. He came back, took me in his arms, and carried\nme to a seat made among the bamboos. Before we reached it, we were covered\nwith hundreds of mosquitos. In an hour's time they had so poisoned my flesh\nthat I was a pitiful sight to behold. As the light increased, I saw snake\nafter snake crawling round us. I had been accustomed to the sight of snakes\nall my life, but these were larger than any I had ever seen. To this day I\nshudder when I remember that morning. As evening approached, the number of\nsnakes increased so much that we were continually obliged to thrash them\nwith sticks to keep them from crawling over us. The bamboos were so high\nand so thick that it was impossible to see beyond a very short distance.\nJust before it became dark we procured a seat nearer to the entrance of the\nswamp, being fearful of losing our way back to the boat. It was not long\nbefore we heard the paddle of oars, and the low whistle, which had been\nagreed upon as a signal. We made haste to enter the boat, and were rowed\nback to the vessel. I passed a wretched night; for the heat of the swamp,\nthe mosquitos, and the constant terror of snakes, had brought on a burning\nfever. I had just dropped asleep, when they came and told me it was time to\ngo back to that horrid swamp. I could scarcely summon courage to rise. But\neven those large, venomous snakes were less dreadful to my imagination than\nthe white men in that community called civilized. This time Peter took a\nquantity of tobacco to burn, to keep off the mosquitos. It produced the\ndesired effect on them, but gave me nausea and severe headache. At dark we\nreturned to the vessel. I had been so sick during the day, that Peter\ndeclared I should go home that night, if the devil himself was on patrol.\nThey told me a place of concealment had been provided for me at my\ngrandmother's. I could not imagine how it was possible to hide me in her\nhouse, every nook and corner of which was known to the Flint family. They\ntold me to wait and see. We were rowed ashore, and went boldly through the\nstreets, to my grandmother's. I wore my sailor's clothes, and had blackened\nmy face with charcoal. I passed several people whom I knew. The father of\nmy children came so near that I brushed against his arm; but he had no idea\nwho it was.\n\n\"You must make the most of this walk,\" said my friend Peter, \"for you may\nnot have another very soon.\"\n\nI thought his voice sounded sad. It was kind of him to conceal from me what\na dismal hole was to be my home for a long, long time.\n\n\n", "summary": "Trying a new tactic, Dr. Flint has Uncle Phillip arrested and jailed. Bet he's sorry he came back South now. Even after Phillip is eventually released, Dr. Flint stakes out Aunt Martha's house. Time for a new hiding place. Linda dresses up in a sailor's uniform and leaves Betty's house. A guy named Peter rows her out to the really ominously named Snaky Swamp, where Linda hides out for the night. The swamp, as you might suspect, is full of snakes. The next morning, only slightly traumatized, Linda heads to her new hiding spot."}, {"": "229", "document": "SCENE III.\nWales. A mountainous country with a cave\n\nEnter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS\n\n  BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such\n    Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate\n    Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you\n    To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs\n    Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through\n    And keep their impious turbans on without\n    Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!\n    We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly\n    As prouder livers do.\n  GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven!\n  ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven!\n  BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill,\n    Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider,\n    When you above perceive me like a crow,\n    That it is place which lessens and sets off;\n    And you may then revolve what tales I have told you\n    Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war.\n    This service is not service so being done,\n    But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus\n    Draws us a profit from all things we see,\n    And often to our comfort shall we find\n    The sharded beetle in a safer hold\n    Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life\n    Is nobler than attending for a check,\n    Richer than doing nothing for a bribe,\n    Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:\n    Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine,\n    Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours!\n  GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd,\n    Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not\n    What air's from home. Haply this life is best,\n    If quiet life be best; sweeter to you\n    That have a sharper known; well corresponding\n    With your stiff age. But unto us it is\n    A cell of ignorance, travelling abed,\n    A prison for a debtor that not dares\n    To stride a limit.\n  ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of\n    When we are old as you? When we shall hear\n    The rain and wind beat dark December, how,\n    In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse.\n    The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;\n    We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey,\n    Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat.\n    Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage\n    We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird,\n    And sing our bondage freely.\n  BELARIUS. How you speak!\n    Did you but know the city's usuries,\n    And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court,\n    As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb\n    Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that\n    The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war,\n    A pain that only seems to seek out danger\n    I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search,\n    And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph\n    As record of fair act; nay, many times,\n    Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse-\n    Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story\n    The world may read in me; my body's mark'd\n    With Roman swords, and my report was once\n    First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;\n    And when a soldier was the theme, my name\n    Was not far off. Then was I as a tree\n    Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night\n    A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,\n    Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,\n    And left me bare to weather.\n  GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour!\n  BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft-\n    But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd\n    Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline\n    I was confederate with the Romans. So\n    Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years\n    This rock and these demesnes have been my world,\n    Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid\n    More pious debts to heaven than in all\n    The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains!\n    This is not hunters' language. He that strikes\n    The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast;\n    To him the other two shall minister;\n    And we will fear no poison, which attends\n    In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.\n                                  Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS\n    How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!\n    These boys know little they are sons to th' King,\n    Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.\n    They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly\n    I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit\n    The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them\n    In simple and low things to prince it much\n    Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,\n    The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who\n    The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove!\n    When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell\n    The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out\n    Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell,\n    And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then\n    The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,\n    Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture\n    That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,\n    Once Arviragus, in as like a figure\n    Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more\n    His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd!\n    O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows\n    Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon,\n    At three and two years old, I stole these babes,\n    Thinking to bar thee of succession as\n    Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile,\n    Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,\n    And every day do honour to her grave.\n    Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,\n    They take for natural father. The game is up.           Exit\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "From a cave in the mountainous Welsh countryside enters Belarius followed by his sons Guiderius and Arviragus. It is a fine morning, and Belarius exhorts his sons not to sit inside the cave, but to enjoy the wonderful weather. They plan to go hunting as usual with the brothers climbing the hill while Belarius tries to track game on the plain. He tells his sons that their simple life is worth all the advantages of courtly life, where every moment one could expect to be snubbed. Life at court was like living on a slippery slope, remarks Belarius bitterly, for it is precisely when one is at the peak of one's success that one is in danger of falling. The two lads, Guiderius and Arviragus, are restive. They have known nothing of court life, and cannot say if the peaceful life they lead is better than anything else. However, Belarius tells them that if they only knew the treacherous life at court, they would agree with him that the life they lead now is the best. He recounts his tenure in Cymbeline's court, when the King loved and respected him as a brave and valiant soldier. However, the King had readily listened to the false testimony of two villains who alleged that Belarius was consorting with the Romans. Cymbeline had not even given Belarius the chance to explain, and had banished him. It is only when the boys leave that Belarius reveals in a soliloquy, that Guiderius, known as Polydore, and Arviragus, called Cadwal, are actually the sons of Cymbeline. Angered at his unjust banishment, he had stolen the infant sons of the King in order to bar the line of succession to the throne. Yet, as Belarius observes, blood will tell: the lads who had known nothing of court, have the bearing and thoughts of princes."}, {"": "230", "document": "CHAPTER VIII\n\n\n\n Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,\n Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,\n Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,\n\n I will speak to thee.\n     HAMLET\n\nCount de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at\nAvignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the\nlate Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived from\nMonsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law on\nthis subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only person, who\ncould have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend of Monsieur\nQuesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account of the death\nof Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as his supposed\naccomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was found\nguilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing being\ndiscovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge,\nthey were all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by the\nsenate as a very dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered again\ninto confinement, where, it was said, he had died in a doubtful and\nmysterious manner, and not without suspicion of having been poisoned.\nThe authority, from which M. Quesnel had received this information,\nwould not allow him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily, that she had\nnow only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, to secure them,\nand added, that he would himself assist in the necessary forms of this\nbusiness. The term, for which La Vallee had been let being now also\nnearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumstance, and advised her\nto take the road thither, through Tholouse, where he promised to meet\nher, and where it would be proper for her to take possession of the\nestates of the late Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her\nany difficulties, that might occur on that occasion from the want of\nknowledge on the subject, and that he believed it would be necessary for\nher to be at Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time.\n\nAn increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness in\nM. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more\nrespect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for the\npoor and unfriended orphan.\n\nThe pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded\nwhen she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted\nthe want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but,\nremembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked this\nmelancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude for\nthe unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no\ninconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee, her\nnative home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the residence\nof her parents, would soon be restored to her possession. There she\nmeant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not be compared\nwith the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or magnificence, its\npleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, had\nclaims upon her heart, which she was not inclined to sacrifice to\nostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Quesnel for the active\ninterest he took in her concerns, and to say, that she would meet him at\nTholouse at the appointed time.\n\nWhen Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give\nEmily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of\nM. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on\nthe occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expression\nof satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity\nsucceeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.\n\n'It has no new occasion,' replied the Count; 'I am harassed and\nperplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their\nfoolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can\nneither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also, very\nanxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not been\nable to obtain information. Every part of the chateau and every part of\nthe neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched, and I know not\nwhat further can be done, since I have already offered large rewards\nfor the discovery of him. The keys of the north apartment I have not\nsuffered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, and I mean to\nwatch in those chambers, myself, this very night.'\n\nEmily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with those\nof the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.\n\n'What should I fear?' said he. 'I have no faith in supernatural combats,\nand for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will even promise\nnot to watch alone.'\n\n'But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?' said\nEmily.\n\n'My son,' replied the Count. 'If I am not carried off in the night,'\nadded he, smiling, 'you shall hear the result of my adventure,\ntomorrow.'\n\nThe Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, and\nreturned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his intention, who,\nnot without some secret reluctance, consented to be the partner of his\nwatch; and, when the design was mentioned after supper, the Countess was\nterrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating,\nthat he would not tempt his fate, as Ludovico had done. 'We know not,'\nadded the Baron, 'the nature, or the power of an evil spirit; and\nthat such a spirit haunts those chambers can now, I think, scarcely be\ndoubted. Beware, my lord, how you provoke its vengeance, since it has\nalready given us one terrible example of its malice. I allow it may be\nprobable, that the spirits of the dead are permitted to return to the\nearth only on occasions of high import; but the present import may be\nyour destruction.'\n\nThe Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you think then, Baron,' said\nhe, 'that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back\nto earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no\noccasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any individual.\nWherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be able to\ndetect it. You know I am not superstitious.'\n\n'I know that you are incredulous,' interrupted the Baron.\n\n'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I am\nfree from superstition--if any thing supernatural has appeared, I doubt\nnot it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house,\nor if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with it,\nI shall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invite\ndiscovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in good\ntruth, my friend, is what I most expect, I shall take care to be well\narmed.'\n\nThe Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed\ngaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his spirits,\nand retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son and followed\nby the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who all bade him\ngood night at the outer door. In these chambers every thing appeared\nas when he had last been here; even in the bed-room no alteration was\nvisible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the domestics could\nbe prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully examining the\nchamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon the\nhearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their swords\nupon the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze, began to converse\non indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and abstracted, and\nsometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity round the gloomy\napartment; while the Count gradually ceased to converse, and sat either\nlost in thought, or reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to\nbeguile the tediousness of the night.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Count de Villeforte's been looking into Em's claim to her late aunt's properties, and he's got good news. Kind of. Orsino was executed for murdering the nobleman, while Montoni died in a mysterious manner. There are some whispers that someone finally got him with poison. Since there's no more dispute over the property, it's looking good that Em will get to stake her claim. But the Count can't solve all his problems that easily. Servants are gossiping even more since Ludovico disappeared. Obvious solution: the Count himself will stay overnight in the haunted room with his only son, Henri. Really, it's a flawless plan. The guys settle in for a root-tootin' night full of scary ghosts and mayhem."}, {"": "231", "document": "\nIn a handsome room:  though its furniture had rather the air of\nold-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance:  there sat two ladies\nat a well-spread breakfast-table.  Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous\ncare in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them.  He had\ntaken his station some half-way between the side-board and the\nbreakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his\nhead thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left\nleg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his\nleft hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who\nlaboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.\n\nOf the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed\noaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she.  Dressed\nwith the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone\ncostume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which\nrather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its\neffect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the\ntable before her.  Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their\nbrightness) were attentively upon her young companion.\n\nThe younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood;\nat that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned\nin mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in\nsuch as hers.\n\nShe was not past seventeen.  Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould;\nso mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her\nelement, nor its rough creatures her fit companions.  The very\nintelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her\nnoble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the\nchanging expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights\nthat played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the\nsmile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside\npeace and happiness.\n\nShe was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to\nraise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put\nback her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into\nher beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless\nloveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.\n\n'And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?' asked the old\nlady, after a pause.\n\n'An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,' replied Mr. Giles, referring to a\nsilver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.\n\n'He is always slow,' remarked the old lady.\n\n'Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am,' replied the attendant. And\nseeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of\nthirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a\nfast one.\n\n'He gets worse instead of better, I think,' said the elder lady.\n\n'It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other\nboys,' said the young lady, smiling.\n\nMr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a\nrespectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out\nof which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door:\nand who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process,\nburst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the\nbreakfast-table together.\n\n'I never heard of such a thing!' exclaimed the fat gentleman. 'My dear\nMrs. Maylie--bless my soul--in the silence of the night, too--I _never_\nheard of such a thing!'\n\nWith these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands\nwith both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found\nthemselves.\n\n'You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,' said the fat\ngentleman.  'Why didn't you send?  Bless me, my man should have come in\na minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted;\nor anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances.  Dear, dear!  So\nunexpected!  In the silence of the night, too!'\n\nThe doctor seemed expecially troubled by the fact of the robbery having\nbeen unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the\nestablished custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact\nbusiness at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two\nprevious.\n\n'And you, Miss Rose,' said the doctor, turning to the young lady, 'I--'\n\n'Oh! very much so, indeed,' said Rose, interrupting him; 'but there is\na poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.'\n\n'Ah! to be sure,' replied the doctor, 'so there is.  That was your\nhandiwork, Giles, I understand.'\n\nMr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights,\nblushed very red, and said that he had had that honour.\n\n'Honour, eh?' said the doctor; 'well, I don't know; perhaps it's as\nhonourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at\ntwelve paces.  Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a\nduel, Giles.'\n\nMr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust\nattempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was\nnot for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it\nwas no joke to the opposite party.\n\n'Gad, that's true!' said the doctor.  'Where is he?  Show me the way.\nI'll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie.  That's the little\nwindow that he got in at, eh?  Well, I couldn't have believed it!'\n\nTalking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is\ngoing upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a\nsurgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles\nround as 'the doctor,' had grown fat, more from good-humour than from\ngood living:  and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an\nold bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any\nexplorer alive.\n\nThe doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had\nanticipated.  A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a\nbedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down\nstairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that\nsomething important was going on above.  At length he returned; and in\nreply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious,\nand closed the door, carefully.\n\n'This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,' said the doctor,\nstanding with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.\n\n'He is not in danger, I hope?' said the old lady.\n\n'Why, that would _not_ be an extraordinary thing, under the\ncircumstances,' replied the doctor; 'though I don't think he is. Have\nyou seen the thief?'\n\n'No,' rejoined the old lady.\n\n'Nor heard anything about him?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, ma'am, interposed Mr. Giles; 'but I was going to\ntell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in.'\n\nThe fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his\nmind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy.  Such commendations\nhad been bestowed upon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of\nhim, help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes;\nduring which he had flourished, in the very zenith of a brief\nreputation for undaunted courage.\n\n'Rose wished to see the man,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'but I wouldn't hear of\nit.'\n\n'Humph!' rejoined the doctor.  'There is nothing very alarming in his\nappearance.  Have you any objection to see him in my presence?'\n\n'If it be necessary,' replied the old lady, 'certainly not.'\n\n'Then I think it is necessary,' said the doctor; 'at all events, I am\nquite sure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you\npostponed it.  He is perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow\nme--Miss Rose, will you permit me?  Not the slightest fear, I pledge\nyou my honour!'\n\n\n", "summary": "Giles, dressed in his butler attire, was serving breakfast to the two ladies of the house. The elder, Mrs. Maylie was the aunt of the beautiful young girl, Rose. He tells them a bit about shooting Oliver, for which he was praised, but waits to tell the whole tale until after Dr. Losberne could attend. When the doctor arrived he looked to Oliver and after a time reported to the ladies. He invited them up to see the thief and they accepted; not knowing that Oliver was so young"}, {"": "232", "document": "\nCandide and his valet had got beyond the barrier, before it was known in\nthe camp that the German Jesuit was dead. The wary Cacambo had taken\ncare to fill his wallet with bread, chocolate, bacon, fruit, and a few\nbottles of wine. With their Andalusian horses they penetrated into an\nunknown country, where they perceived no beaten track. At length they\ncame to a beautiful meadow intersected with purling rills. Here our two\nadventurers fed their horses. Cacambo proposed to his master to take\nsome food, and he set him an example.\n\n\"How can you ask me to eat ham,\" said Candide, \"after killing the\nBaron's son, and being doomed never more to see the beautiful Cunegonde?\nWhat will it avail me to spin out my wretched days and drag them far\nfrom her in remorse and despair? And what will the _Journal of\nTrevoux_[17] say?\"\n\nWhile he was thus lamenting his fate, he went on eating. The sun went\ndown. The two wanderers heard some little cries which seemed to be\nuttered by women. They did not know whether they were cries of pain or\njoy; but they started up precipitately with that inquietude and alarm\nwhich every little thing inspires in an unknown country. The noise was\nmade by two naked girls, who tripped along the mead, while two monkeys\nwere pursuing them and biting their buttocks. Candide was moved with\npity; he had learned to fire a gun in the Bulgarian service, and he was\nso clever at it, that he could hit a filbert in a hedge without touching\na leaf of the tree. He took up his double-barrelled Spanish fusil, let\nit off, and killed the two monkeys.\n\n\"God be praised! My dear Cacambo, I have rescued those two poor\ncreatures from a most perilous situation. If I have committed a sin in\nkilling an Inquisitor and a Jesuit, I have made ample amends by saving\nthe lives of these girls. Perhaps they are young ladies of family; and\nthis adventure may procure us great advantages in this country.\"\n\nHe was continuing, but stopped short when he saw the two girls tenderly\nembracing the monkeys, bathing their bodies in tears, and rending the\nair with the most dismal lamentations.\n\n\"Little did I expect to see such good-nature,\" said he at length to\nCacambo; who made answer:\n\n\"Master, you have done a fine thing now; you have slain the sweethearts\nof those two young ladies.\"\n\n\"The sweethearts! Is it possible? You are jesting, Cacambo, I can never\nbelieve it!\"\n\n\"Dear master,\" replied Cacambo; \"you are surprised at everything. Why\nshould you think it so strange that in some countries there are monkeys\nwhich insinuate themselves into the good graces of the ladies; they are\na fourth part human, as I am a fourth part Spaniard.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" replied Candide, \"I remember to have heard Master Pangloss say,\nthat formerly such accidents used to happen; that these mixtures were\nproductive of Centaurs, Fauns, and Satyrs; and that many of the ancients\nhad seen such monsters, but I looked upon the whole as fabulous.\"\n\n\"You ought now to be convinced,\" said Cacambo, \"that it is the truth,\nand you see what use is made of those creatures, by persons that have\nnot had a proper education; all I fear is that those ladies will play us\nsome ugly trick.\"\n\nThese sound reflections induced Candide to leave the meadow and to\nplunge into a wood. He supped there with Cacambo; and after cursing the\nPortuguese inquisitor, the Governor of Buenos Ayres, and the Baron, they\nfell asleep on moss. On awaking they felt that they could not move; for\nduring the night the Oreillons, who inhabited that country, and to whom\nthe ladies had denounced them, had bound them with cords made of the\nbark of trees. They were encompassed by fifty naked Oreillons, armed\nwith bows and arrows, with clubs and flint hatchets. Some were making a\nlarge cauldron boil, others were preparing spits, and all cried:\n\n\"A Jesuit! a Jesuit! we shall be revenged, we shall have excellent\ncheer, let us eat the Jesuit, let us eat him up!\"\n\n\"I told you, my dear master,\" cried Cacambo sadly, \"that those two girls\nwould play us some ugly trick.\"\n\nCandide seeing the cauldron and the spits, cried:\n\n\"We are certainly going to be either roasted or boiled. Ah! what would\nMaster Pangloss say, were he to see how pure nature is formed?\nEverything is right, may be, but I declare it is very hard to have lost\nMiss Cunegonde and to be put upon a spit by Oreillons.\"\n\nCacambo never lost his head.\n\n\"Do not despair,\" said he to the disconsolate Candide, \"I understand a\nlittle of the jargon of these people, I will speak to them.\"\n\n\"Be sure,\" said Candide, \"to represent to them how frightfully inhuman\nit is to cook men, and how very un-Christian.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said Cacambo, \"you reckon you are to-day going to feast\nupon a Jesuit. It is all very well, nothing is more unjust than thus to\ntreat your enemies. Indeed, the law of nature teaches us to kill our\nneighbour, and such is the practice all over the world. If we do not\naccustom ourselves to eating them, it is because we have better fare.\nBut you have not the same resources as we; certainly it is much better\nto devour your enemies than to resign to the crows and rooks the fruits\nof your victory. But, gentlemen, surely you would not choose to eat your\nfriends. You believe that you are going to spit a Jesuit, and he is your\ndefender. It is the enemy of your enemies that you are going to roast.\nAs for myself, I was born in your country; this gentleman is my master,\nand, far from being a Jesuit, he has just killed one, whose spoils he\nwears; and thence comes your mistake. To convince you of the truth of\nwhat I say, take his habit and carry it to the first barrier of the\nJesuit kingdom, and inform yourselves whether my master did not kill a\nJesuit officer. It will not take you long, and you can always eat us if\nyou find that I have lied to you. But I have told you the truth. You are\ntoo well acquainted with the principles of public law, humanity, and\njustice not to pardon us.\"\n\nThe Oreillons found this speech very reasonable. They deputed two of\ntheir principal people with all expedition to inquire into the truth of\nthe matter; these executed their commission like men of sense, and soon\nreturned with good news. The Oreillons untied their prisoners, showed\nthem all sorts of civilities, offered them girls, gave them refreshment,\nand reconducted them to the confines of their territories, proclaiming\nwith great joy:\n\n\"He is no Jesuit! He is no Jesuit!\"\n\nCandide could not help being surprised at the cause of his deliverance.\n\n\"What people!\" said he; \"what men! what manners! If I had not been so\nlucky as to run Miss Cunegonde's brother through the body, I should have\nbeen devoured without redemption. But, after all, pure nature is good,\nsince these people, instead of feasting upon my flesh, have shown me a\nthousand civilities, when then I was not a Jesuit.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Candide and Cacambo stop for a meal. While they eat, Candide despairs about Cunegonde. They stop to rest by a meadow and observe the lovely scenic and tranquil environment: birds chirping, water gurgling, naked women running around with monkeys trying to bite their buttocks. This really happens. Candide does what any normal man would do when faced with butt-biting monkeys: he shoots them. Again, he acts first and asks questions later. He's feeling pretty good about himself until he sees that the girls are crying. Cacambo informs him that the monkeys were the girls' lovers. The men hide to avoid these hysterical women and go to sleep. When they wake up, they are bound and unable to move. The people of the girls, the Oreillons, plan to boil and skewer the men for food. Cacambo explains to their captors in the native tongue that they are not Jesuits, the enemy of the Oreillons, but in fact have just killed a Jesuit and stolen his clothes. The Oreillons confirm Cacambo's story, release the men, and treat them as honored guests. How fortunate! This is surely the best of all possible worlds."}, {"": "233", "document": "SCENE II.\nCorioli. The Senate House.\n\nEnter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with SENATORS of Corioli\n\n  FIRST SENATOR. So, your opinion is, Aufidius,\n    That they of Rome are ent'red in our counsels\n    And know how we proceed.\n  AUFIDIUS. Is it not yours?\n    What ever have been thought on in this state\n    That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome\n    Had circumvention? 'Tis not four days gone\n    Since I heard thence; these are the words- I think\n    I have the letter here; yes, here it is:\n    [Reads]  'They have press'd a power, but it is not known\n    Whether for east or west. The dearth is great;\n    The people mutinous; and it is rumour'd,\n    Cominius, Marcius your old enemy,\n    Who is of Rome worse hated than of you,\n    And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman,\n    These three lead on this preparation\n    Whither 'tis bent. Most likely 'tis for you;\n    Consider of it.'\n  FIRST SENATOR. Our army's in the field;\n    We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready\n    To answer us.\n  AUFIDIUS. Nor did you think it folly\n    To keep your great pretences veil'd till when\n    They needs must show themselves; which in the hatching,\n    It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery\n    We shall be short'ned in our aim, which was\n    To take in many towns ere almost Rome\n    Should know we were afoot.\n  SECOND SENATOR. Noble Aufidius,\n    Take your commission; hie you to your bands;\n    Let us alone to guard Corioli.\n    If they set down before's, for the remove\n    Bring up your army; but I think you'll find\n    Th' have not prepar'd for us.\n  AUFIDIUS. O, doubt not that!\n    I speak from certainties. Nay more,\n    Some parcels of their power are forth already,\n    And only hitherward. I leave your honours.\n    If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet,\n    'Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike\n    Till one can do no more.\n  ALL. The gods assist you!\n  AUFIDIUS. And keep your honours safe!\n  FIRST SENATOR. Farewell.\n  SECOND SENATOR. Farewell.\n  ALL. Farewell.                                           Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Now we head over to a Volscian city called Corioles. Tullus Aufidius is at the Senate House talking to the Volscian senators about their military plans. Aufidius reports that Rome already knows they're planning an attack, so there goes the element of surprise. Plus, Roman soldiers may be headed to Corioles right now as they speak. The Senators order Aufidius to get his troops ready to invade Rome. Nah, nothing to worry about! Aufidius shouldn't come back to Corioles unless he hears that the Romans show up and invade the city."}, {"": "234", "document": "Scene 3.\n\n  Con. What the good yeere my Lord, why are you\nthus out of measure sad?\n  Ioh. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds,\ntherefore the sadnesse is without limit\n\n   Con. You should heare reason\n\n   Iohn. And when I haue heard it, what blessing bringeth\nit?\n  Con. If not a present remedy, yet a patient sufferance\n\n   Ioh. I wonder that thou (being as thou saist thou art,\nborne vnder Saturne) goest about to apply a morall medicine,\nto a mortifying mischiefe: I cannot hide what I\nam: I must bee sad when I haue cause, and smile at no\nmans iests, eat when I haue stomacke, and wait for no\nmans leisure: sleepe when I am drowsie, and tend on no\nmans businesse, laugh when I am merry, and claw no man\nin his humor\n\n   Con. Yea, but you must not make the ful show of this,\ntill you may doe it without controllment, you haue of\nlate stood out against your brother, and hee hath tane\nyou newly into his grace, where it is impossible you\nshould take root, but by the faire weather that you make\nyour selfe, it is needful that you frame the season for your\nowne haruest\n\n   Iohn. I had rather be a canker in a hedge, then a rose\nin his grace, and it better fits my bloud to be disdain'd of\nall, then to fashion a carriage to rob loue from any: in this\n(though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man)\nit must not be denied but I am a plaine dealing villaine, I\nam trusted with a mussell, and enfranchisde with a clog,\ntherefore I haue decreed, not to sing in my cage: if I had\nmy mouth, I would bite: if I had my liberty, I would do\nmy liking: in the meane time, let me be that I am, and\nseeke not to alter me\n\n   Con. Can you make no vse of your discontent?\n  Iohn. I will make all vse of it, for I vse it onely.\nWho comes here? what newes Borachio?\n\nEnter Borachio.\n\n  Bor. I came yonder from a great supper, the Prince\nyour brother is royally entertained by Leonato, and I can\ngiue you intelligence of an intended marriage\n\n   Iohn. Will it serue for any Modell to build mischiefe\non? What is hee for a foole that betrothes himselfe to\nvnquietnesse?\n  Bor. Mary it is your brothers right hand\n\n   Iohn. Who, the most exquisite Claudio?\n  Bor. Euen he\n\n   Iohn. A proper squier, and who, and who, which way\nlookes he?\n  Bor. Mary on Hero, the daughter and Heire of Leonato\n\n   Iohn. A very forward March-chicke, how came you\nto this:\n  Bor. Being entertain'd for a perfumer, as I was smoaking\na musty roome, comes me the Prince and Claudio,\nhand in hand in sad conference: I whipt behind the Arras,\nand there heard it agreed vpon, that the Prince should\nwooe Hero for himselfe, and hauing obtain'd her, giue\nher to Count Claudio\n\n   Iohn. Come, come, let vs thither, this may proue food\nto my displeasure, that young start-vp hath all the glorie\nof my ouerthrow: if I can crosse him any way, I blesse\nmy selfe euery way, you are both sure, and will assist\nmee?\n  Conr. To the death my Lord\n\n   Iohn. Let vs to the great supper, their cheere is the\ngreater that I am subdued, would the Cooke were of my\nminde: shall we goe proue whats to be done?\n  Bor. Wee'll wait vpon your Lordship.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At the Archbishop of York's palace, the rebels discuss their hopes and plans. They have an army of 25,000 men, and are waiting to be strengthened by the addition of Northumberland's forces. Bardolph advises them to wait until those forces arrive before venturing into a battle. Not waiting for reinforcements was the mistake Hotspur had made at Shrewsbury. Bardolph advises a careful, sober calculation of the situation. He does not want to take unnecessary risks by imagining that their forces are stronger than they really are. Hastings replies that he thinks they are strong enough as they are, even if no extra forces come, to equal the King. He argues that the King's forces are divided. One army is engaged against the French, another against the Welsh rebel, Glendower. The Archbishop supports Hastings and advises the rebels to move forward. He and Hastings carry the day, and the rebels begin their preparations. ."}, {"": "235", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE 2.\nTroy. The court of PANDARUS' house\n\nEnter TROILUS and CRESSIDA\n\n  TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold.\n  CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle down;\n    He shall unbolt the gates.\n  TROILUS. Trouble him not;\n    To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those pretty eyes,\n    And give as soft attachment to thy senses\n    As infants' empty of all thought!\n  CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then.\n  TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed.\n  CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me?\n  TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day,\n    Wak'd by the lark, hath rous'd the ribald crows,\n    And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,\n    I would not from thee.\n  CRESSIDA. Night hath been too brief.\n  TROILUS. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays\n    As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love\n    With wings more momentary-swift than thought.\n    You will catch cold, and curse me.\n  CRESSIDA. Prithee tarry.\n    You men will never tarry.\n    O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off,\n    And then you would have tarried. Hark! there's one up.\n  PANDARUS. [Within] What's all the doors open here?\n  TROILUS. It is your uncle.\n\n                     Enter PANDARUS\n\n  CRESSIDA. A pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking.\n    I shall have such a life!\n  PANDARUS. How now, how now! How go maidenheads?\n    Here, you maid! Where's my cousin Cressid?\n  CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle.\n    You bring me to do, and then you flout me too.\n  PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her say what.\n    What have I brought you to do?\n  CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your heart! You'll ne'er be good,\n    Nor suffer others.\n  PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capocchia! hast not\n    slept to-night? Would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A\n    bugbear take him!\n  CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock'd i' th' head!\n                                           [One knocks]\n    Who's that at door? Good uncle, go and see.\n    My lord, come you again into my chamber.\n    You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.\n  TROILUS. Ha! ha!\n  CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv'd, I think of no such thing.\n   [Knock]\n    How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in:\n    I would not for half Troy have you seen here.\n                                          Exeunt TROILUS and\nCRESSIDA\n  PANDARUS. Who's there? What's the matter? Will you beat down the\n    door? How now? What's the matter?\n\n                          Enter AENEAS\n  AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow.\n  PANDARUS. Who's there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth,\n    I knew you not. What news with you so early?\n  AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here?\n  PANDARUS. Here! What should he do here?\n  AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him.\n    It doth import him much to speak with me.\n  PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It's more than I know, I'll be\n    sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?\n  AENEAS. Who!-nay, then. Come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you are\n    ware; you'll be so true to him to be false to him. Do not you\n    know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go.\n\n                       Re-enter TROILUS\n\n  TROILUS. How now! What's the matter?\n  AENEAS. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,\n    My matter is so rash. There is at hand\n    Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,\n    The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor\n    Deliver'd to us; and for him forthwith,\n    Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,\n    We must give up to Diomedes' hand\n    The Lady Cressida.\n  TROILUS. Is it so concluded?\n  AENEAS. By Priam, and the general state of Troy.\n    They are at hand and ready to effect it.\n  TROILUS. How my achievements mock me!\n    I will go meet them; and, my lord Aeneas,\n    We met by chance; you did not find me here.\n  AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar\n    Have not more gift in taciturnity.\n                             Exeunt TROILUS and AENEAS\n  PANDARUS. Is't possible? No sooner got but lost? The devil take\n    Antenor! The young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I\n    would they had broke's neck.\n\n                     Re-enter CRESSIDA\n\n  CRESSIDA. How now! What's the matter? Who was here?\n  PANDARUS. Ah, ah!\n  CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where's my lord? Gone? Tell\n    me, sweet uncle, what's the matter?\n  PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above!\n  CRESSIDA. O the gods! What's the matter?\n  PANDARUS. Pray thee, get thee in. Would thou hadst ne'er been born!\n    I knew thou wouldst be his death! O, poor gentleman! A plague\n    upon Antenor!\n  CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you,\n    what's the matter?\n  PANDARUS. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art\n    chang'd for Antenor; thou must to thy father, and be gone from\n    Troilus. 'Twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he cannot bear\n    it.\n  CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go.\n  PANDARUS. Thou must.\n  CRESSIDA. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father;\n    I know no touch of consanguinity,\n    No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me\n    As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine,\n    Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,\n    If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,\n    Do to this body what extremes you can,\n    But the strong base and building of my love\n    Is as the very centre of the earth,\n    Drawing all things to it. I'll go in and weep-\n  PANDARUS. Do, do.\n  CRESSIDA. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks,\n    Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart,\n    With sounding 'Troilus.' I will not go from Troy.\n    Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Calchas' house, Troilus and Cressida stand at the gate and say goodbye after having spent the night together. They're having a kind of \"You hang up.\" \"No, you hang up\" kind of conversation. Then Pandarus butts in and destroys all the romance of the moment by asking where all the \"maidenheads\" have gone. Cressida bickers with her annoying uncle and Troilus tries to step in and make peace. Pandarus is all \"Gee. Why so grouchy? Didn't you get any sleep last night?\" Knock knock! Troilus and Cressida run off while Pandarus opens the door and greets Aeneas, who wants to talk to Troilus. Pandarus pretends Troilus isn't there, but he totally is. Eventually, Troilus emerges to learn that Cressida has been traded to the Greeks for Antenor. This is not good. Troilus runs off to meet with Priam, telling Aeneas keep his lips zipped about seeing him at Cressida's house. Cressida, meanwhile, refuses to go to the Greek camp and says that if she ever betrays Troilus, she hopes her name will be synonymous with \"falsehood.\" She threatens to throw a tantrum, complete with hair pulling, face scratching, shrieking, and crying, and then she stomps off to her room.We'd totally make fun of her for acting like a teenager, expect that we're really on her side with this one."}, {"": "236", "document": "CHAPTER XI\n\n\n\n  Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!\n Ah fields belov'd in vain!\n Where once my careless childhood stray'd,\n A stranger yet to pain!\n I feel the gales, that from ye blow,\n A momentary bliss bestow,\n As waving fresh their gladsome wing,\n My weary soul they seem to sooth.\n     GRAY\n\nOn the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, and\nreached La Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy she experienced on\nthe review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, and\nthe scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock\nhad subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far\nblunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene,\nthat awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had\nbeen accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and\nshe felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home. One of the first\napartments she visited, was that, which had been her father's\nlibrary, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she\ncontemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times,\nwhich her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called those\nof grief.\n\nSoon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable\nM. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late\nrespected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by\nthe presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in\nconversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances,\nthat had occurred to each, since they parted.\n\nThe evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she\ncould not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning,\nshe traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she\nwalked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where\nshe had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his\ncountenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned\nwith exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender\nrecollections.\n\nThis, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had often\ntogether admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and the\nmagical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the view\nof these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensively\non, she fancied the following address\n\n TO AUTUMN\n\n Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace\n Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!\n Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace\n Each lonely image of the pensive mind!\n Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends--long lost! around me rise,\n And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!\n That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize--\n Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!\n Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view,\n Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods;\n Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue\n While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods,\n Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails\n Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.\n But now, e'en now!--the partial vision fails,\n And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!\n Emblem of life!--Thus checquer'd is its plan,\n Thus joy succeeds to grief--thus smiles the varied man!\n\nOne of Emily's earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallee, was\nconcerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it may be remembered\nthat M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without\nany provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great\ndistance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to see,\nthat her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope, sheltered\nby a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme\nneatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, on\nperceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy.\n\n'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought I should never see\nyou again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandish\ncountry. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they\nwould have turned me out of my old master's family in my old age!'\n\nEmily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would\nmake her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing\nher in so pleasant an habitation.\n\nTheresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes, mademoiselle, it is a\nvery comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of\nmy distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here! I\nlittle thought!--but no more of that--'\n\n'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily: 'whoever it was, I shall\nconsider him as mine also.'\n\n'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me to blazon the good deed--I must\nnot say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last! You\nlook so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old master's\nsmile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness, that\nused to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when\nhe died!'\n\nEmily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa\nobserving, changed the subject. 'I heard, mademoiselle,' said she,\n'that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took you\nabroad; how does she do?'\n\nEmily now mentioned her death. 'Alas!' said Theresa, 'if she had not\nbeen my master's sister, I should never have loved her; she was always\nso cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he\nwas an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?'\n\nEmily was much agitated.\n\n'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa. 'Ah, my dear young lady, you\nneed not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know,\nthat he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he used to\ncome to the chateau and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go into\nevery room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he would\nsit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes on\nthe floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the hour\ntogether. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because I\ntold him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at the\npictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung\nup by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he\nmust go back to his brother's chateau. And then--'\n\n'It is enough, Theresa,' said Emily.--'How long have you lived in this\ncottage--and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return and\nlive with me?'\n\n'Nay, mademoiselle,' said Theresa, 'do not be so shy to your poor\nold servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young\ngentleman.'\n\nA deep sigh escaped from Emily.\n\n'Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for that\nmatter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But I\nsoon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he would go\ninto the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great tree\nthere, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand; but he\ndid not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and I\nheard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobody\ninto the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to see who it\ncould be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himself\nabout you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and said he had\nlost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought he\nwas out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole away.'\n\n'No more of this trifling,' said Emily, awakening from her reverie: 'it\ndispleases me.'\n\n'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke the\nChevalier's heart.'\n\n'Theresa,' said Emily seriously, 'you must name the Chevalier no more!'\n\n'Not name him, mademoiselle!' cried Theresa: 'what times are come\nup now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,\nmademoiselle.'\n\n'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,' replied Emily, trying\nto conceal her tears; 'but, however that might be, we shall meet no\nmore.'\n\n'Meet no more!--not well bestowed!' exclaimed Theresa. 'What do I hear?\nNo, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier\nValancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old\nage, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's house.'\n\n'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily, trembling extremely.\n\n'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;\nbut how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear young\nlady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a more\ntender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in my\ndistress, when you was too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused\nto do so, and bade me go to service again--Alas! I was too old for\nthat!--The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave me\nmoney to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live\nwith me; and he ordered his brother's steward to pay me, every quarter,\nthat which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,\nwhether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are\nothers, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he\nhas hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long\nsince, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are\nnot sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'\n\n'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'But how long is it since you\nhave seen him?'\n\n'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'\n\n'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with increased emotion.\n\n'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was\nbut just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.\nQuarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and\nI begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far\nfrom Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this\ntime; and I have nobody to send so far.'\n\nEmily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely\nendurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the\nchateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately\nhire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked\nfor the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt.\nBut she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this\naffair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her\nformer faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her\nassurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this\nerrand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her\nwith present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her\nhome, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, possessed of so much\nbenevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vices\nof the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindness\nto her old servant expressed for herself.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Em heads on back to La Vallee to take her mind off of the possibility that Valancourt is dead. She has a nice time hanging out with Monsieur Barreaux, her father's old friend and neighbor. Since Em has a good heart, she also wants to figure out what happened to Theresa, her old servant dismissed by Quesnel. She finds Theresa in a comfortable home close by, looking none the worse for the wear. Who'da thunk it. Valancourt's been taking care of Theresa this whole time. Maybe the guy's not a degenerate gambler after all. But Theresa says she hasn't heard from Valancourt in a couple of days. Uh-oh."}, {"": "237", "document": "SCENE VI\n\n  ORGON, ELMIRE\n\n\n  ORGON (crawling out from under the table)\n  That is, I own, a man ... abominable!\n  I can't get over it; the whole thing floors me.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  What? You come out so soon? You cannot mean it!\n  Get back under the table; 'tis not time yet;\n  Wait till the end, to see, and make quite certain,\n  And don't believe a thing on mere conjecture.\n\n  ORGON\n  Nothing more wicked e'er came out of Hell.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Dear me! Don't go and credit things too lightly.\n  No, let yourself be thoroughly convinced;\n  Don't yield too soon, for fear you'll be mistaken.\n\n  (As Tartuffe enters, she makes her husband stand behind her.)\n\n\n\n\nSCENE VII\n\n  TARTUFFE, ELMIRE, ORGON\n\n\n  TARTUFFE (not seeing Orgon)\n  All things conspire toward my satisfaction,\n  Madam, I've searched the whole apartment through.\n  There's no one here; and now my ravished soul ...\n\n  ORGON (stopping him)\n  Softly! You are too eager in your amours;\n  You needn't be so passionate. Ah ha!\n  My holy man! You want to put it on me!\n  How is your soul abandoned to temptation!\n  Marry my daughter, eh?--and want my wife, too?\n  I doubted long enough if this was earnest,\n  Expecting all the time the tone would change;\n  But now the proof's been carried far enough;\n  I'm satisfied, and ask no more, for my part.\n\n  ELMIRE (to Tartuffe)\n  'Twas quite against my character to play\n  This part; but I was forced to treat you so.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  What? You believe ... ?\n\n  ORGON\n  Come, now, no protestations.\n  Get out from here, and make no fuss about it.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  But my intent ...\n\n  ORGON\n  That talk is out of season.\n  You leave my house this instant.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  You're the one\n  To leave it, you who play the master here!\n  This house belongs to me, I'll have you know,\n  And show you plainly it's no use to turn\n  To these low tricks, to pick a quarrel with me,\n  And that you can't insult me at your pleasure,\n  For I have wherewith to confound your lies,\n  Avenge offended Heaven, and compel\n  Those to repent who talk to me of leaving.\n\n\n\n\nSCENE VIII\n\n  ELMIRE, ORGON\n\n\n  ELMIRE\n  What sort of speech is this? What can it mean?\n\n  ORGON\n  My faith, I'm dazed. This is no laughing matter.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  What?\n\n  ORGON\n  From his words I see my great mistake;\n  The deed of gift is one thing troubles me.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  The deed of gift ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Yes, that is past recall.\n  But I've another thing to make me anxious.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  What's that?\n\n  ORGON\n  You shall know all. Let's see at once\n  Whether a certain box is still upstairs.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mariane's fiance, Valere, arrives and explains that he has heard in confidence that Orgon is in dire trouble concerning some secret documents which Tartuffe turned over to the king. Tartuffe, he says, has denounced Orgon as a traitor to the king and, since there is a warrant out for Orgon's arrest, Valere has brought money and a carriage and will help Orgon take refuge in the country. As they are about to leave, officers, accompanied by Tartuffe, arrive. Tartuffe announces that Orgon is now under arrest and the only journey he is going to take is to prison. When Orgon reminds Tartuffe of his indebtedness, Tartuffe merely replies that his first duty is to serve the king and to do that he would sacrifice anything. Cleante tries to use logic against Tartuffe, but Tartuffe only tells the officers to carry out their duty. The officers, however, perform their duty by arresting Tartuffe and then explain to the rest of the company that the king, who sees into the hearts of all his subjects, knew that Tartuffe was a hypocrite and a liar. The wise and judicious king could never be deluded by such an imposter. Furthermore, the king has invalidated the deed and has pardoned Orgon for keeping the documents of an exile. The wise king thinks much more of a man's virtues than he does of a man's mistakes; Orgon's past loyalty to the king is rewarded, and his mistakes are now forgiven. As Orgon is about to say something to Tartuffe, Cleante advises him to forget the poor wretch and turn his attention to better things. Orgon then gives his daughter Mariane to Valere to be his wife."}, {"": "238", "document": "\nA Vanishing Gleam\n\n\nMr. Tulliver, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which had\nrecurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from his\nhorse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits and\nentrances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. He\nhad lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning, that Maggie\ntold her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any notice\nof them.\n\nThey entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near the head\nof the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed, and put her\nhand on her father's without causing any change in his face.\n\nMr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busy\nselecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch which Tom had\nbrought from his father's bureau. They succeeded in opening the\nchest,--which stood opposite the foot of Mr. Tulliver's bed,--and\npropping the lid with the iron holder, without much noise.\n\n\"There's a tin box,\" whispered Mr. Glegg; \"he'd most like put a small\nthing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but I'll just lift up\nthese deeds,--they're the deeds o' the house and mill, I suppose,--and\nsee what there is under 'em.\"\n\nMr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately drawn\nback a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the heavy lid fell\nwith a loud bang that resounded over the house.\n\nPerhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of\nthe strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effect on the\nframe of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off the\nobstruction of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and his\nfather's father, and it had always been rather a solemn business to\nvisit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window fastening or a\nparticular door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognized\nvoice to us,--a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been\nused to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the eyes\nin the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the\nchest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg's hand, and Tom holding the tin\nbox, with a glance of perfect consciousness and recognition.\n\n\"What are you going to do with those deeds?\" he said, in his ordinary\ntone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. \"Come here, Tom.\nWhat do you do, going to my chest?\"\n\nTom obeyed, with some trembling; it was the first time his father had\nrecognized him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father\ncontinued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr.\nGlegg and the deeds.\n\n\"What's been happening, then?\" he said sharply. \"What are you meddling\nwith my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything? Why don't you\ntell me what you've been a-doing?\" he added impatiently, as Mr. Glegg\nadvanced to the foot of the bed before speaking.\n\n\"No, no, friend Tulliver,\" said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing tone.\n\"Nobody's getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and\nsee what was in the chest. You've been ill, you know, and we've had to\nlook after things a bit. But let's hope you'll soon be well enough to\nattend to everything yourself.\"\n\nMr. Tulliver looked around him meditatively, at Tom, at Mr. Glegg, and\nat Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that some one was seated by\nhis side at the head of the bed he turned sharply round and saw his\nsister.\n\n\"Eh, Gritty!\" he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in which he\nhad been wont to speak to her. \"What! you're there, are you? How could\nyou manage to leave the children?\"\n\n\"Oh, brother!\" said good Mrs. Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, \"I'm\nthankful I'm come now to see you yourself again; I thought you'd never\nknow us any more.\"\n\n\"What! have I had a stroke?\" said Mr. Tulliver, anxiously, looking at\nMr. Glegg.\n\n\"A fall from your horse--shook you a bit,--that's all, I think,\" said\nMr. Glegg. \"But you'll soon get over it, let's hope.\"\n\nMr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-clothes, and remained silent\nfor two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his face. He looked\nup at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, \"You got the letter,\nthen, my wench?\"\n\n\"Yes, father,\" she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if\nher father were come back to her from the dead, and her yearning to\nshow him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled.\n\n\"Where's your mother?\" he said, so preoccupied that he received the\nkiss as passively as some quiet animal might have received it.\n\n\"She's downstairs with my aunts, father. Shall I fetch her?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay; poor Bessy!\" and his eyes turned toward Tom as Maggie left\nthe room.\n\n\"You'll have to take care of 'em both if I die, you know, Tom. You'll\nbe badly off, I doubt. But you must see and pay everybody. And\nmind,--there's fifty pound o' Luke's as I put into the business,--he\ngave me a bit at a time, and he's got nothing to show for it. You must\npay him first thing.\"\n\nUncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more concerned\nthan ever, but Tom said firmly:\n\n\"Yes, father. And haven't you a note from my uncle Moss for three\nhundred pounds? We came to look for that. What do you wish to be done\nabout it, father?\"\n\n\"Ah! I'm glad you thought o' that, my lad,\" said Mr. Tulliver. \"I\nallays meant to be easy about that money, because o' your aunt. You\nmustn't mind losing the money, if they can't pay it,--and it's like\nenough they can't. The note's in that box, mind! I allays meant to be\ngood to you, Gritty,\" said Mr. Tulliver, turning to his sister; \"but\nyou know you aggravated me when you would have Moss.\"\n\nAt this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who came in much\nagitated by the news that her husband was quite himself again.\n\n\"Well, Bessy,\" he said, as she kissed him, \"you must forgive me if\nyou're worse off than you ever expected to be. But it's the fault o'\nthe law,--it's none o' mine,\" he added angrily. \"It's the fault o'\nraskills. Tom, you mind this: if ever you've got the chance, you make\nWakem smart. If you don't, you're a good-for-nothing son. You might\nhorse-whip him, but he'd set the law on you,--the law's made to take\ncare o' raskills.\"\n\nMr. Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was on his\nface. Mr. Glegg wanted to say something soothing, but he was prevented\nby Mr. Tulliver's speaking again to his wife. \"They'll make a shift to\npay everything, Bessy,\" he said, \"and yet leave you your furniture;\nand your sisters'll do something for you--and Tom'll grow up--though\nwhat he's to be I don't know--I've done what I could--I've given him a\neddication--and there's the little wench, she'll get married--but it's\na poor tale----\"\n\nThe sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and with\nthe last words the poor man fell again, rigid and insensible. Though\nthis was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck all\npresent as if it had been death, not only from its contrast with the\ncompleteness of the revival, but because his words had all had\nreference to the possibility that his death was near. But with poor\nTulliver death was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent under\nthickening shadows.\n\nMr. Turnbull was sent for; but when he heard what had passed, he said\nthis complete restoration, though only temporary, was a hopeful sign,\nproving that there was no permanent lesion to prevent ultimate\nrecovery.\n\nAmong the threads of the past which the stricken man had gathered up,\nhe had omitted the bill of sale; the flash of memory had only lit up\nprominent ideas, and he sank into forgetfulness again with half his\nhumiliation unlearned.\n\nBut Tom was clear upon two points,--that his uncle Moss's note must be\ndestroyed; and that Luke's money must be paid, if in no other way, out\nof his own and Maggie's money now in the savings bank. There were\nsubjects, you perceive, on which Tom was much quicker than on the\nniceties of classical construction, or the relations of a mathematical\ndemonstration.\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Glegg, Tom, and Maggie head upstairs to destroy the note saying that Mr. Moss owes Mr. Tulliver money. The note is in a chest in Mr. Tulliver's room. Mr. Glegg accidentally drops the chest, which wakes up Mr. Tulliver. Mr. Tulliver is aware of what's going on for the first time in days and begins questioning everyone. Mrs. Moss comes upstairs to check on her brother. Mr. Tulliver tells them to get his wife. Mr. Tulliver doesn't seem to realize the severity of his financial situation. He tells Tom to destroy the note and he also tells Tom to pay back the money owed to Luke, their mill employee. Mrs. Tulliver arrives and Mr. Tulliver apologizes to her and worries about his children's future. He starts drifting off again. The narrator hints that Mr. Tulliver's death will be a slow, long decline. Tom is determined to do what his father wishes."}, {"": "239", "document": "ACT I  SCENE I\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE and FLIPOTTE, her servant; ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE,\n  DAMIS, DORINE\n\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Come, come, Flipotte, and let me get away.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  You hurry so, I hardly can attend you.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Then don't, my daughter-in law. Stay where you are.\n  I can dispense with your polite attentions.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  We're only paying what is due you, mother.\n  Why must you go away in such a hurry?\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Because I can't endure your carryings-on,\n  And no one takes the slightest pains to please me.\n  I leave your house, I tell you, quite disgusted;\n  You do the opposite of my instructions;\n  You've no respect for anything; each one\n  Must have his say; it's perfect pandemonium.\n\n  DORINE\n  If ...\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  You're a servant wench, my girl, and much\n  Too full of gab, and too impertinent\n  And free with your advice on all occasions.\n\n  DAMIS\n  But ...\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  You're a fool, my boy--f, o, o, l\n  Just spells your name. Let grandma tell you that\n  I've said a hundred times to my poor son,\n  Your father, that you'd never come to good\n  Or give him anything but plague and torment.\n\n  MARIANE\n  I think ...\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  O dearie me, his little sister!\n  You're all demureness, butter wouldn't melt\n  In your mouth, one would think to look at you.\n  Still waters, though, they say ... you know the proverb;\n  And I don't like your doings on the sly.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  But, mother ...\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Daughter, by your leave, your conduct\n  In everything is altogether wrong;\n  You ought to set a good example for 'em;\n  Their dear departed mother did much better.\n  You are extravagant; and it offends me,\n  To see you always decked out like a princess.\n  A woman who would please her husband's eyes\n  Alone, wants no such wealth of fineries.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  But, madam, after all ...\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Sir, as for you,\n  The lady's brother, I esteem you highly,\n  Love and respect you. But, sir, all the same,\n  If I were in my son's, her husband's, place,\n  I'd urgently entreat you not to come\n  Within our doors. You preach a way of living\n  That decent people cannot tolerate.\n  I'm rather frank with you; but that's my way--\n  I don't mince matters, when I mean a thing.\n\n  DAMIS\n  Mr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky ...\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  He is a holy man, and must be heeded;\n  I can't endure, with any show of patience,\n  To hear a scatterbrains like you attack him.\n\n  DAMIS\n  What! Shall I let a bigot criticaster\n  Come and usurp a tyrant's power here?\n  And shall we never dare amuse ourselves\n  Till this fine gentleman deigns to consent?\n\n  DORINE\n  If we must hark to him, and heed his maxims,\n  There's not a thing we do but what's a crime;\n  He censures everything, this zealous carper.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  And all he censures is well censured, too.\n  He wants to guide you on the way to heaven;\n  My son should train you all to love him well.\n\n  DAMIS\n  No, madam, look you, nothing--not my father\n  Nor anything--can make me tolerate him.\n  I should belie my feelings not to say so.\n  His actions rouse my wrath at every turn;\n  And I foresee that there must come of it\n  An open rupture with this sneaking scoundrel.\n\n  DORINE\n  Besides, 'tis downright scandalous to see\n  This unknown upstart master of the house--\n  This vagabond, who hadn't, when he came,\n  Shoes to his feet, or clothing worth six farthings,\n  And who so far forgets his place, as now\n  To censure everything, and rule the roost!\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Eh! Mercy sakes alive! Things would go better\n  If all were governed by his pious orders.\n\n  DORINE\n  He passes for a saint in your opinion.\n  In fact, he's nothing but a hypocrite.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  Just listen to her tongue!\n\n  DORINE\n  I wouldn't trust him,\n  Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  I don't know what the servant's character\n  May be; but I can guarantee the master\n  A holy man. You hate him and reject him\n  Because he tells home truths to all of you.\n  'Tis sin alone that moves his heart to anger,\n  And heaven's interest is his only motive.\n\n  DORINE\n  Of course. But why, especially of late,\n  Can he let nobody come near the house?\n  Is heaven offended at a civil call\n  That he should make so great a fuss about it?\n  I'll tell you, if you like, just what I think;\n  (Pointing to Elmire)\n  Upon my word, he's jealous of our mistress.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  You hold your tongue, and think what you are saying.\n  He's not alone in censuring these visits;\n  The turmoil that attends your sort of people,\n  Their carriages forever at the door,\n  And all their noisy footmen, flocked together,\n  Annoy the neighbourhood, and raise a scandal.\n  I'd gladly think there's nothing really wrong;\n  But it makes talk; and that's not as it should be.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Eh! madam, can you hope to keep folk's tongues\n  From wagging? It would be a grievous thing\n  If, for the fear of idle talk about us,\n  We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no;\n  Even if we could bring ourselves to do it,\n  Think you that everyone would then be silenced?\n  Against backbiting there is no defence\n  So let us try to live in innocence,\n  To silly tattle pay no heed at all,\n  And leave the gossips free to vent their gall.\n\n  DORINE\n  Our neighbour Daphne, and her little husband,\n  Must be the ones who slander us, I'm thinking.\n  Those whose own conduct's most ridiculous,\n  Are always quickest to speak ill of others;\n  They never fail to seize at once upon\n  The slightest hint of any love affair,\n  And spread the news of it with glee, and give it\n  The character they'd have the world believe in.\n  By others' actions, painted in their colours,\n  They hope to justify their own; they think,\n  In the false hope of some resemblance, either\n  To make their own intrigues seem innocent,\n  Or else to make their neighbours share the blame\n  Which they are loaded with by everybody.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  These arguments are nothing to the purpose.\n  Orante, we all know, lives a perfect life;\n  Her thoughts are all of heaven; and I have heard\n  That she condemns the company you keep.\n\n  DORINE\n  O admirable pattern! Virtuous dame!\n  She lives the model of austerity;\n  But age has brought this piety upon her,\n  And she's a prude, now she can't help herself.\n  As long as she could capture men's attentions\n  She made the most of her advantages;\n  But, now she sees her beauty vanishing,\n  She wants to leave the world, that's leaving her,\n  And in the specious veil of haughty virtue\n  She'd hide the weakness of her worn-out charms.\n  That is the way with all your old coquettes;\n  They find it hard to see their lovers leave 'em;\n  And thus abandoned, their forlorn estate\n  Can find no occupation but a prude's.\n  These pious dames, in their austerity,\n  Must carp at everything, and pardon nothing.\n  They loudly blame their neighbours' way of living,\n  Not for religion's sake, but out of envy,\n  Because they can't endure to see another\n  Enjoy the pleasures age has weaned them from.\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE (to Elmire)\n  There! That's the kind of rigmarole to please you,\n  Daughter-in-law. One never has a chance\n  To get a word in edgewise, at your house,\n  Because this lady holds the floor all day;\n  But none the less, I mean to have my say, too.\n  I tell you that my son did nothing wiser\n  In all his life, than take this godly man\n  Into his household; heaven sent him here,\n  In your great need, to make you all repent;\n  For your salvation, you must hearken to him;\n  He censures nothing but deserves his censure.\n  These visits, these assemblies, and these balls,\n  Are all inventions of the evil spirit.\n  You never hear a word of godliness\n  At them--but idle cackle, nonsense, flimflam.\n  Our neighbour often comes in for a share,\n  The talk flies fast, and scandal fills the air;\n  It makes a sober person's head go round,\n  At these assemblies, just to hear the sound\n  Of so much gab, with not a word to say;\n  And as a learned man remarked one day\n  Most aptly, 'tis the Tower of Babylon,\n  Where all, beyond all limit, babble on.\n  And just to tell you how this point came in ...\n\n  (To Cleante)\n  So! Now the gentlemen must snicker, must he?\n  Go find fools like yourself to make you laugh\n  And don't ...\n\n  (To Elmire)\n  Daughter, good-bye; not one word more.\n  As for this house, I leave the half unsaid;\n  But I shan't soon set foot in it again,\n\n  (Cuffing Flipotte)\n  Come, you! What makes you dream and stand agape,\n  Hussy! I'll warm your ears in proper shape!\n  March, trollop, march!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "We find ourselves in Paris, inside the house of Orgon. Madame Pernelle, Orgon's dear mama, is headed out the door, and fast. She's sick of what's going on in her son's house. Everyone - meaning Elmire, Orgon's second wife, Damis, his son, Mariane, his daughter, and Cleante, his brother-in-law - try their best to get her to chill out. Nothing, however, can stop the old lady from complaining and hating on anything and everything. It seems that Madame Pernelle is angry because her man Tartuffe gets no respect. She thinks he's a stand-up guy and totally righteous - generally, but most especially in the religious sense. But Elmire and company think he's just self-righteous, a total fake, a thief and, as the full title of the play suggests, a hypocrite. Each member of the family has their own strategy for convincing Madame Pernelle: Damis just sort of gets angry, Elmire pleads, Cleante appeals to her reason, and Dorine, well...Dorine is, as you'd expect from a French maid, pretty saucy. None of this works, of course. Madame Pernelle tells them they should all be grateful to have Tartuffe bossing them around and telling them how to live. As far as she's concerned, he's pretty much the ultimate life coach. When Cleante snickers at her speech, Madame Pernelle tells him to shut up, slaps Flipote, her maid, in the face, and makes her exit, followed by most of the household."}, {"": "240", "document": "\nCandide, driven from terrestrial paradise, walked a long while without\nknowing where, weeping, raising his eyes to heaven, turning them often\ntowards the most magnificent of castles which imprisoned the purest of\nnoble young ladies. He lay down to sleep without supper, in the middle\nof a field between two furrows. The snow fell in large flakes. Next day\nCandide, all benumbed, dragged himself towards the neighbouring town\nwhich was called Waldberghofftrarbk-dikdorff, having no money, dying of\nhunger and fatigue, he stopped sorrowfully at the door of an inn. Two\nmen dressed in blue observed him.\n\n\"Comrade,\" said one, \"here is a well-built young fellow, and of proper\nheight.\"\n\nThey went up to Candide and very civilly invited him to dinner.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" replied Candide, with a most engaging modesty, \"you do me\ngreat honour, but I have not wherewithal to pay my share.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" said one of the blues to him, \"people of your appearance and\nof your merit never pay anything: are you not five feet five inches\nhigh?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, that is my height,\" answered he, making a low bow.\n\n\"Come, sir, seat yourself; not only will we pay your reckoning, but we\nwill never suffer such a man as you to want money; men are only born to\nassist one another.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" said Candide; \"this is what I was always taught by Mr.\nPangloss, and I see plainly that all is for the best.\"\n\nThey begged of him to accept a few crowns. He took them, and wished to\ngive them his note; they refused; they seated themselves at table.\n\n\"Love you not deeply?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" answered he; \"I deeply love Miss Cunegonde.\"\n\n\"No,\" said one of the gentlemen, \"we ask you if you do not deeply love\nthe King of the Bulgarians?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said he; \"for I have never seen him.\"\n\n\"What! he is the best of kings, and we must drink his health.\"\n\n\"Oh! very willingly, gentlemen,\" and he drank.\n\n\"That is enough,\" they tell him. \"Now you are the help, the support,\nthe defender, the hero of the Bulgarians. Your fortune is made, and your\nglory is assured.\"\n\nInstantly they fettered him, and carried him away to the regiment. There\nhe was made to wheel about to the right, and to the left, to draw his\nrammer, to return his rammer, to present, to fire, to march, and they\ngave him thirty blows with a cudgel. The next day he did his exercise a\nlittle less badly, and he received but twenty blows. The day following\nthey gave him only ten, and he was regarded by his comrades as a\nprodigy.\n\nCandide, all stupefied, could not yet very well realise how he was a\nhero. He resolved one fine day in spring to go for a walk, marching\nstraight before him, believing that it was a privilege of the human as\nwell as of the animal species to make use of their legs as they pleased.\nHe had advanced two leagues when he was overtaken by four others, heroes\nof six feet, who bound him and carried him to a dungeon. He was asked\nwhich he would like the best, to be whipped six-and-thirty times through\nall the regiment, or to receive at once twelve balls of lead in his\nbrain. He vainly said that human will is free, and that he chose neither\nthe one nor the other. He was forced to make a choice; he determined, in\nvirtue of that gift of God called liberty, to run the gauntlet\nsix-and-thirty times. He bore this twice. The regiment was composed of\ntwo thousand men; that composed for him four thousand strokes, which\nlaid bare all his muscles and nerves, from the nape of his neck quite\ndown to his rump. As they were going to proceed to a third whipping,\nCandide, able to bear no more, begged as a favour that they would be so\ngood as to shoot him. He obtained this favour; they bandaged his eyes,\nand bade him kneel down. The King of the Bulgarians passed at this\nmoment and ascertained the nature of the crime. As he had great talent,\nhe understood from all that he learnt of Candide that he was a young\nmetaphysician, extremely ignorant of the things of this world, and he\naccorded him his pardon with a clemency which will bring him praise in\nall the journals, and throughout all ages.\n\nAn able surgeon cured Candide in three weeks by means of emollients\ntaught by Dioscorides. He had already a little skin, and was able to\nmarch when the King of the Bulgarians gave battle to the King of the\nAbares.\n\n\n", "summary": "Candide wanders to the next town, where two men find him half-dead with hunger and fatigue. They give him money, feed him, and ask him to drink to the health of the king of the Bulgars. They then conscript him to serve in the Bulgar army, where Candide suffers abuse and hardship as he is indoctrinated into military life. When he decides to go for a walk one morning, four soldiers capture him and he is court-martialed as a deserter. He is given a choice between execution and running the gauntlet thirty-six times. Candide tries to choose neither option by arguing that \"the human will is free,\" but his argument is unsuccessful. He finally chooses to run the gauntlet. After running the gauntlet twice, Candide's skin is nearly flayed from his body. The king of the Bulgars happens to pass by. Discovering that Candide is a metaphysician and \"ignorant of the world,\" the king pardons him. Candide's wounds heal in time for him to serve in a war between the Bulgars and the Abares"}, {"": "241", "document": "\n\nI never could tell how we reached the wharf. My brain was all of a whirl,\nand my limbs tottered under me. At an appointed place we met my uncle\nPhillip, who had started before us on a different route, that he might\nreach the wharf first, and give us timely warning if there was any danger.\nA row-boat was in readiness. As I was about to step in, I felt something\npull me gently, and turning round I saw Benny, looking pale and anxious. He\nwhispered in my ear, \"I've been peeping into the doctor's window, and he's\nat home. Good by, mother. Don't cry; I'll come.\" He hastened away. I\nclasped the hand of my good uncle, to whom I owed so much, and of Peter,\nthe brave, generous friend who had volunteered to run such terrible risks\nto secure my safety. To this day I remember how his bright face beamed with\njoy, when he told me he had discovered a safe method for me to escape. Yet\nthat intelligent, enterprising, noble-hearted man was a chattel! Liable, by\nthe laws of a country that calls itself civilized, to be sold with horses\nand pigs! We parted in silence. Our hearts were all too full for words!\n\nSwiftly the boat glided over the water. After a while, one of the sailors\nsaid, \"Don't be down-hearted, madam. We will take you safely to your\nhusband, in ----.\" At first I could not imagine what he meant; but I had\npresence of mind to think that it probably referred to something the\ncaptain had told him; so I thanked him, and said I hoped we should have\npleasant weather.\n\nWhen I entered the vessel the captain came forward to meet me. He was an\nelderly man, with a pleasant countenance. He showed me to a little box of a\ncabin, where sat my friend Fanny. She started as if she had seen a spectre.\nShe gazed on me in utter astonishment, and exclaimed, \"Linda, can this be\n_you_? or is it your ghost?\" When we were locked in each other's arms, my\noverwrought feelings could no longer be restrained. My sobs reached the\nears of the captain, who came and very kindly reminded us, that for his\nsafety, as well as our own, it would be prudent for us not to attract any\nattention. He said that when there was a sail in sight he wished us to keep\nbelow; but at other times, he had no objection to our being on deck. He\nassured us that he would keep a good lookout, and if we acted prudently, he\nthought we should be in no danger. He had represented us as women going to\nmeet our husbands in ----. We thanked him, and promised to observe\ncarefully all the directions he gave us.\n\nFanny and I now talked by ourselves, low and quietly, in our little cabin.\nShe told me of the suffering she had gone through in making her escape, and\nof her terrors while she was concealed in her mother's house. Above all,\nshe dwelt on the agony of separation from all her children on that dreadful\nauction day. She could scarcely credit me, when I told her of the place\nwhere I had passed nearly seven years. \"We have the same sorrows,\" said I.\n\"No,\" replied she, \"you are going to see your children soon, and there is\nno hope that I shall ever even hear from mine.\"\n\nThe vessel was soon under way, but we made slow progress. The wind was\nagainst us, I should not have cared for this, if we had been out of sight\nof the town; but until there were miles of water between us and our\nenemies, we were filled with constant apprehensions that the constables\nwould come on board. Neither could I feel quite at ease with the captain\nand his men. I was an entire stranger to that class of people, and I had\nheard that sailors were rough, and sometimes cruel. We were so completely\nin their power, that if they were bad men, our situation would be dreadful.\nNow that the captain was paid for our passage, might he not be tempted to\nmake more money by giving us up to those who claimed us as property? I was\nnaturally of a confiding disposition, but slavery had made me suspicious of\nevery body. Fanny did not share my distrust of the captain or his men. She\nsaid she was afraid at first, but she had been on board three days while\nthe vessel lay in the dock, and nobody had betrayed her, or treated her\notherwise than kindly.\n\nThe captain soon came to advise us to go on deck for fresh air. His\nfriendly and respectful manner, combined with Fanny's testimony, reassured\nme, and we went with him. He placed us in a comfortable seat, and\noccasionally entered into conversation. He told us he was a Southerner by\nbirth, and had spent the greater part of his life in the Slave States, and\nthat he had recently lost a brother who traded in slaves. \"But,\" said he,\n\"it is a pitiable and degrading business, and I always felt ashamed to\nacknowledge my brother in connection with it.\" As we passed Snaky Swamp, he\npointed to it, and said, \"There is a slave territory that defies all the\nlaws.\" I thought of the terrible days I had spent there, and though it was\nnot called Dismal Swamp, it made me feel very dismal as I looked at it.\n\nI shall never forget that night. The balmy air of spring was so refreshing!\nAnd how shall I describe my sensations when we were fairly sailing on\nChesapeake Bay? O, the beautiful sunshine! the exhilarating breeze! And I\ncould enjoy them without fear or restraint. I had never realized what grand\nthings air and sunlight are till I had been deprived of them.\n\nTen days after we left land we were approaching Philadelphia. The captain\nsaid we should arrive there in the night, but he thought we had better wait\ntill morning, and go on shore in broad daylight, as the best way to avoid\nsuspicion.\n\nI replied, \"You know best. But will you stay on board and protect us?\"\n\nHe saw that I was suspicious, and he said he was sorry, now that he had\nbrought us to the end of our voyage, to find I had so little confidence in\nhim. Ah, if he had ever been a slave he would have known how difficult it\nwas to trust a white man. He assured us that we might sleep through the\nnight without fear; that he would take care we were not left unprotected.\nBe it said to the honor of this captain, Southerner as he was, that if\nFanny and I had been white ladies, and our passage lawfully engaged, he\ncould not have treated us more respectfully. My intelligent friend, Peter,\nhad rightly estimated the character of the man to whose honor he had\nintrusted us. The next morning I was on deck as soon as the day dawned. I\ncalled Fanny to see the sun rise, for the first time in our lives, on free\nsoil; for such I _then_ believed it to be. We watched the reddening sky,\nand saw the great orb come up slowly out of the water, as it seemed. Soon\nthe waves began to sparkle, and every thing caught the beautiful glow.\nBefore us lay the city of strangers. We looked at each other, and the eyes\nof both were moistened with tears. We had escaped from slavery, and we\nsupposed ourselves to be safe from the hunters. But we were alone in the\nworld, and we had left dear ties behind us; ties cruelly sundered by the\ndemon Slavery.\n\n\n", "summary": "Linda makes it to the boat. The captain turns out to be a kind southerner who opposes slavery, but Linda--understandably--has a hard time trusting him. Ten days after boarding the boat, they approach Philadelphia. Together, Linda and Fanny watch the sunrise on free soil. Their eyes are moist with tears. We're feeling a little sniffly ourselves."}, {"": "242", "document": "The public, arriving by degrees.  Troopers, burghers, lackeys, pages, a\npickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the marquises.  Cuigy,\nBrissaille, the buffet-girl, the violinists, etc.\n\n(A confusion of loud voices is heard outside the door.  A trooper enters\nhastily.)\n\nTHE DOORKEEPER (following him):\n  Hollo!  You there!  Your money!\n\nTHE TROOPER:\n  I enter gratis.\n\nTHE DOORKEEPER:\n  Why?\n\nTHE TROOPER:\n  Why?  I am of the King's Household Cavalry, 'faith!\n\nTHE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper who enters):\n  And you?\n\nSECOND TROOPER:\n  I pay nothing.\n\nTHE DOORKEEPER:\n  How so?\n\nSECOND TROOPER:\n  I am a musketeer.\n\nFIRST TROOPER (to the second):\n  The play will not begin till two.  The pit is empty.  Come, a bout with the\nfoils to pass the time.\n\n(They fence with the foils they have brought.)\n\nA LACKEY (entering):\n  Pst. . .Flanquin. . .!\n\nANOTHER (already there):\n  Champagne?. . .\n\nTHE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet):\n  See, here be cards and dice.\n(He seats himself on the floor):\n  Let's play.\n\nTHE SECOND (doing the same):\n  Good; I am with you, villain!\n\nFIRST LACKEY (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sticks\non the floor):\n  I made free to provide myself with light at my master's expense!\n\nA GUARDSMAN (to a shop-girl who advances):\n  'Twas prettily done to come before the lights were lit!\n\n(He takes her round the waist.)\n\nONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust):\n  A hit!\n\nONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS:\n  Clubs!\n\nTHE GUARDSMAN (following the girl):\n  A kiss!\n\nTHE SHOP-GIRL (struggling to free herself):\n  They're looking!\n\nTHE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner):\n  No fear!  No one can see!\n\nA MAN (sitting on the ground with others, who have brought their provisions):\n  By coming early, one can eat in comfort.\n\nA BURGHER (conducting his son):\n  Let us sit here, son.\n\nA CARD-PLAYER:\n  Triple ace!\n\nA MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak,\nand also seating himself on the floor):\n  A tippler may well quaff his Burgundy\n(he drinks):\n  in the Burgundy Hotel!\n\nTHE BURGHER (to his son):\n  'Faith!  A man might think he had fallen in a bad house here!\n(He points with his cane to the drunkard):\n  What with topers!\n(One of the fencers in breaking off, jostles him):\n  brawlers!\n(He stumbles into the midst of the card-players):\n  gamblers!\n\nTHE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl):\n  Come, one kiss!\n\nTHE BURGHER (hurriedly pulling his son away):\n  By all the holies!  And this, my boy, is the theater where they played\nRotrou erewhile.\n\nTHE YOUNG MAN:\n  Ay, and Corneille!\n\nA TROOP OF PAGES (hand-in-hand, enter dancing the farandole, and singing):\n  Tra' a la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lere. . .\n\nTHE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages):\n  You pages there, none of your tricks!. . .\n\nFIRST PAGE (with an air of wounded dignity):\n  Oh, sir!--such a suspicion!. . .\n(Briskly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper's back is turned):\n  Have you string?\n\nTHE SECOND:\n  Ay, and a fish-hook with it.\n\nFIRST PAGE:\n  We can angle for wigs, then, up there i' th' gallery.\n\nA PICKPOCKET (gathering about him some evil-looking youths):\n  Hark ye, young cut-purses, lend an ear, while I give you your first lesson\nin thieving.\n\nSECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries):\n  You there!  Have you peashooters?\n\nTHIRD PAGE (from above):\n  Ay, have we, and peas withal!\n\n(He blows, and peppers them with peas.)\n\nTHE YOUNG MAN (to his father):\n  What piece do they give us?\n\nTHE BURGHER:\n  'Clorise.'\n\nTHE YOUNG MAN:\n  Who may the author be?\n\nTHE BURGHER:\n  Master Balthazar Baro.  It is a play!. . .\n\n(He goes arm-in-arm with his son.)\n\nTHE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils):\n  Have a care, above all, of the lace knee-ruffles--cut them off!\n\nA SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner in the gallery):\n  I was up there, the first night of the 'Cid.'\n\nTHE PICKPOCKET (making with his fingers the gesture of filching):\n  Thus for watches--\n\nTHE BURGHER (coming down again with his son):\n  Ah!  You shall presently see some renowned actors. . .\n\nTHE PICKPOCKET (making the gestures of one who pulls something stealthily,\nwith little jerks):\n  Thus for handkerchiefs--\n\nTHE BURGHER:\n  Montfleury. . .\n\nSOME ONE (shouting from the upper gallery):\n  Light up, below there!\n\nTHE BURGHER:\n  . . .Bellerose, L'Epy, La Beaupre, Jodelet!\n\nA PAGE (in the pit):\n  Here comes the buffet-girl!\n\nTHE BUFFET-GIRL (taking her place behind the buffet):\n  Oranges, milk, raspberry-water, cedar bitters!\n\n(A hubbub outside the door is heard.)\n\nA FALSETTO VOICE:\n  Make place, brutes!\n\nA LACKEY (astonished):\n  The Marquises!--in the pit?. . .\n\nANOTHER LACKEY:\n  Oh! only for a minute or two!\n\n(Enter a band of young marquises.)\n\nA MARQUIS (seeing that the hall is half empty):\n  What now!  So we make our entrance like a pack of woolen-drapers!\nPeaceably, without disturbing the folk, or treading on their toes!--Oh, fie!\nFie!\n(Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him):\n  Cuigy!  Brissaille!\n\n(Greetings and embraces.)\n\nCUIGY:\n  True to our word!. . .Troth, we are here before the candles are lit.\n\nTHE MARQUIS:\n  Ay, indeed!  Enough!  I am of an ill humor.\n\nANOTHER:\n  Nay, nay, Marquis! see, for your consolation, they are coming to light up!\n\nALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the entrance of the lighter):\n  Ah!. . .\n\n(They form in groups round the lusters as they are lit.  Some people have\ntaken their seats in the galleries.  Ligniere, a distinguished-looking roue,\nwith disordered shirt-front arm-in-arm with christian de Neuvillette.\nChristian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, seems\npreoccupied, and keeps looking at the boxes.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In the year 1640, the Hall of the Hotel de Bourgogne--a large, crowded Parisian theater--buzzes with activity in the minutes before a performance of the play La Clorise. People mill about and converse, divided according to their social class. A citizen guides his son through the room, impressing upon him the intellectual magnitude of the performance. A thief moves through the crowd, stealing handkerchiefs and purses. A group of pages runs about firing peashooters at one another. Two elegant marquises, with swords strapped to their waists, tread through the crowd, aloof and condescending. The lamps are lit, and the crowd cheers, knowing the performance will commence soon"}, {"": "243", "document": "CHAPTER XXIII. OF THE PUBLIQUE MINISTERS OF SOVERAIGN POWER\n\n\n\nIn the last Chapter I have spoken of the Similar parts of a\nCommon-wealth; In this I shall speak of the parts Organicall, which are\nPublique Ministers.\n\n\n\n\nPublique Minister Who\n\nA PUBLIQUE MINISTER, is he, that by the Soveraign, (whether a Monarch,\nor an Assembly,) is employed in any affaires, with Authority to\nrepresent in that employment, the Person of the Common-wealth. And\nwhereas every man, or assembly that hath Soveraignty, representeth\ntwo Persons, or (as the more common phrase is) has two Capacities, one\nNaturall, and another Politique, (as a Monarch, hath the person not\nonely of the Common-wealth, but also of a man; and a Soveraign Assembly\nhath the Person not onely of the Common-wealth, but also of the\nAssembly); they that be servants to them in their naturall Capacity,\nare not Publique Ministers; but those onely that serve them in the\nAdministration of the Publique businesse. And therefore neither Ushers,\nnor Sergeants, nor other Officers that waite on the Assembly, for\nno other purpose, but for the commodity of the men assembled, in an\nAristocracy, or Democracy; nor Stewards, Chamberlains, Cofferers, or any\nother Officers of the houshold of a Monarch, are Publique Ministers in a\nMonarchy.\n\n\n\n\nMinisters For The Generall Administration\n\nOf Publique Ministers, some have charge committed to them of a general\nAdministration, either of the whole Dominion, or of a part thereof.\nOf the whole, as to a Protector, or Regent, may bee committed by\nthe Predecessor of an Infant King, during his minority, the whole\nAdministration of his Kingdome. In which case, every Subject is so far\nobliged to obedience, as the Ordinances he shall make, and the commands\nhe shall give be in the Kings name, and not inconsistent with his\nSoveraigne Power. Of a Part, or Province; as when either a Monarch, or\na Soveraign Assembly, shall give the generall charge thereof to a\nGovernour, Lieutenant, Praefect, or Vice-Roy: And in this case also,\nevery one of that Province, is obliged to all he shall doe in the name\nof the Soveraign, and that not incompatible with the Soveraigns Right.\nFor such Protectors, Vice-Roys, and Governours, have no other right, but\nwhat depends on the Soveraigns Will; and no Commission that can be given\nthem, can be interpreted for a Declaration of the will to transferre the\nSoveraignty, without expresse and perspicuous words to that purpose. And\nthis kind of Publique Ministers resembleth the Nerves, and Tendons that\nmove the severall limbs of a body naturall.\n\n\n\n\nFor Speciall Administration, As For Oeconomy\n\nOthers have speciall Administration; that is to say, charges of some\nspeciall businesse, either at home, or abroad: As at home, First, for\nthe Oeconomy of a Common-wealth, They that have Authority concerning the\nTreasure, as Tributes, Impositions, Rents, Fines, or whatsoever publique\nrevenue, to collect, receive, issue, or take the Accounts thereof,\nare Publique Ministers: Ministers, because they serve the Person\nRepresentative, and can doe nothing against his Command, nor without his\nAuthority: Publique, because they serve him in his Politicall Capacity.\n\nSecondly, they that have Authority concerning the Militia; to have the\ncustody of Armes, Forts, Ports; to Levy, Pay, or Conduct Souldiers; or\nto provide for any necessary thing for the use of war, either by Land or\nSea, are publique Ministers. But a Souldier without Command, though he\nfight for the Common-wealth, does not therefore represent the Person of\nit; because there is none to represent it to. For every one that hath\ncommand, represents it to them only whom he commandeth.\n\n\n\n\nFor Instruction Of The People\n\nThey also that have authority to teach, or to enable others to teach\nthe people their duty to the Soveraign Power, and instruct them in the\nknowledge of what is just, and unjust, thereby to render them more apt\nto live in godlinesse, and in peace among themselves, and resist the\npublique enemy, are Publique Ministers: Ministers, in that they doe it\nnot by their own Authority, but by anothers; and Publique, because they\ndoe it (or should doe it) by no Authority, but that of the Soveraign.\nThe Monarch, or the Soveraign Assembly only hath immediate Authority\nfrom God, to teach and instruct the people; and no man but the\nSoveraign, receiveth his power Dei Gratia simply; that is to say, from\nthe favour of none but God: All other, receive theirs from the favour\nand providence of God, and their Soveraigns; as in a Monarchy Dei Gratia\n& Regis; or Dei Providentia & Voluntate Regis.\n\n\n\n\nFor Judicature\n\nThey also to whom Jurisdiction is given, are Publique Ministers. For in\ntheir Seats of Justice they represent the person of the Soveraign; and\ntheir Sentence, is his Sentence; For (as hath been before declared) all\nJudicature is essentially annexed to the Soveraignty; and therefore all\nother Judges are but Ministers of him, or them that have the Soveraign\nPower. And as Controversies are of two sorts, namely of Fact, and of\nLaw; so are judgements, some of Fact, some of Law: And consequently in\nthe same controversie, there may be two Judges, one of Fact, another of\nLaw.\n\nAnd in both these controversies, there may arise a controversie between\nthe party Judged, and the Judge; which because they be both Subjects to\nthe Soveraign, ought in Equity to be Judged by men agreed on by consent\nof both; for no man can be Judge in his own cause. But the Soveraign\nis already agreed on for Judge by them both, and is therefore either to\nheare the Cause, and determine it himself, or appoint for Judge such as\nthey shall both agree on. And this agreement is then understood to be\nmade between them divers wayes; as first, if the Defendant be allowed\nto except against such of his Judges, whose interest maketh him suspect\nthem, (for as to the Complaynant he hath already chosen his own Judge,)\nthose which he excepteth not against, are Judges he himself agrees on.\nSecondly, if he appeale to any other Judge, he can appeale no further;\nfor his appeale is his choice. Thirdly, if he appeale to the Soveraign\nhimself, and he by himself, or by Delegates which the parties shall\nagree on, give Sentence; that Sentence is finall: for the Defendant is\nJudged by his own Judges, that is to say, by himself.\n\nThese properties of just and rationall Judicature considered, I cannot\nforbeare to observe the excellent constitution of the Courts of Justice,\nestablished both for Common, and also for Publique Pleas in England. By\nCommon Pleas, I meane those, where both the Complaynant and Defendant\nare Subjects: and by Publique, (which are also called Pleas of the\nCrown) those, where the Complaynant is the Soveraign. For whereas there\nwere two orders of men, whereof one was Lords, the other Commons; The\nLords had this Priviledge, to have for Judges in all Capitall crimes,\nnone but Lords; and of them, as many as would be present; which being\never acknowledged as a Priviledge of favour, their Judges were none but\nsuch as they had themselves desired. And in all controversies, every\nSubject (as also in civill controversies the Lords) had for Judges, men\nof the Country where the matter in controversie lay; against which he\nmight make his exceptions, till at last Twelve men without exception\nbeing agreed on, they were Judged by those twelve. So that having\nhis own Judges, there could be nothing alledged by the party, why the\nsentence should not be finall, These publique persons, with Authority\nfrom the Soveraign Power, either to Instruct, or Judge the people,\nare such members of the Common-wealth, as may fitly be compared to the\norgans of Voice in a Body naturall.\n\n\n\n\nFor Execution\n\nPublique Ministers are also all those, that have Authority from the\nSoveraign, to procure the Execution of Judgements given; to publish the\nSoveraigns Commands; to suppresse Tumults; to apprehend, and imprison\nMalefactors; and other acts tending to the conservation of the\nPeace. For every act they doe by such Authority, is the act of the\nCommon-wealth; and their service, answerable to that of the Hands, in a\nBodie naturall.\n\nPublique Ministers abroad, are those that represent the Person of their\nown Soveraign, to forraign States. Such are Ambassadors, Messengers,\nAgents, and Heralds, sent by publique Authoritie, and on publique\nBusinesse.\n\nBut such as are sent by Authoritie only of some private partie of a\ntroubled State, though they be received, are neither Publique, nor\nPrivate Ministers of the Common-wealth; because none of their actions\nhave the Common-wealth for Author. Likewise, an Ambassador sent from a\nPrince, to congratulate, condole, or to assist at a solemnity, though\nAuthority be Publique; yet because the businesse is Private, and\nbelonging to him in his naturall capacity; is a Private person. Also if\na man be sent into another Country, secretly to explore their counsels,\nand strength; though both the Authority, and the Businesse be Publique;\nyet because there is none to take notice of any Person in him, but\nhis own; he is but a Private Minister; but yet a Minister of the\nCommon-wealth; and may be compared to an Eye in the Body naturall. And\nthose that are appointed to receive the Petitions or other informations\nof the People, and are as it were the publique Eare, are Publique\nMinisters, and represent their Soveraign in that office.\n\n\n\n\nCounsellers Without Other Employment Then To Advise\n\nAre Not Publique Ministers\n\nNeither a Counsellor, nor a Councell of State, if we consider it with\nno Authority of Judicature or Command, but only of giving Advice to\nthe Soveraign when it is required, or of offering it when it is not\nrequired, is a Publique Person. For the Advice is addressed to the\nSoveraign only, whose person cannot in his own presence, be represented\nto him, by another. But a Body of Counsellors, are never without some\nother Authority, either of Judicature, or of immediate Administration:\nAs in a Monarchy, they represent the Monarch, in delivering his Commands\nto the Publique Ministers: In a Democracy, the Councell, or Senate\npropounds the Result of their deliberations to the people, as a\nCouncell; but when they appoint Judges, or heare Causes, or give\nAudience to Ambassadors, it is in the quality of a Minister of the\nPeople: And in an Aristocracy the Councell of State is the Soveraign\nAssembly it self; and gives counsell to none but themselves.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "This is the first chapter in which Deryn and Alek are both present, but the narrator continues to view the world through Deryn's eyes for two chapters and then through Alek's eyes for two chapters. Note that Alek doesn't know Deryn is a girl, so in Alek's chapters, Deryn becomes Dylan. That's one way to tell who's narrating. Alek introduces himself simply as Alek, and Deryn thinks he's really weird. Deryn wants to find out what she can do to help with the wreck, but she isn't feeling well--being nearly buried under a flying whale will do that to you. So instead she asks Alek what his village can do to help them, and Alek starts nervously backtracking re: personal information. Deryn finds this extremely suspicious and blows an intruder alert on her whistle, Captain von Trapp style. Alek runs for it, and then he pulls a gun, which apparently he doesn't know is a bad idea around a big bag of hydrogen. Deryn tackles him, feeling it's better to take a bullet than be set on fire. Mr. Roland, the master rigger, arrives, and Deryn turns Alek over to him--in turn, Mr. Roland sends Deryn to find Dr. Barlow and see what she says about all the supplies Alek brought."}, {"": "244", "document": "\n\nThe appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was\ntranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,\nslumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near\nher, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,\nstanding with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.\n\nBusy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy\ncountenance on seeing Emma again.\n\n\"This is a pleasure,\" said he, in rather a low voice, \"coming at least\nten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be\nuseful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.\"\n\n\"What!\" said Mrs. Weston, \"have not you finished it yet? you would not\nearn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.\"\n\n\"I have not been working uninterruptedly,\" he replied, \"I have been\nassisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,\nit was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see\nwe have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be\npersuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.\"\n\nHe contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently\nemployed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make\nher help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready\nto sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready,\nEmma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet\npossessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she\nmust reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not\nbut pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve\nnever to expose them to her neighbour again.\n\nAt last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the\npowers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs.\nWeston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma\njoined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper\ndiscrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.\n\n\"Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,\" said Frank Churchill, with a\nsmile at Emma, \"the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of\nColonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper\nnotes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would\nparticularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his\nfriend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you\nthink so?\"\n\nJane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had\nbeen speaking to her at the same moment.\n\n\"It is not fair,\" said Emma, in a whisper; \"mine was a random guess. Do\nnot distress her.\"\n\nHe shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little\ndoubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,\n\n\"How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this\noccasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder\nwhich will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to\nhand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going\nforward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence\nof an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only\na general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon\ncontingencies and conveniences?\"\n\nHe paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,\n\n\"Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,\" said she, in a voice of\nforced calmness, \"I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be\nall conjecture.\"\n\n\"Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one\nconjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this\nrivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard\nat work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their\ntongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss\nFairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the\npleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed\nfor the present.\"\n\nHe was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a\nlittle from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss\nFairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.\n\n\"If you are very kind,\" said he, \"it will be one of the waltzes we\ndanced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them\nas I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we\ndanced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever\nhas to give--for another half-hour.\"\n\nShe played.\n\n\"What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one\nhappy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.\"\n\nShe looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something\nelse. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning\nto Emma, said,\n\n\"Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here\nare a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might\nexpect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of\nColonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music\nhere. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to\nhave been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing\nincomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.\"\n\nEmma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;\nand when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains\nof a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness,\nthere had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the\namusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This\namiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very\nreprehensible feelings.\n\nHe brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma\ntook the opportunity of whispering,\n\n\"You speak too plain. She must understand you.\"\n\n\"I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least\nashamed of my meaning.\"\n\n\"But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea.\"\n\n\"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now\na key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does\nwrong, she ought to feel it.\"\n\n\"She is not entirely without it, I think.\"\n\n\"I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this\nmoment--_his_ favourite.\"\n\nShortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.\nKnightley on horse-back not far off.\n\n\"Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to\nthank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;\nbut I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come\nin when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet\nso!--Our little room so honoured!\"\n\nShe was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the\ncasement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every\nsyllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as\nif it had passed within the same apartment.\n\n\"How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you\nfor the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready\nfor us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.\"\n\nSo began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in\nhis turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,\n\n\"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but\nparticularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold\nlast night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.\"\n\nAnd Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear\nher in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave\nEmma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in\nsteady scepticism.\n\n\"So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage,\"\nresumed Miss Bates.\n\nHe cut her short with,\n\n\"I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?\"\n\n\"Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she\nwanted something from Kingston.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?\"\n\n\"No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss\nWoodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte.\nDo put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said he, in a deliberating manner, \"for five minutes, perhaps.\"\n\n\"And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful;\nso many friends!\"\n\n\"No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on\nto Kingston as fast as I can.\"\n\n\"Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.\"\n\n\"No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the\npianoforte.\"\n\n\"Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last\nnight; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not\nit delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any\nthing equal to it.\"\n\n\"Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss\nWoodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.\nAnd (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should\nnot be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.\nWeston is the very best country-dance player, without exception,\nin England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say\nsomething pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to\nhear it.\"\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so\nshocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!\"\n\n\"What is the matter now?\"\n\n\"To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had\na great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!\nMrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You\nshould not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never\ncan bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it\nwould have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the\nroom,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is\ngoing to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing....\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jane, \"we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was\nopen, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must\nhave heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at\nKingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you\nbe going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you.\"\n\nEmma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted\nlong; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived\nto be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could\nallow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield\ngates, before they set off for Randalls.\n\n\n", "summary": "Though Emma is happy to have attended the Cole's party, she feels uneasy afterward for two reasons: she had indiscreetly betrayed her suspicions of Jane's feelings to Frank Churchill, and she had realized her inferiority to Jane in playing and singing. At home, she sits down to practice vigorously on the piano for an hour and a half. She is interrupted by Harriet, who praises Emma's performance. Harriet then tells Emma that either of the Cox sisters is willing to marry Martin. Emma suggests to Harriet that they go shopping at Ford's. While Harriet shops, Emma stands outside and sees Frank and Mrs. Weston approaching and then stopping outside Miss Bates' house. Seeing Emma, they come over to greet her. Mrs. Weston tells her that they are going to visit Miss Bates in order to see the new piano. Frank, however, volunteers to shop with her before going to the Bates, but Emma says she is only waiting for Harriet. Frank promises to tell Emma about the piano, and Emma goes inside the store to find Harriet. Soon Miss Bates and Mrs. Weston come to Ford's and ask Emma and Harriet to come for a visit."}, {"": "245", "document": "\n\nIt was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We\nwent to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded for\ntea, Mrs. Bruce said, \"Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come\nto the table with me.\" I replied, \"I know it is time baby had her supper,\nbut I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being\ninsulted.\" \"O no, not if you are with _me_,\" she said. I saw several white\nnurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the\nextreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated, than a gruff voice said,\n\"Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here.\" I looked up, and, to my\nastonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a colored man. If\nhis office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at\nleast, have done it politely. I replied, \"I shall not get up, unless the\ncaptain comes and takes me up.\" No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs.\nBruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the\nother nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly\nwaited on.\n\nNext morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was making\na rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, \"Take my arm, Linda, and we'll go in\ntogether.\" The landlord heard her, and said, \"Madam, will you allow your\nnurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?\" I knew this was to be\nattributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did\nnot mind it.\n\nAt Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took\none of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with gladness,\nof going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people, but\nhere I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round\nme with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who would recognize\nme. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time.\n\nWe soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the\nremainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the\nclothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see\nEllen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said,\nwere, \"O, mother, don't go to Mrs. Hobbs's. Her brother, Mr. Thorne, has\ncome from the south, and may be he'll tell where you are.\" I accepted the\nwarning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and\nwould try to see her when I came back.\n\nBeing in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a \"Jim Crow\ncar,\" on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride through the\nstreets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where I found the same\nmanifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings,\nand represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway\nbefore dark, and put up at the Pavilion--a large hotel, beautifully\nsituated by the sea-side--a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty\nor forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the\nladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse\ntinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary\nand followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young\nman, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or\nthree times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As\nthere was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon\nthe young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, \"Will\nyou please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and\nfeed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you\nwill have a good supper.\"\n\nThis was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I\nlooked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one shade\nlighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my presence\nwere a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in\nmy arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce\nordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered\nfor a few days; but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they\nsoon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The\nlandlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his\nservants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of\nother boarders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike.\n\nMy answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with\n_themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such\ntreatment; that there was no difference in the price of board for colored\nand white servants, and there was no justification for difference of\ntreatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand\nup for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man\nand woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled under foot\nby our oppressors.\n\n\n", "summary": "Linda and Mrs. Bruce go off on vacation, and Linda experiences plenty of ugly prejudice, even though she's working as a nurse for Mrs. Bruce's child. Like: The waiters won't give her tea when she's eating with Mrs. Bruce. She's not allowed to sit in a chair and hold the child on her lap, but has to place the child in the chair and stand behind her. The servants won't bring her dinner to her room when Mrs. Bruce asks them to, so she has to go down to the kitchen to get it herself. Finally, Linda puts her foot down and says that Mrs. Bruce is paying for her just like any of the white servants, so she'd better be treated like one of them. This actually works. See, Linda says, you've just got to stand up for your rights."}, {"": "246", "document": "\nTHE BLACK SPOT\n\n\nAbout noon I stopped at the captain's door with some cooling drinks and\nmedicines. He was lying very much as we had left him, only a little\nhigher, and he seemed both weak and excited.\n\n\"Jim,\" he said, \"you're the only one here that's worth anything; and you\nknow I've always been good to you. Never a month but I've given you a\nsilver fourpenny for yourself. And now you see, mate, I'm pretty low,\nand deserted by all; and, Jim, you'll bring me one noggin of rum, now,\nwon't you, matey?\"\n\n\"The doctor--\" I began.\n\nBut he broke in, cursing the doctor in a feeble voice, but heartily.\n\"Doctors is all swabs,\" he said; \"and that doctor there, why, what do he\nknow about seafaring men? I been in places hot as pitch, and mates\ndropping round with yellow jack, and the blessed land a-heaving like the\nsea with earthquakes--what do the doctor know of lands like that?--and I\nlived on rum, I tell you. It's been meat and drink, and man and wife, to\nme; and if I am not to have my rum now I'm a poor old hulk on a lee\nshore. My blood'll be on you, Jim, and that doctor swab,\" and he ran on\nagain for a while with curses. \"Look, Jim, how my fingers fidges,\" he\ncontinued in the pleading tone. \"I can't keep 'em still, not I. I\nhaven't had a drop this blessed day. That doctor's a fool, I tell you.\nIf I don't have a drain o' rum, Jim, I'll have the horrors; I seen some\non 'em already. I seen old Flint in the corner there, behind you; as\nplain as print, I seen him; and if I get the horrors, I'm a man that has\nlived rough, and I'll raise Cain. Your doctor hisself said one glass\nwouldn't hurt me. I'll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, Jim.\"\n\nHe was growing more and more excited, and this alarmed me, for my\nfather, who was very low that day, needed quiet; besides, I was\nreassured by the doctor's words, now quoted to me, and rather offended\nby the offer of a bribe.\n\n\"I want none of your money,\" said I, \"but what you owe my father. I'll\nget you one glass and no more.\"\n\nWhen I brought it to him he seized it greedily and drank it out.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said he, \"that's some better, sure enough. And now, matey, did\nthat doctor say how long I was to lie here in this old berth?\"\n\n\"A week at least,\" said I.\n\n\"Thunder!\" he cried. \"A week! I can't do that; they'd have the black\nspot on me by then. The lubbers is going about to get the wind of me\nthis blessed moment; lubbers as couldn't keep what they got, and want to\nnail what is another's. Is that seamanly behavior, now, I want to know?\nBut I'm a saving soul. I never wasted good money of mine, nor lost it\nneither; and I'll trick 'em again. I'm not afraid on 'em. I'll shake out\nanother reef, matey, and daddle 'em again.\"\n\nAs he was thus speaking, he had risen from bed with great difficulty,\nholding to my shoulder with a grip that almost made me cry out, and\nmoving his legs like so much dead weight. His words, spirited as they\nwere in meaning, contrasted sadly with the weakness of the voice in\nwhich they were uttered. He paused when he had got into a sitting\nposition on the edge.\n\n\"That doctor's done me,\" he murmured. \"My ears is singing. Lay me back.\"\n\nBefore I could do much to help him he had fallen back again to his\nformer place, where he lay for a while silent.\n\n\"Jim,\" he said, at length, \"you saw that seafaring man to-day?\"\n\n\"Black Dog?\" I asked.\n\n\"Ah! Black Dog,\" said he. \"_He's_ a bad 'un; but there's worse that put\nhim on. Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot,\nmind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after; you get on a horse--you\ncan, can't you? Well, then, you get on a horse and go to--well, yes, I\nwill!--to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all\nhands--magistrates and sich--and he'll lay 'em aboard at the 'Admiral\nBenbow'--all old Flint's crew, man and boy, all on 'em that's left. I\nwas first mate, I was, old Flint's first mate, and I'm the on'y one as\nknows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as\nif I was to now, you see. But you won't peach unless they get the black\nspot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again, or a seafaring man\nwith one leg, Jim--him above all.\"\n\n\"But what is the black spot, captain?\" I asked.\n\n\"That's a summons, mate. I'll tell you if they get that. But you keep\nyour weather-eye open, Jim, and I'll share with you equals, upon my\nhonor.\"\n\nHe wandered a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after I\nhad given him his medicine, which he took like a child, with the remark,\n\"If ever a seaman wanted drugs, it's me,\" he fell at last into a heavy,\nswoon-like sleep, in which I left him. What I should have done had all\ngone well I do not know. Probably I should have told the whole story to\nthe doctor; for I was in mortal fear lest the captain should repent of\nhis confessions and make an end of me. But as things fell out, my poor\nfather died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters on\none side. Our natural distress, the visits of the neighbors, the\narranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on\nin the meanwhile, kept me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of\nthe captain, far less to be afraid of him.\n\nHe got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals as usual,\nthough he ate little, and had more, I am afraid, than his usual supply\nof rum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling and blowing\nthrough his nose, and no one dared to cross him. On the night before the\nfuneral he was as drunk as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of\nmourning, to hear him singing away his ugly old sea-song; but, weak as\nhe was, we were all in fear of death for him, and the doctor was\nsuddenly taken up with a case many miles away, and was never near the\nhouse after my father's death. I have said the captain was weak, and\nindeed he seemed rather to grow weaker than to regain his strength. He\nclambered up and down stairs, and went from the parlor to the bar and\nback again, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea,\nholding on to the walls as he went for support, and breathing hard and\nfast, like a man on a steep mountain. He never particularly addressed\nme, and it is my belief he had as good as forgotten his confidences; but\nhis temper was more flighty, and, allowing for his bodily weakness, more\nviolent than ever. He had an alarming way now when he was drunk of\ndrawing his cutlass and laying it bare before him on the table. But,\nwith all that, he minded people less, and seemed shut up in his own\nthoughts and rather wandering. Once, for instance, to our extreme\nwonder, he piped up to a different air, a kind of country love-song,\nthat he must have learned in his youth before he had begun to follow the\nsea.\n\nSo things passed until the day after the funeral and about three o'clock\nof a bitter, foggy, frosty afternoon, I was standing at the door for a\nmoment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone drawing\nslowly near along the road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped before\nhim with a stick, and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose;\nand he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge old\ntattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively deformed.\nI never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure. He stopped a\nlittle from the inn and, raising his voice in an odd sing-song,\naddressed the air in front of him:\n\n\"Will any kind friend inform a poor blind man, who has lost the precious\nsight of his eyes in the gracious defense of his native country,\nEngland, and God bless King George!--where or in what part of this\ncountry he may now be?\"\n\n\"You are at the 'Admiral Benbow,' Black Hill Cove, my good man,\" said I.\n\n\"I hear a voice,\" said he, \"a young voice. Will you give me your hand,\nmy kind young friend, and lead me in?\"\n\nI held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature\ngripped it in a moment like a vise. I was so much startled that I\nstruggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled me close up to him with\na single action of his arm.\n\n\"Now, boy,\" he said, \"take me in to the captain.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said I, \"upon my word I dare not.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he sneered, \"that's it! Take me in straight, or I'll break your\narm.\"\n\nHe gave it, as he spoke, a wrench that made me cry out.\n\n\"Sir,\" said I, \"it is for yourself I mean. The captain is not what he\nused to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another gentleman--\"\n\n\"Come, now, march,\" interrupted he, and I never heard a voice so cruel,\nand cold, and ugly as that blind man's. It cowed me more than the pain,\nand I began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and\ntowards the parlor, where the sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with\nrum. The blind man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist, and\nleaning almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. \"Lead me\nstraight up to him, and when I'm in view, cry out, 'Here's a friend for\nyou, Bill.' If you don't, I'll do this,\" and with that he gave me a\ntwitch that I thought would have made me faint. Between this and that, I\nwas so utterly terrified by the blind beggar that I forgot my terror of\nthe captain, and as I opened the parlor door, cried out the words he had\nordered in a trembling voice.\n\nThe poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of\nhim and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so\nmuch of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I\ndo not believe he had enough force left in his body.\n\n\"Now, Bill, sit where you are,\" said the beggar. \"If I can't see, I can\nhear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand.\nBoy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right.\"\n\nWe both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the\nhollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's,\nwhich closed upon it instantly.\n\n\"And now that's done,\" said the blind man, and at the words he suddenly\nleft hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped\nout of the parlor and into the road, where, as I stood motionless, I\ncould hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance.\n\nIt was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our\nsenses; but at length, and about the same moment, I released his wrist,\nwhich I was still holding, and he drew in his hand, and looked sharply\ninto the palm.\n\n\"Ten o'clock!\" he cried. \"Six hours! We'll do them yet!\" and he sprang\nto his feet.\n\nEven as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying\nfor a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole\nheight face foremost to the floor.\n\nI ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain.\nThe captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious\nthing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of\nlate I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead I\nburst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and\nthe sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "As he recovers, the Captain continues with his urge to drink. Pleading for a drink from Jim, the Captain tries all the techniques possible to convince him to serve him a drink: From reminding Jim about the regular wage he earned from him, to befriending him and calling him his matey. Jim refused all of his requests, as the doctor had advised against it. Refusing to listen to Jim, the Captain goes on a boasting spree giving examples of the deadly places he has been to, the terrifying men he has encountered and how he had lived on rum. He calls it his meat, drink, and wife. He tells Jim that he is experiencing withdrawal symptoms and that strange images are haunting him regularly. He also offers Jim a bribe of one gold guinea. Jim gets quite offended by this offer. Finally, after seeing how upset and agitated the Captain has become, Jim worries about the Captain disrupting the other patrons of the Inn, Jim gets him a drink on the condition that the Captain will repay all the money he owes his father. Regaining his original composure after downing the rum he refuses to stay in bed for a week. He manages to get up from the bed with Jims help and tells him that if he stayed at the Inn for long theyd have the Black Spot on him. But he soon realizes he is too weak to go and settles down in bed. He also kept on grumbling about many things which Jim doesn't understand. Except the term Black Spot which he hears three times in succession and also that the the bad men are after his sea chest. Jim also finds out that the Captain was the first mate of the legendary pirate Old Captain Flint and he is the only one who knows the place where his treasure is buried. During his conversation, Jim is asked to be wary of the seafaring man with one leg. On asking what the Black Spot is, Jim is again confused with the Captains reply. He drowns himself in deep slumber after taking his medication. That evening, Jims father dies, adding to the pain and distress Jim was already going through. The Captain takes to heavy drinking, after regaining his strength despite the warnings. He starts singing and shouting in the house while the others are mourning their loss. This scarcely alarms Jim for he knows by now what to expect of the Captain. The gloomy air at the inn has more surprises in store. On a foggy afternoon, Jim notices a stranger, a blind beggar approaching the Inn. The man asks Jim which part of the country he is in. After finding out where he is, he politely requests Jim to lead him into the Inn. Once inside, his tone changes and he orders Jim to take him to the Captain and threatens to break Jims arm if he doesnt. The blind man instructs Jim on how he should be introduced and asks him to do it the very same way. On doing so, Jim sees the fear of death written on the Captains face. In Jims presence, a business deal takes place between the blind man and the Captain, where the blind man passes something from his hand to the Captains. After releasing Jims hand from his clutch, he leaves quickly without help. The Captain gets up quickly from his bed mumbling \"Ten Oclock, six hours...\" and unable to complete the sentence falls flat of the floor, never to get up again. Although Jim has never liked the Captain, he cries at his death."}, {"": "247", "document": "\n\nThe summer had nearly ended, when Dr. Flint made a third visit to New York,\nin search of me. Two candidates were running for Congress, and he returned\nin season to vote. The father of my children was the Whig candidate. The\ndoctor had hitherto been a stanch Whig; but now he exerted all his energies\nfor the defeat of Mr. Sands. He invited large parties of men to dine in the\nshade of his trees, and supplied them with plenty of rum and brandy. If any\npoor fellow drowned his wits in the bowl, and, in the openness of his\nconvivial heart, proclaimed that he did not mean to vote the Democratic\nticket, he was shoved into the street without ceremony.\n\nThe doctor expended his liquor in vain. Mr. Sands was elected; an event\nwhich occasioned me some anxious thoughts. He had not emancipated my\nchildren, and if he should die they would be at the mercy of his heirs. Two\nlittle voices, that frequently met my ear, seemed to plead with me not to\nlet their father depart without striving to make their freedom secure.\nYears had passed since I had spoken to him. I had not even seen him since\nthe night I passed him, unrecognized, in my disguise of a sailor. I\nsupposed he would call before he left, to say something to my grandmother\nconcerning the children, and I resolved what course to take.\n\nThe day before his departure for Washington I made arrangements, toward\nevening, to get from my hiding-place into the storeroom below. I found\nmyself so stiff and clumsy that it was with great difficulty I could hitch\nfrom one resting place to another. When I reached the storeroom my ankles\ngave way under me, and I sank exhausted on the floor. It seemed as if I\ncould never use my limbs again. But the purpose I had in view roused all\nthe strength I had. I crawled on my hands and knees to the window, and,\nscreened behind a barrel, I waited for his coming. The clock struck nine,\nand I knew the steamboat would leave between ten and eleven. My hopes were\nfailing. But presently I heard his voice, saying to some one, \"Wait for me\na moment. I wish to see aunt Martha.\" When he came out, as he passed the\nwindow, I said, \"Stop one moment, and let me speak for my children.\" He\nstarted, hesitated, and then passed on, and went out of the gate. I closed\nthe shutter I had partially opened, and sank down behind the barrel. I had\nsuffered much; but seldom had I experienced a keener pang than I then felt.\nHad my children, then, become of so little consequence to him? And had he\nso little feeling for their wretched mother that he would not listen a\nmoment while she pleaded for them? Painful memories were so busy within me,\nthat I forgot I had not hooked the shutter, till I heard some one opening\nit. I looked up. He had come back. \"Who called me?\" said he, in a low tone.\n\"I did,\" I replied. \"Oh, Linda,\" said he, \"I knew your voice; but I was\nafraid to answer, lest my friend should hear me. Why do you come here? Is\nit possible you risk yourself in this house? They are mad to allow it. I\nshall expect to hear that you are all ruined,\" I did not wish to implicate\nhim, by letting him know my place of concealment; so I merely said, \"I\nthought you would come to bid grandmother good by, and so I came here to\nspeak a few words to you about emancipating my children. Many changes may\ntake place during the six months you are gone to Washington, and it does\nnot seem right for you to expose them to the risk of such changes. I want\nnothing for myself; all I ask is, that you will free my children, or\nauthorize some friend to do it, before you go.\"\n\nHe promised he would do it, and also expressed a readiness; to make any\narrangements whereby I could be purchased.\n\nI heard footsteps approaching, and closed the shutter hastily. I wanted to\ncrawl back to my den, without letting the family know what I had done; for\nI knew they would deem it very imprudent. But he stepped back into the\nhouse, to tell my grandmother that he had spoken with me at the storeroom\nwindow, and to beg of her not to allow me to remain in the house over night.\nHe said it was the height of madness for me to be there; that we should\ncertainly all be ruined. Luckily, he was in too much of a hurry to wait for\na reply, or the dear old woman would surely have told him all.\n\nI tried to go back to my den, but found it more difficult to go up than I\nhad to come down. Now that my mission was fulfilled, the little strength\nthat had supported me through it was gone, and I sank helpless on the\nfloor. My grandmother, alarmed at the risk I had run, came into the\nstoreroom in the dark, and locked the door behind her. \"Linda,\" she\nwhispered, \"where are you?\"\n\n\"I am here by the window,\" I replied. \"I _couldn't_ have him go away\nwithout emancipating the children. Who knows what may happen?\"\n\n\"Come, come, child,\" said she, \"it won't do for you to stay here another\nminute. You've done wrong; but I can't blame you, poor thing!\" I told her\nI could not return without assistance, and she must call my uncle. Uncle\nPhillip came, and pity prevented him from scolding me. He carried me back\nto my dungeon, laid me tenderly on the bed, gave me some medicine, and\nasked me if there was any thing more he could do. Then he went away, and I\nwas left with my own thoughts--starless as the midnight darkness around me.\n\nMy friends feared I should become a cripple for life; and I was so weary of\nmy long imprisonment that, had it not been for the hope of serving my\nchildren, I should have been thankful to die; but, for their sakes, I was\nwilling to bear on.\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Sands runs for Congress and wins, as a Whig. He's off to Washington. Before he leaves, he visits the children. Linda emerges from her hiding spot and begs him to free them. He promises that he will, but we're not going to believe it until we see it."}, {"": "248", "document": "ACT II. SCENE 1.\n\nBefore Orleans\n\nEnter a FRENCH SERGEANT and two SENTINELS\n\n  SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant.\n    If any noise or soldier you perceive\n    Near to the walls, by some apparent sign\n    Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.\n  FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall.           [Exit SERGEANT]\n    Thus are poor servitors,\n    When others sleep upon their quiet beds,\n    Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.\n\n             Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and forces,\n          with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead\n                              march\n\n  TALBOT. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,\n    By whose approach the regions of Artois,\n    Wallon, and Picardy, are friends to us,\n    This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,\n    Having all day carous'd and banqueted;\n    Embrace we then this opportunity,\n    As fitting best to quittance their deceit,\n    Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery.\n  BEDFORD. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame,\n    Despairing of his own arm's fortitude,\n    To join with witches and the help of hell!\n  BURGUNDY. Traitors have never other company.\n    But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure?\n  TALBOT. A maid, they say.\n  BEDFORD. A maid! and be so martial!\n  BURGUNDY. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long,\n    If underneath the standard of the French\n    She carry armour as she hath begun.\n  TALBOT. Well, let them practise and converse with spirits:\n    God is our fortress, in whose conquering name\n    Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.\n  BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee.\n  TALBOT. Not all together; better far, I guess,\n    That we do make our entrance several ways;\n    That if it chance the one of us do fail\n    The other yet may rise against their force.\n  BEDFORD. Agreed; I'll to yond corner.\n  BURGUNDY. And I to this.\n  TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount or make his grave.\n    Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right\n    Of English Henry, shall this night appear\n    How much in duty I am bound to both.\n             [The English scale the walls and cry 'Saint George!\n                                                     a Talbot!']\n    SENTINEL. Arm! arm! The enemy doth make assault.\n\n           The French leap o'er the walls in their shirts.\n           Enter, several ways, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER,\n                     half ready and half unready\n\n  ALENCON. How now, my lords? What, all unready so?\n  BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we 'scap'd so well.\n  REIGNIER. 'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,\n    Hearing alarums at our chamber doors.\n  ALENCON. Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms\n    Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise\n    More venturous or desperate than this.\n  BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.\n  REIGNIER. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him\n  ALENCON. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how he sped.\n\n                    Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE\n\n  BASTARD. Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard.\n  CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?\n    Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,\n    Make us partakers of a little gain\n    That now our loss might be ten times so much?\n  PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?\n    At all times will you have my power alike?\n    Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail\n    Or will you blame and lay the fault on me?\n    Improvident soldiers! Had your watch been good\n    This sudden mischief never could have fall'n.\n  CHARLES. Duke of Alencon, this was your default\n    That, being captain of the watch to-night,\n    Did look no better to that weighty charge.\n  ALENCON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept\n    As that whereof I had the government,\n    We had not been thus shamefully surpris'd.\n  BASTARD. Mine was secure.\n  REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord.\n  CHARLES. And, for myself, most part of all this night,\n    Within her quarter and mine own precinct\n    I was employ'd in passing to and fro\n    About relieving of the sentinels.\n    Then how or which way should they first break in?\n  PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further of the case,\n    How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place\n    But weakly guarded, where the breach was made.\n    And now there rests no other shift but this\n    To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispers'd,\n    And lay new platforms to endamage them.\n\n               Alarum. Enter an ENGLISH SOLDIER, crying\n            'A Talbot! A Talbot!' They fly, leaving their\n                           clothes behind\n\n  SOLDIER. I'll be so bold to take what they have left.\n    The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword;\n    For I have loaden me with many spoils,\n    Using no other weapon but his name.                     Exit\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The scene starts with the French setting a watch on the walls of Orleans. Talbot is planning a surprise attack, since the French have been feasting and are likely not to be on their guard. He's talking to Bedford, the king's regent or representative in France, and to Burgundy, a very powerful French noble who is on England's side. Bedford says Charles is cowardly to accept a witch's help in battle: Charles must not be very confident in his strength if he needs hell to help him. Burgundy inquires about Joan of Arc and Talbot says she is a maid or virgin. Bedford doubts that a maid could be so warlike, in a classic example of the views of the period. Burgundy says Joan may prove masculine, especially if she carries armor. Talbot says oh well, if the French want to invoke evil spirits, that's their problem; the English will trust in God as their fortress. The English agree to split up and attack Orleans from several places. The English call out to St. George, the patron saint of England. This is sort of like trying to get Obi-Wan Kenobi on your side. The sentinels aren't asleep, and they do notice the English, so the French lords are surprised instead and have to leap over the wall to retreat half ready. It's like turning up to class with your dressy Oxford shirt and your Mario pajama pants. The French say how desperate and bold the attack is, and wonder whether Talbot might be \"a fiend of hell\" , or supported by heaven. Either way, his success seems supernatural to them. Charles and Joan come in together, which is maybe a little suspicious since it's the middle of the night. Have they been in bed together? Or have they been virtuously keeping guard on the walls? Hrm... Charles turns on Joan and asks if she wanted them to succeed a little only to lose a lot. He's pretty fickle, given that he was just promising to make her the patron saint of France. Joan asks why he is so impatient and says her power isn't always at the same level; she blames the French military for not keeping a better watch. Charles blames Alencon. Alencon says his area was fine--what about the other leaders? The Bastard says his quarter was secure, too. Reignier gets in on the action and says \"Mine, too.\" Charles says he's spent the whole night walking around and helping the sentinels, and asks how this could have happened. Joan says it won't really help to figure out why it happened--they should get going and fix the problem. An English soldier comes and chases them off. Embarrassingly, they leave their clothing, or at least some of it, behind, so the English soldier takes their things. This has got to be pretty humiliating for France: A soldier who doesn't even get a name in the play is taking spoils from the King and his closest advisors. The soldier points out that Talbot's name is just as good as a sword: It scares the French off. Good thing the French nobility is already gone. This would be pretty awkward if they were around to hear it."}, {"": "249", "document": "\nI missed the company and kind attentions of my brother William, who had\ngone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. We received several letters\nfrom him, written without any allusion to me, but expressed in such a\nmanner that I knew he did not forget me. I disguised my hand, and wrote to\nhim in the same manner. It was a long session; and when it closed, William\nwrote to inform us that Mr. Sands was going to the north, to be gone some\ntime, and that he was to accompany him. I knew that his master had promised\nto give him his freedom, but no time had been specified. Would William\ntrust to a slave's chances? I remembered how we used to talk together, in\nour young days, about obtaining our freedom, and I thought it very doubtful\nwhether he would come back to us.\n\nGrandmother received a letter from Mr. Sands, saying that William had\nproved a most faithful servant, and he would also say a valued friend; that\nno mother had ever trained a better boy. He said he had travelled through\nthe Northern States and Canada; and though the abolitionists had tried to\ndecoy him away, they had never succeeded. He ended by saying they should be\nat home shortly.\n\nWe expected letters from William, describing the novelties of his journey,\nbut none came. In time, it was reported that Mr. Sands would return late in\nthe autumn, accompanied by a bride. Still no letters from William. I felt\nalmost sure I should never see him again on southern soil; but had he no\nword of comfort to send to his friends at home? to the poor captive in her\ndungeon? My thoughts wandered through the dark past, and over the uncertain\nfuture. Alone in my cell, where no eye but God's could see me, I wept\nbitter tears. How earnestly I prayed to him to restore me to my children,\nand enable me to be a useful woman and a good mother!\n\nAt last the day arrived for the return of the travellers. Grandmother had\nmade loving preparations to welcome her absent boy back to the old\nhearthstone. When the dinner table was laid, William's place occupied its\nold place. The stage coach went by empty. My grandmother waited dinner. She\nthought perhaps he was necessarily detained by his master. In my prison I\nlistened anxiously, expecting every moment to hear my dear brother's voice\nand step. In the course of the afternoon a lad was sent by Mr. Sands to\ntell grandmother that William did not return with him; that the\nabolitionists had decoyed him away. But he begged her not to feel troubled\nabout it, for he felt confident she would see William in a few days. As\nsoon as he had time to reflect he would come back, for he could never\nexpect to be so well off at the north as he had been with him.\n\nIf you had seen the tears, and heard the sobs, you would have thought the\nmessenger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old\ngrandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I was\nselfish. I thought more of what I had lost, than of what my brother had\ngained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended a good\ndeal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss he had\nincurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of my children,\nwho were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have their\nemancipation made certain. The more so, because their master and father was\nnow married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know that promises made\nto slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere at the time, depend\nupon many contingencies for their fulfillment.\n\nMuch as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad and\nanxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear; so beautiful that it\nseemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother brought the\nchildren out on the piazza, that I might hear their voices. She thought it\nwould comfort me in my despondency; and it did. They chatted merrily, as\nonly children can. Benny said, \"Grandmother, do you think uncle Will has\ngone for good? Won't he ever come back again? May be he'll find mother. If\nhe does, _won't_ she be glad to see him! Why don't you and uncle Phillip,\nand all of us, go and live where mother is? I should like it; wouldn't you,\nEllen?\"\n\n\"Yes, I should like it,\" replied Ellen; \"but how could we find her? Do you\nknow the place, grandmother? I don't remember how mother looked--do you,\nBenny?\"\n\nBenny was just beginning to describe me when they were interrupted by an\nold slave woman, a near neighbor, named Aggie. This poor creature had\nwitnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to parts\nunknown, without any hopes of ever hearing from them again. She saw that my\ngrandmother had been weeping, and she said, in a sympathizing tone, \"What's\nthe matter, aunt Marthy?\"\n\n\"O Aggie,\" she replied, \"it seems as if I shouldn't have any of my children\nor grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I'm dying, and lay my old\nbody in the ground. My boy didn't come back with Mr. Sands. He staid at the\nnorth.\"\n\nPoor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. \"Is _dat_ what you's crying fur?\"\nshe exclaimed. \"Git down on your knees and bress de Lord! I don't know whar\nmy poor chillern is, and I nebber 'spect to know. You don't know whar poor\nLinda's gone to; but you _do_ know whar her brudder is. He's in free parts;\nand dat's de right place. Don't murmur at de Lord's doings but git down on\nyour knees and tank him for his goodness.\"\n\nMy selfishness was rebuked by what poor Aggie said. She rejoiced over the\nescape of one who was merely her fellow-bondman, while his own sister was\nonly thinking what his good fortune might cost her children. I knelt and\nprayed God to forgive me; and I thanked him from my heart, that one of my\nfamily was saved from the grasp of slavery.\n\nIt was not long before we received a letter from William. He wrote that Mr.\nSands had always treated him kindly, and that he had tried to do his duty\nto him faithfully. But ever since he was a boy, he had longed to be free;\nand he had already gone through enough to convince him he had better not\nlose the chance that offered. He concluded by saying, \"Don't worry about\nme, dear grandmother. I shall think of you always; and it will spur me on\nto work hard and try to do right. When I have earned money enough to give\nyou a home, perhaps you will come to the north, and we can all live happy\ntogether.\"\n\nMr. Sands told my uncle Phillip the particulars about William's leaving\nhim. He said, \"I trusted him as if he were my own brother, and treated him\nas kindly. The abolitionists talked to him in several places; but I had no\nidea they could tempt him. However, I don't blame William. He's young and\ninconsiderate, and those Northern rascals decoyed him. I must confess the\nscamp was very bold about it. I met him coming down the steps of the Astor\nHouse with his trunk on his shoulder, and I asked him where he was going.\nHe said he was going to change his old trunk. I told him it was rather\nshabby, and asked if he didn't need some money. He said, No, thanked me,\nand went off. He did not return so soon as I expected; but I waited\npatiently. At last I went to see if our trunks were packed, ready for our\njourney. I found them locked, and a sealed note on the table informed me\nwhere I could find the keys. The fellow even tried to be religious. He\nwrote that he hoped God would always bless me, and reward me for my\nkindness; that he was not unwilling to serve me; but he wanted to be a free\nman; and that if I thought he did wrong, he hoped I would forgive him. I\nintended to give him his freedom in five years. He might have trusted me.\nHe has shown himself ungrateful; but I shall not go for him, or send for\nhim. I feel confident that he will soon return to me.\"\n\nI afterwards heard an account of the affair from William himself. He had\nnot been urged away by abolitionists. He needed no information they could\ngive him about slavery to stimulate his desire for freedom. He looked at\nhis hands, and remembered that they were once in irons. What security had\nhe that they would not be so again? Mr. Sands was kind to him; but he might\nindefinitely postpone the promise he had made to give him his freedom. He\nmight come under pecuniary embarrassments, and his property be seized by\ncreditors; or he might die, without making any arrangements in his favor.\nHe had too often known such accidents to happen to slaves who had kind\nmasters, and he wisely resolved to make sure of the present opportunity to\nown himself. He was scrupulous about taking any money from his master on\nfalse pretences; so he sold his best clothes to pay for his passage to\nBoston. The slaveholders pronounced him a base, ungrateful wretch, for thus\nrequiting his master's indulgence. What would _they_ have done under\nsimilar circumstances?\n\nWhen Dr. Flint's family heard that William had deserted Mr. Sands, they\nchuckled greatly over the news. Mrs. Flint made her usual manifestations of\nChristian feeling, by saying, \"I'm glad of it. I hope he'll never get him\nagain. I like to see people paid back in their own coin. I reckon Linda's\nchildren will have to pay for it. I should be glad to see them in the\nspeculator's hands again, for I'm tired of seeing those little niggers\nmarch about the streets.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Here's a little story about William. William went to Washington with Mr. Sands. They traveled all through the North and Canada, where William met lots of abolitionists. Meanwhile, Mr. Sands gets married. When Mr. Sands returns to Edenton with his new wife, he tells Aunt Martha that William has run off with abolitionists. Not so. Later, Linda learns that William escaped all on his own, selling his clothes and sailing off to Boston by himself. When Dr. Flint hears about his, he's filled with glee."}, {"": "250", "document": "SCENE III\n\n  ORGON, ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DORINE\n\n\n  ORGON\n  So ho! I'm glad to find you all together.\n\n  (To Mariane)\n  Here is the contract that shall make you happy,\n  My dear. You know already what it means.\n\n  MARIANE (on her knees before Orgon)\n  Father, I beg you, in the name of Heaven\n  That knows my grief, and by whate'er can move you,\n  Relax a little your paternal rights,\n  And free my love from this obedience!\n  Oh, do not make me, by your harsh command,\n  Complain to Heaven you ever were my father;\n  Do not make wretched this poor life you gave me.\n  If, crossing that fond hope which I had formed,\n  You'll not permit me to belong to one\n  Whom I have dared to love, at least, I beg you\n  Upon my knees, oh, save me from the torment\n  Of being possessed by one whom I abhor!\n  And do not drive me to some desperate act\n  By exercising all your rights upon me.\n\n  ORGON (a little touched)\n  Come, come, my heart, be firm! no human weakness!\n\n  MARIANE\n  I am not jealous of your love for him;\n  Display it freely; give him your estate,\n  And if that's not enough, add all of mine;\n  I willingly agree, and give it up,\n  If only you'll not give him me, your daughter;\n  Oh, rather let a convent's rigid rule\n  Wear out the wretched days that Heaven allots me.\n\n  ORGON\n  These girls are ninnies!--always turning nuns\n  When fathers thwart their silly love-affairs.\n  Get on your feet! The more you hate to have him,\n  The more 'twill help you earn your soul's salvation.\n  So, mortify your senses by this marriage,\n  And don't vex me about it any more.\n\n  DORINE\n  But what ... ?\n\n  ORGON\n  You hold your tongue, before your betters.\n  Don't dare to say a single word, I tell you.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  If you will let me answer, and advise ...\n\n  ORGON\n  Brother, I value your advice most highly;\n  'Tis well thought out; no better can be had;\n  But you'll allow me--not to follow it.\n\n  ELMIRE (to her husband)\n  I can't find words to cope with such a case;\n  Your blindness makes me quite astounded at you.\n  You are bewitched with him, to disbelieve\n  The things we tell you happened here to-day.\n\n  ORGON\n  I am your humble servant, and can see\n  Things, when they're plain as noses on folks' faces,\n  I know you're partial to my rascal son,\n  And didn't dare to disavow the trick\n  He tried to play on this poor man; besides,\n  You were too calm, to be believed; if that\n  Had happened, you'd have been far more disturbed.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  And must our honour always rush to arms\n  At the mere mention of illicit love?\n  Or can we answer no attack upon it\n  Except with blazing eyes and lips of scorn?\n  For my part, I just laugh away such nonsense;\n  I've no desire to make a loud to-do.\n  Our virtue should, I think, be gentle-natured;\n  Nor can I quite approve those savage prudes\n  Whose honour arms itself with teeth and claws\n  To tear men's eyes out at the slightest word.\n  Heaven preserve me from that kind of honour!\n  I like my virtue not to be a vixen,\n  And I believe a quiet cold rebuff\n  No less effective to repulse a lover.\n\n  ORGON\n  I know ... and you can't throw me off the scent.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Once more, I am astounded at your weakness;\n  I wonder what your unbelief would answer,\n  If I should let you see we've told the truth?\n\n  ORGON\n  See it?\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Yes.\n\n  ORGON\n  Nonsense.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Come! If I should find\n  A way to make you see it clear as day?\n\n  ORGON\n  All rubbish.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  What a man! But answer me.\n  I'm not proposing now that you believe us;\n  But let's suppose that here, from proper hiding,\n  You should be made to see and hear all plainly;\n  What would you say then, to your man of virtue?\n\n  ORGON\n  Why, then, I'd say ... say nothing. It can't be.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Your error has endured too long already,\n  And quite too long you've branded me a liar.\n  I must at once, for my own satisfaction,\n  Make you a witness of the things we've told you.\n\n  ORGON\n  Amen! I take you at your word. We'll see\n  What tricks you have, and how you'll keep your promise.\n\n  ELMIRE (to Dorine)\n  Send him to me.\n\n  DORINE (to Elmire)\n  The man's a crafty codger,\n  Perhaps you'll find it difficult to catch him.\n\n  ELMIRE (to Dorine)\n  Oh no! A lover's never hard to cheat,\n  And self-conceit leads straight to self-deceit.\n  Bid him come down to me.\n\n  (To Cleante and Mariane)\n  And you, withdraw.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Orgon comes in and interrupts their brainstorming session before it's even begun. He has the marriage contract in his hand and wants Mariane to sign it. Mariane pleads with her father, asking him not to force the marriage upon her. She tells him that she'll hate her life. The girl says, that if Orgon insists she not marry Valere, the least he could do is not force her to marry Tartuffe. She alludes that if the marriage is forced on her she may take some unspecified \"desperate course\" . Orgon is moved a bit by her appeal, but he stands firm. Mariane goes on, telling him that he can give Tartuffe his property and, if he wishes, her own inheritance, but that she would rather live in a convent than wed Tartuffe. Orgon acts as though Mariane is just being a silly little girl. Then he drops a real bomb on her: the more you hate your husband, he says, the more virtuous you'll be! Dorine attempts to get a word in, but she's denied. As is Cleante. Elmire steps into the fray and tells Orgon what a gullible dope he is. Orgon accuses her of being \"partial\" to Damis, implying that the whole thing was a ploy to discredit Tartuffe. If it were the real deal, he says, you should have been angrier. Elmire resents Orgon's claims, and tells him that she prefers to play it cool. She's not a catty prude, she tells him, but a classy broad. When Orgon still won't budge, Elmire tells him that she can show him that she, Damis, and everyone else is telling the truth. Though Orgon resists, Elmire convinces him to at least give her a chance. Elmire tells Dorine to fetch Tartuffe and gets everyone else, save Orgon, to leave the room."}, {"": "251", "document": "\n\nOn the completion of the Columbiad the public interest centered\nin the projectile itself, the vehicle which was destined to\ncarry the three hardy adventurers into space.\n\nThe new plans had been sent to Breadwill and Co., of Albany,\nwith the request for their speedy execution.  The projectile was\nconsequently cast on the 2nd of November, and immediately\nforwarded by the Eastern Railway to Stones Hill, which it\nreached without accident on the 10th of that month, where Michel\nArdan, Barbicane, and Nicholl were waiting impatiently for it.\n\nThe projectile had now to be filled to the depth of three feet\nwith a bed of water, intended to support a water-tight wooden\ndisc, which worked easily within the walls of the projectile.\nIt was upon this kind of raft that the travelers were to take\ntheir place.  This body of water was divided by horizontal\npartitions, which the shock of the departure would have to break\nin succession.  Then each sheet of the water, from the lowest\nto the highest, running off into escape tubes toward the top of\nthe projectile, constituted a kind of spring; and the wooden\ndisc, supplied with extremely powerful plugs, could not strike\nthe lowest plate except after breaking successively the\ndifferent partitions.  Undoubtedly the travelers would still\nhave to encounter a violent recoil after the complete escapement\nof the water; but the first shock would be almost entirely\ndestroyed by this powerful spring.  The upper parts of the walls\nwere lined with a thick padding of leather, fastened upon springs\nof the best steel, behind which the escape tubes were completely\nconcealed; thus all imaginable precautions had been taken for\naverting the first shock; and if they did get crushed, they\nmust, as Michel Ardan said, be made of very bad materials.\n\nThe entrance into this metallic tower was by a narrow aperture\ncontrived in the wall of the cone.  This was hermetically closed\nby a plate of aluminum, fastened internally by powerful\nscrew-pressure.  The travelers could therefore quit their prison\nat pleasure, as soon as they should reach the moon.\n\nLight and view were given by means of four thick lenticular\nglass scuttles, two pierced in the circular wall itself, the\nthird in the bottom, the fourth in the top.  These scuttles then\nwere protected against the shock of departure by plates let into\nsolid grooves, which could easily be opened outward by\nunscrewing them from the inside.  Reservoirs firmly fixed\ncontained water and the necessary provisions; and fire\nand light were procurable by means of gas, contained in a\nspecial reservoir under a pressure of several atmospheres.\nThey had only to turn a tap, and for six hours the gas would\nlight and warm this comfortable vehicle.\n\nThere now remained only the question of air; for allowing for\nthe consumption of air by Barbicane, his two companions, and two\ndogs which he proposed taking with him, it was necessary to\nrenew the air of the projectile.  Now air consists principally\nof twenty-one parts of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen.\nThe lungs absorb the oxygen, which is indispensable for the support\nof life, and reject the nitrogen.  The air expired loses nearly\nfive per cent. of the former and contains nearly an equal volume\nof carbonic acid, produced by the combustion of the elements of\nthe blood.  In an air-tight enclosure, then, after a certain\ntime, all the oxygen of the air will be replaced by the carbonic\nacid-- a gas fatal to life.  There were two things to be done\nthen-- first, to replace the absorbed oxygen; secondly, to\ndestroy the expired carbonic acid; both easy enough to do, by\nmeans of chlorate of potassium and caustic potash.  The former\nis a salt which appears under the form of white crystals; when\nraised to a temperature of 400 degrees it is transformed into\nchlorure of potassium, and the oxygen which it contains is\nentirely liberated.  Now twenty-eight pounds of chlorate of\npotassium produces seven pounds of oxygen, or 2,400 litres-- the\nquantity necessary for the travelers during twenty-four hours.\n\nCaustic potash has a great affinity for carbonic acid; and it is\nsufficient to shake it in order for it to seize upon the acid\nand form bicarbonate of potassium.  By these two means they\nwould be enabled to restore to the vitiated air its life-\nsupporting properties.\n\nIt is necessary, however, to add that the experiments had\nhitherto been made _in anima vili_.  Whatever its scientific\naccuracy was, they were at present ignorant how it would answer\nwith human beings.  The honor of putting it to the proof was\nenergetically claimed by J. T. Maston.\n\n\"Since I am not to go,\" said the brave artillerist, \"I may at\nleast live for a week in the projectile.\"\n\nIt would have been hard to refuse him; so they consented to\nhis wish.  A sufficient quantity of chlorate of potassium and\nof caustic potash was placed at his disposal, together with\nprovisions for eight days.  And having shaken hands with his\nfriends, on the 12th of November, at six o'clock A.M., after\nstrictly informing them not to open his prison before the 20th,\nat six o'clock P.M., he slid down the projectile, the plate of\nwhich was at once hermetically sealed.  What did he do with\nhimself during that week?  They could get no information.\nThe thickness of the walls of the projectile prevented any\nsound reaching from the inside to the outside.  On the 20th\nof November, at six P.M. exactly, the plate was opened.\nThe friends of J. T. Maston had been all along in a state of\nmuch anxiety; but they were promptly reassured on hearing a\njolly voice shouting a boisterous hurrah.\n\nPresently afterward the secretary of the Gun Club appeared at\nthe top of the cone in a triumphant attitude.  He had grown fat!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Ardan suggests changing the shape of the projectile from a sphere to a conic, bullet-like shape. This new capsule arrives in mid-November. The interior is rather nice--it has light, heat, and food--and Ardan even figures out a way to produce oxygen by evaporating \"Chlorate of potash\" . Time for another test. J.T. Maston volunteers to be locked in the capsule for eight full days to see if everything works. To everyone's surprise, Maston \"had grown fat\" by the time those eight days are up."}, {"": "252", "document": "\n\nOne thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely\nsatisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted\nterm of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's\nconfidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the\nChurchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his\nfortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take\ntheir time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were\nentered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and\nhoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of\nits being all in vain.\n\nEnscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His\nwish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed.\nAll was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude\ngenerally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her\nball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking\nindifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or\nbecause the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he\nseemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its\nexciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.\nTo her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,\nthan,\n\n\"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this\ntrouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say\nagainst it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes,\nI must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as\nI can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's\nweek's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing\ndancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who\ndoes.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.\nThose who are standing by are usually thinking of something very\ndifferent.\"\n\nThis Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not\nin compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so\nindignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball,\nfor _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made\nher animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;--\n\n\"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.\nWhat a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with\n_very_ great pleasure.\"\n\nIt was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred\nthe society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced\nthat Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great\ndeal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no\nlove.\n\nAlas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two\ndays of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of\nevery thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's\ninstant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without\nhim; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband)\nwhen writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual\nunwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of\nherself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,\nand must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.\n\nThe substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.\nWeston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone\nwithin a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,\nto lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but\nfor her own convenience.\n\nMrs. Weston added, \"that he could only allow himself time to hurry to\nHighbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there\nwhom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be\nexpected at Hartfield very soon.\"\n\nThis wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had\nbeen read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The\nloss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man\nmight be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as\nit would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the\nhappiest!--\"I said it would be so,\" was the only consolation.\n\nHer father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of\nMrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as\nfor the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they\nwould all be safer at home.\n\nEmma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this\nreflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want\nof spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away\nalmost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He\nsat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing\nhimself, it was only to say,\n\n\"Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.\"\n\n\"But you will come again,\" said Emma. \"This will not be your only visit\nto Randalls.\"\n\n\"Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to\nreturn!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of\nall my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this\nspring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it\nis a custom gone for ever.\"\n\n\"Our poor ball must be quite given up.\"\n\n\"Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the\npleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,\nfoolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse,\nwhy are you always so right?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much\nrather have been merry than wise.\"\n\n\"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends\non it. Do not forget your engagement.\"\n\nEmma looked graciously.\n\n\"Such a fortnight as it has been!\" he continued; \"every day more\nprecious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making\nme less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at\nHighbury!\"\n\n\"As you do us such ample justice now,\" said Emma, laughing, \"I will\nventure to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?\nDo not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure\nyou did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in\ncoming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.\"\n\nHe laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma\nwas convinced that it had been so.\n\n\"And you must be off this very morning?\"\n\n\"Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I\nmust be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring\nhim.\"\n\n\"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss\nBates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have\nstrengthened yours.\"\n\n\"Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It\nwas a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained\nby Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not\nto wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_\nlaugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my\nvisit, then\"--\n\nHe hesitated, got up, walked to a window.\n\n\"In short,\" said he, \"perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be\nquite without suspicion\"--\n\nHe looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew\nwhat to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely\nserious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in\nthe hope of putting it by, she calmly said,\n\n\"You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,\nthen\"--\n\nHe was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting\non what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard\nhim sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.\nHe could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments\npassed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,\n\n\"It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to\nHartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm\"--\n\nHe stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more\nin love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might\nhave ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse\nsoon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.\n\nA very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.\nWeston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of\nprocrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that\nwas doubtful, said, \"It was time to go;\" and the young man, though he\nmight and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.\n\n\"I shall hear about you all,\" said he; \"that is my chief consolation.\nI shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged\nMrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise\nit. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really\ninterested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters\nI shall be at dear Highbury again.\"\n\nA very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest \"Good-bye,\" closed the\nspeech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been\nthe notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry\nto part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his\nabsence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too\nmuch.\n\nIt was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his\narrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to\nthe last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation\nof seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his\nattentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy\nfortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common\ncourse of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had\n_almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of\naffection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present\nshe could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious\npreference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest,\nmade her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of\nevery previous determination against it.\n\n\"I certainly must,\" said she. \"This sensation of listlessness,\nweariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself,\nthis feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!--\nI must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I\nwere not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to\nothers. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank\nChurchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening\nwith his dear William Larkins now if he likes.\"\n\nMr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say\nthat he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have\ncontradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he\nwas sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable\nkindness added,\n\n\"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out\nof luck; you are very much out of luck!\"\n\nIt was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest\nregret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure\nwas odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from\nheadache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball\ntaken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was\ncharity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of\nill-health.\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Knightley seems much less excited about the ball than Emma - although Emma observes that he's probably just old and grumpy. Unfortunately, a few days before the ball, Frank's aunt orders him to come back to her house. In case we have mentioned it, Frank's aunt has very well-timed illnesses. They seem to crop up whenever Frank does something that she doesn't like. Sadly, Emma and Frank agree to postpone the ball. As Frank takes his leave, he seems about to say something to Emma. There's a tense, emotion-filled moment before he rushes out the door... Contemplating Frank's last words, Emma becomes pretty convinced that he was just on the verge of telling her he loved her. Of course, Emma sort of thinks that an \"I love you\" from Frank and a dollar will buy her a gumball. Just kidding. This is England. No dollars. No gumballs. It's a metaphor. In other words, Emma realizes that Frank talks real pretty - but he might not mean everything he says. After Frank leaves, Emma gets word that Jane Fairfax has taken ill; apparently, she caught a bad cold. Jane holes up in her house for several days."}, {"": "253", "document": "\nThe old philosopher, whose name was Martin, embarked then with Candide\nfor Bordeaux. They had both seen and suffered a great deal; and if the\nvessel had sailed from Surinam to Japan, by the Cape of Good Hope, the\nsubject of moral and natural evil would have enabled them to entertain\none another during the whole voyage.\n\nCandide, however, had one great advantage over Martin, in that he always\nhoped to see Miss Cunegonde; whereas Martin had nothing at all to hope.\nBesides, Candide was possessed of money and jewels, and though he had\nlost one hundred large red sheep, laden with the greatest treasure upon\nearth; though the knavery of the Dutch skipper still sat heavy upon his\nmind; yet when he reflected upon what he had still left, and when he\nmentioned the name of Cunegonde, especially towards the latter end of a\nrepast, he inclined to Pangloss's doctrine.\n\n\"But you, Mr. Martin,\" said he to the philosopher, \"what do you think\nof all this? what are your ideas on moral and natural evil?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered Martin, \"our priests accused me of being a Socinian, but\nthe real fact is I am a Manichean.\"[21]\n\n\"You jest,\" said Candide; \"there are no longer Manicheans in the world.\"\n\n\"I am one,\" said Martin. \"I cannot help it; I know not how to think\notherwise.\"\n\n\"Surely you must be possessed by the devil,\" said Candide.\n\n\"He is so deeply concerned in the affairs of this world,\" answered\nMartin, \"that he may very well be in me, as well as in everybody else;\nbut I own to you that when I cast an eye on this globe, or rather on\nthis little ball, I cannot help thinking that God has abandoned it to\nsome malignant being. I except, always, El Dorado. I scarcely ever knew\na city that did not desire the destruction of a neighbouring city, nor a\nfamily that did not wish to exterminate some other family. Everywhere\nthe weak execrate the powerful, before whom they cringe; and the\npowerful beat them like sheep whose wool and flesh they sell. A million\nregimented assassins, from one extremity of Europe to the other, get\ntheir bread by disciplined depredation and murder, for want of more\nhonest employment. Even in those cities which seem to enjoy peace, and\nwhere the arts flourish, the inhabitants are devoured by more envy,\ncare, and uneasiness than are experienced by a besieged town. Secret\ngriefs are more cruel than public calamities. In a word I have seen so\nmuch, and experienced so much that I am a Manichean.\"\n\n\"There are, however, some things good,\" said Candide.\n\n\"That may be,\" said Martin; \"but I know them not.\"\n\nIn the middle of this dispute they heard the report of cannon; it\nredoubled every instant. Each took out his glass. They saw two ships in\nclose fight about three miles off. The wind brought both so near to the\nFrench vessel that our travellers had the pleasure of seeing the fight\nat their ease. At length one let off a broadside, so low and so truly\naimed, that the other sank to the bottom. Candide and Martin could\nplainly perceive a hundred men on the deck of the sinking vessel; they\nraised their hands to heaven and uttered terrible outcries, and the next\nmoment were swallowed up by the sea.\n\n\"Well,\" said Martin, \"this is how men treat one another.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said Candide; \"there is something diabolical in this\naffair.\"\n\nWhile speaking, he saw he knew not what, of a shining red, swimming\nclose to the vessel. They put out the long-boat to see what it could\nbe: it was one of his sheep! Candide was more rejoiced at the recovery\nof this one sheep than he had been grieved at the loss of the hundred\nladen with the large diamonds of El Dorado.\n\nThe French captain soon saw that the captain of the victorious vessel\nwas a Spaniard, and that the other was a Dutch pirate, and the very same\none who had robbed Candide. The immense plunder which this villain had\namassed, was buried with him in the sea, and out of the whole only one\nsheep was saved.\n\n\"You see,\" said Candide to Martin, \"that crime is sometimes punished.\nThis rogue of a Dutch skipper has met with the fate he deserved.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Martin; \"but why should the passengers be doomed also to\ndestruction? God has punished the knave, and the devil has drowned the\nrest.\"\n\nThe French and Spanish ships continued their course, and Candide\ncontinued his conversation with Martin. They disputed fifteen successive\ndays, and on the last of those fifteen days, they were as far advanced\nas on the first. But, however, they chatted, they communicated ideas,\nthey consoled each other. Candide caressed his sheep.\n\n\"Since I have found thee again,\" said he, \"I may likewise chance to find\nmy Cunegonde.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Although Candide feels displeased with his misfortune, he still has sufficient wealth and therefore figures Cunegonde will marry him eventually. Martin, on the other hand, is hopeless. He believes that people are inherently evil. Martin reveals that he is a Manichaeist. Manichaeism was an antiquated religion that believed in light and darkness, good and evil. As Martin continues his argument that the world's dark side has taken over, they witness a battle taking place between a Spanish ship and a Dutch pirate ship. This supports his argument. Turns out, the pirate ship belongs to that jerk Vanderdendur who stole Candide's jewel-laden sheep. Just then, Candide spots one of those sheep floating toward his boat in the water. Candide, in an outburst of logic, suggests that, since he found the sheep, he will definitely find Cunegonde again."}, {"": "254", "document": "PART 1 OF MAN. CHAPTER I. OF SENSE\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nConcerning the Thoughts of man, I will consider them first Singly, and\nafterwards in Trayne, or dependance upon one another. Singly, they\nare every one a Representation or Apparence, of some quality, or other\nAccident of a body without us; which is commonly called an Object. Which\nObject worketh on the Eyes, Eares, and other parts of mans body; and by\ndiversity of working, produceth diversity of Apparences.\n\nThe Originall of them all, is that which we call Sense; (For there is\nno conception in a mans mind, which hath not at first, totally, or by\nparts, been begotten upon the organs of Sense.) The rest are derived\nfrom that originall.\n\nTo know the naturall cause of Sense, is not very necessary to the\nbusiness now in hand; and I have els-where written of the same at large.\nNevertheless, to fill each part of my present method, I will briefly\ndeliver the same in this place.\n\nThe cause of Sense, is the Externall Body, or Object, which presseth the\norgan proper to each Sense, either immediatly, as in the Tast and Touch;\nor mediately, as in Seeing, Hearing, and Smelling: which pressure, by\nthe mediation of Nerves, and other strings, and membranes of the body,\ncontinued inwards to the Brain, and Heart, causeth there a resistance,\nor counter-pressure, or endeavour of the heart, to deliver it self:\nwhich endeavour because Outward, seemeth to be some matter without. And\nthis Seeming, or Fancy, is that which men call sense; and consisteth, as\nto the Eye, in a Light, or Colour Figured; To the Eare, in a Sound; To\nthe Nostrill, in an Odour; To the Tongue and Palat, in a Savour; and\nto the rest of the body, in Heat, Cold, Hardnesse, Softnesse, and such\nother qualities, as we discern by Feeling. All which qualities called\nSensible, are in the object that causeth them, but so many several\nmotions of the matter, by which it presseth our organs diversly. Neither\nin us that are pressed, are they anything els, but divers motions; (for\nmotion, produceth nothing but motion.) But their apparence to us is\nFancy, the same waking, that dreaming. And as pressing, rubbing,\nor striking the Eye, makes us fancy a light; and pressing the Eare,\nproduceth a dinne; so do the bodies also we see, or hear, produce the\nsame by their strong, though unobserved action, For if those Colours,\nand Sounds, were in the Bodies, or Objects that cause them, they could\nnot bee severed from them, as by glasses, and in Ecchoes by reflection,\nwee see they are; where we know the thing we see, is in one place; the\napparence, in another. And though at some certain distance, the reall,\nand very object seem invested with the fancy it begets in us; Yet still\nthe object is one thing, the image or fancy is another. So that Sense in\nall cases, is nothing els but originall fancy, caused (as I have said)\nby the pressure, that is, by the motion, of externall things upon our\nEyes, Eares, and other organs thereunto ordained.\n\nBut the Philosophy-schooles, through all the Universities of\nChristendome, grounded upon certain Texts of Aristotle, teach another\ndoctrine; and say, For the cause of Vision, that the thing seen, sendeth\nforth on every side a Visible Species(in English) a Visible Shew,\nApparition, or Aspect, or a Being Seen; the receiving whereof into the\nEye, is Seeing. And for the cause of Hearing, that the thing heard,\nsendeth forth an Audible Species, that is, an Audible Aspect, or Audible\nBeing Seen; which entring at the Eare, maketh Hearing. Nay for the\ncause of Understanding also, they say the thing Understood sendeth forth\nIntelligible Species, that is, an Intelligible Being Seen; which\ncomming into the Understanding, makes us Understand. I say not this,\nas disapproving the use of Universities: but because I am to speak\nhereafter of their office in a Common-wealth, I must let you see on\nall occasions by the way, what things would be amended in them; amongst\nwhich the frequency of insignificant Speech is one.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Our story opens with a view of Darwinist forces amassed against those of the great Austro-Hungarian Empire. Then we find out that those forces are Prince Aleksander's desk accessories set up for a mock battle--and here we thought decorating our lockers was cool. Prince Aleksander is having to make do with pens and ink bottles because his parents left him at home while they went to watch military maneuvers. Weak. But wait... Prince Aleksander hears noises in the hall and sneaks back to his bed to pretend to be asleep. Is it an assassin? A thief? Nope, it's just Otto Klopp, his master of mechaniks, and Count Volger, his fencing master. The two men tell Prince Aleksander to come with them for some nighttime training exercises in his walker, which is not something little babies and old people use, but a sweet war machine. They all sneak out of the palace--something we at Shmoop do all the time . As they're getting their sneak on, Alek reflects on his position: because his mother isn't royal, his parents' marriage doesn't count. This means that Alek will never be able to inherit his father's lands and titles unless he defies his great-uncle, the emperor. First world problems, right? Oh, and Volger, as a noble, doesn't really respect Alek the way commoners like Klopp do."}, {"": "255", "document": "Scene 2.\n\nEnter Prince, Claudio, Benedicke, and Leonato.\n\n  Prince. I doe but stay till your marriage be consummate,\nand then go I toward Arragon\n\n   Clau. Ile bring you thither my Lord, if you'l vouchsafe\nme\n\n   Prin. Nay, that would be as great a soyle in the new\nglosse of your marriage, as to shew a childe his new coat\nand forbid him to weare it, I will onely bee bold with\nBenedicke for his companie, for from the crowne of his\nhead, to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth, he hath twice\nor thrice cut Cupids bow-string, and the little hang-man\ndare not shoot at him, he hath a heart as sound as a bell,\nand his tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinkes,\nhis tongue speakes\n\n   Bene. Gallants, I am not as I haue bin\n\n   Leo. So say I, methinkes you are sadder\n\n   Claud. I hope he be in loue\n\n   Prin. Hang him truant, there's no true drop of bloud\nin him to be truly toucht with loue, if he be sad, he wants\nmoney\n\n   Bene. I haue the tooth-ach\n\n   Prin. Draw it\n\n   Bene. Hang it\n\n   Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards\n\n   Prin. What? sigh for the tooth-ach\n\n   Leon. Where is but a humour or a worme\n\n   Bene. Well, euery one cannot master a griefe, but hee\nthat has it\n\n   Clau. Yet say I, he is in loue\n\n   Prin. There is no appearance of fancie in him, vnlesse\nit be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to bee a\nDutchman to day, a Frenchman to morrow: vnlesse hee\nhaue a fancy to this foolery, as it appeares hee hath, hee\nis no foole for fancy, as you would haue it to appeare\nhe is\n\n   Clau. If he be not in loue with some woman, there\nis no beleeuing old signes, a brushes his hat a mornings,\nWhat should that bode?\n  Prin. Hath any man seene him at the Barbers?\n  Clau. No, but the Barbers man hath beene seen with\nhim, and the olde ornament of his cheeke hath alreadie\nstuft tennis balls\n\n   Leon. Indeed he lookes yonger than hee did, by the\nlosse of a beard\n\n   Prin. Nay a rubs himselfe with Ciuit, can you smell\nhim out by that?\n  Clau. That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in\nloue\n\n   Prin. The greatest note of it is his melancholy\n\n   Clau. And when was he wont to wash his face?\n  Prin. Yea, or to paint himselfe? for the which I heare\nwhat they say of him\n\n   Clau. Nay, but his iesting spirit, which is now crept\ninto a lute-string, and now gouern'd by stops\n\n   Prin. Indeed that tels a heauy tale for him: conclude,\nhe is in loue\n\n   Clau. Nay, but I know who loues him\n\n   Prince. That would I know too, I warrant one that\nknowes him not\n\n   Cla. Yes, and his ill conditions, and in despight of all,\ndies for him\n\n   Prin. Shee shall be buried with her face vpwards\n\n   Bene. Yet is this no charme for the tooth-ake, old signior,\nwalke aside with mee, I haue studied eight or nine\nwise words to speake to you, which these hobby-horses\nmust not heare\n\n   Prin. For my life to breake with him about Beatrice\n\n   Clau. 'Tis euen so, Hero and Margaret haue by this\nplayed their parts with Beatrice, and then the two Beares\nwill not bite one another when they meete.\nEnter Iohn the Bastard.\n\n  Bast. My Lord and brother, God saue you\n\n   Prin. Good den brother\n\n   Bast. If your leisure seru'd, I would speake with you\n\n   Prince. In priuate?\n  Bast. If it please you, yet Count Claudio may heare,\nfor what I would speake of, concernes him\n\n   Prin. What's the matter?\n  Basta. Meanes your Lordship to be married to morrow?\n  Prin. You know he does\n\n   Bast. I know not that when he knowes what I know\n\n   Clau. If there be any impediment, I pray you discouer\nit\n\n   Bast. You may thinke I loue you not, let that appeare\nhereafter, and ayme better at me by that I now will manifest,\nfor my brother (I thinke, he holds you well, and in\ndearenesse of heart) hath holpe to effect your ensuing\nmarriage: surely sute ill spent, and labour ill bestowed\n\n   Prin. Why, what's the matter?\n  Bastard. I came hither to tell you, and circumstances\nshortned, (for she hath beene too long a talking of) the\nLady is disloyall\n\n   Clau. Who Hero?\n  Bast. Euen shee, Leonatoes Hero, your Hero, euery\nmans Hero\n\n   Clau. Disloyall?\n  Bast. The word is too good to paint out her wickednesse,\nI could say she were worse, thinke you of a worse\ntitle, and I will fit her to it: wonder not till further warrant:\ngoe but with mee to night, you shal see her chamber\nwindow entred, euen the night before her wedding\nday, if you loue her, then to morrow wed her: But it\nwould better fit your honour to change your minde\n\n   Claud. May this be so?\n  Princ. I will not thinke it\n\n   Bast. If you dare not trust that you see, confesse not\nthat you know: if you will follow mee, I will shew you\nenough, and when you haue seene more, & heard more,\nproceed accordingly\n\n   Clau. If I see any thing to night, why I should not\nmarry her to morrow in the congregation, where I shold\nwedde, there will I shame her\n\n   Prin. And as I wooed for thee to obtaine her, I will\nioyne with thee to disgrace her\n\n   Bast. I will disparage her no farther, till you are my\nwitnesses, beare it coldly but till night, and let the issue\nshew it selfe\n\n   Prin. O day vntowardly turned!\n  Claud. O mischiefe strangelie thwarting!\n  Bastard. O plague right well preuented! so will you\nsay, when you haue seene the sequele.\n\n\nEnter.\n\n\n", "summary": "In rural Gloucestershire in central England, we meet two prosperous rustic men: Justice Shallow and Justice Silence. They are justices of the peace, or minor law officials, who also own farms; they are typical of the rural upper-middle class of Elizabethan England. They are also cousins, and Justice Shallow is an old school friend of Falstaff. The two are getting ready for Falstaff's arrival, for he will be coming through Gloucestershire looking for recruits to draft into the king's war against the rebels in the north. Shallow, living up to his name, talks jovially and abundantly; Silence, living up to his, answers Shallow but seldom says anything on his own. Shallow's conversation is largely about farming, neighbors , and fond memories of his school days. He and Falstaff went to college together at the Inns of Court, the elite law schools in London. Apparently, Falstaff has not changed very much since then; Shallow fondly recalls their visits with the \"bona-robas\" of London . He proudly describes having seen Falstaff beat up a man named Scoggin, at the very gate of the court, when Falstaff was a mere \"crack,\" or boy . Falstaff and Bardolph arrive, and the two justices present to them the recruits they have rounded up. The recruits--country men named Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, and Bullcalf--are mostly ragged and skinny, as their names suggest, but Falstaff chooses all except Wart to come with him, ordering Bardolph to \"prick them,\" or write down their names in the book of draftees. However, Bullcalf and Mouldy bribe Bardolph to let them off the hook, and when Bardolph quietly passes on the word to Falstaff, he tells them they can go. Justice Shallow, unfamiliar with Falstaff's usual way of doing business, is confused and protests loudly that Falstaff has not chosen the best men. Falstaff responds by confusing him with high-flown language about how a soldier's physical strength is not always the best measure of his valor, and he declares that he will take only Shadow, Feeble, and Wart. Shallow presses Falstaff to stay for dinner, but Falstaff says, in a surprising moment of responsibility, that he must march on tonight toward the war. They exchange fond good-byes, and Falstaff, alone, recalls aloud that Shallow has always been a fool. Now, however, he is also rich, and Falstaff decides that if he returns from the war he will come back and get Shallow to lend him some money.        Act III,"}, {"": "256", "document": "Christian, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, Le Bret, the cadets, then Cyrano.\n\nLE BRET:\n  'Tis terrible.\n\nCARBON:\n  Not a morsel left.\n\nLE BRET:\n  Mordioux!\n\nCARBON (making a sign that he should speak lower):\n  Curse under your breath.  You will awake them.\n(To the cadets):\n  Hush!  Sleep on.\n(To Le Bret):\n  He who sleeps, dines!\n\nLE BRET:\n  But that is sorry comfort for the sleepless!. . .\n  What starvation!\n\n(Firing is heard in the distance.)\n\nCARBON:\n  Oh, plague take their firing!  'Twill wake my sons.\n(To the cadets, who lift up their heads):\n  Sleep on!\n\n(Firing is again heard, nearer this time.)\n\nA CADET (moving):\n  The devil!. . .Again.\n\nCARBON:\n  'Tis nothing!  'Tis Cyrano coming back!\n\n(Those who have lifted up their heads prepare to sleep again.)\n\nA SENTINEL (from without):\n  Ventrebieu!  Who goes there?\n\nTHE VOICE Of CYRANO:\n  Bergerac.\n\nThe SENTINEL (who is on the redoubt):\n  Ventrebieu!  Who goes there?\n\nCYRANO (appearing at the top):\n  Bergerac, idiot!\n\n(He comes down; Le Bret advances anxiously to meet him.)\n\nLE BRET:\n  Heavens!\n\nCYRANO (making signs that he should not awake the others):\n  Hush!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Wounded?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh! you know it has become their custom to shoot at me every morning and to\nmiss me.\n\nLE BRET:\n  This passes all!  To take letters at each day's dawn.  To risk. . .\n\nCYRANO (stopping before Christian):\n  I promised he should write often.\n(He looks at him):\n  He sleeps.  How pale he is!  But how handsome still, despite his sufferings.\nIf his poor little lady-love knew that he is dying of hunger. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Get you quick to bed.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Nay, never scold, Le Bret.  I ran but little risk.  I have found me a spot\nto pass the Spanish lines, where each night they lie drunk.\n\nLE BRET:\n  You should try to bring us back provision.\n\nCYRANO:\n  A man must carry no weight who would get by there!  But there will be\nsurprise for us this night.  The French will eat or die. . .if I mistake not!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Oh!. . .tell me!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Nay, not yet.  I am not certain. . .You will see!\n\nCARBON:\n  It is disgraceful that we should starve while we're besieging!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Alas, how full of complication is this siege of Arras!  To think that while\nwe are besieging, we should ourselves be caught in a trap and besieged by the\nCardinal Infante of Spain.\n\nCYRANO:\n  It were well done if he should be besieged in his turn.\n\nLE BRET:\n  I am in earnest.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh! indeed!\n\nLE BRET:\n  To think you risk a life so precious. . .for the sake of a letter. .\n.Thankless one.\n(Seeing him turning to enter the tent):\n  Where are you going?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I am going to write another.\n\n(He enters the tent and disappears.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "While Cyrano sits on the rail of the balcony waiting to divert De Guiche, the lutes begin to play a sinister and mournful tune. When De Guiche arrives in mask, Cyrano swings down and lands between him and the door, pretending to be a lunatic who has fallen from the moon. He keeps De Guiche engaged with his chatter about \"six ways to violate the virgin sky\" and get to the moon. Throughout this dialogue Cyrano speaks with a Gascon accent and keeps his nose concealed with the brim of his hat in order to hide his identity from De Guiche. When the newly married Roxane and Christian emerge from the house, De Guiche grasps the situation. He acknowledges Roxane's cleverness and Cyrano's powers of invention in keeping him occupied. Wanting revenge, however, De Guiche orders that all the cadets must join the regiment and leave for Arras immediately. The distraught Roxane begs Cyrano to ensure Christian's safety, comfort and fidelity. She also asks for regular letters, which Cyrano promises."}, {"": "257", "document": "\n\nA few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to\nsuspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of\nher observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.\nWhen she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends\nin Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so\ntrifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed.\nA something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of\nmind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come\nacross her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread\na new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her\nin public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were\noffered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice\nand smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What\ncould be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at,\nwas beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain\nshe was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which\nCatherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him\ngrave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman\nmight be who had given him her heart, to her it was always an object.\nFor poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks\ndid not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she\nthought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for,\nin spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room,\nhis behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's\nengagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it.\nHe might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed\nimplied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by\na gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make\nher aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either\nopportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest\na hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the\nintended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation;\ntheir journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days,\nand Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to every heart\nbut his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing;\nhe was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath.\nWhen Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to\nHenry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother's evident partiality\nfor Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.\n\n\"My brother does know it,\" was Henry's answer.\n\n\"Does he? Then why does he stay here?\"\n\nHe made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she\neagerly continued, \"Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer\nhe stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his\nown sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will\nin time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it\nis only staying to be miserable.\"\n\nHenry smiled and said, \"I am sure my brother would not wish to do that.\"\n\n\"Then you will persuade him to go away?\"\n\n\"Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour\nto persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He\nknows what he is about, and must be his own master.\"\n\n\"No, he does not know what he is about,\" cried Catherine; \"he does not\nknow the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me\nso, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"And are you sure it is my brother's doing?\"\n\n\"Yes, very sure.\"\n\n\"Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's\nadmission of them, that gives the pain?\"\n\n\"Is not it the same thing?\"\n\n\"I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended\nby another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only\nwho can make it a torment.\"\n\nCatherine blushed for her friend, and said, \"Isabella is wrong. But I\nam sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my\nbrother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and\nwhile my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into\na fever. You know she must be attached to him.\"\n\n\"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.\"\n\n\"Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with\nanother.\"\n\n\"It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so\nwell, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a\nlittle.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, Catherine resumed with, \"Then you do not believe\nIsabella so very much attached to my brother?\"\n\n\"I can have no opinion on that subject.\"\n\n\"But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he\nmean by his behaviour?\"\n\n\"You are a very close questioner.\"\n\n\"Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.\"\n\n\"But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart.\"\n\n\"My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure\nyou I can only guess at.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To\nbe guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before\nyou. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young\nman; he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has\nknown her engagement almost as long as he has known her.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Catherine, after some moments' consideration, \"you may be\nable to guess at your brother's intentions from all this; but I am sure\nI cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he\nwant Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to\nhim, he would go.\"\n\n\"My dear Miss Morland,\" said Henry, \"in this amiable solicitude for your\nbrother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried\na little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or\nMiss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good\nbehaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain\nTilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him\nonly when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this--and you may\nbe sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, 'Do not\nbe uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as\nlittle uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment\nof your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that\nreal jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no\ndisagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open\nto each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what\nis required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will\nnever tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.\"\n\nPerceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, \"Though\nFrederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a\nvery short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence\nwill soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then\nbe their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for\na fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's\npassion for a month.\"\n\nCatherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its\napproaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her\ncaptive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent\nof her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject\nagain.\n\nHer resolution was supported by Isabella's behaviour in their parting\ninterview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine's stay in\nPulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite\nher uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in\nexcellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness\nfor her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that\nat such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat\ncontradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered\nHenry's instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The\nembraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Catherine starts watching Isabella closely and is alarmed about the changes she sees. Isabella is distracted and starts flirting with Captain Tilney in public all the time. She's also ignoring James. Catherine is concerned for everyone, thinking they will all get their feelings hurt. She still feels that Isabella can't be aware of what she's doing. Catherine speaks with Henry about the love triangle problem. She asks if Henry will talk to his brother. Henry says that he's not his brother's keeper and that his brother is fully aware that Isabella is engaged and is hanging around anyway. Henry then asks Catherine if James is upset that Captain Tilney is hanging around, or if he's upset because Isabella is hanging around Captain Tilney. Catherine doesn't get the difference. She also insists that a woman in love can't flirt with anyone else. Henry asks Catherine if she can't guess what's going on from the evidence. Of course Catherine can't. Henry tells Catherine not to meddle and notes that, if James and Isabella have a solid relationship, they'll be able to work this out. Catherine finally decides to drop it. She spends one last evening with Isabella and James, who are both in good moods."}, {"": "258", "document": "The same.  Christian, Ligniere, then Ragueneau and Le Bret.\n\nCUIGY:\n  Ligniere!\n\nBRISSAILLE (laughing):\n  Not drunk as yet?\n\nLIGNIERE (aside to Christian):\n  I may introduce you?\n(Christian nods in assent):\n  Baron de Neuvillette.\n\n(Bows.)\n\nTHE AUDIENCE (applauding as the first luster is lighted and drawn up):\n  Ah!\n\nCUIGY (to Brissaille, looking at Christian):\n  'Tis a pretty fellow!\n\nFIRST MARQUIS (who has overheard):\n  Pooh!\n\nLIGNIERE (introducing them to Christian):\n  My lords De Cuigy.  De Brissaille. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN (bowing):\n  Delighted!. . .\n\nFIRST MARQUIS (to second):\n  He is not ill to look at, but certes, he is not costumed in the latest mode.\n\nLIGNIERE (to Cuigy):\n  This gentleman comes from Touraine.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Yes, I have scarce been twenty days in Paris; tomorrow I join the Guards, in\nthe Cadets.\n\nFIRST MARQUIS (watching the people who are coming into the boxes):\n  There is the wife of the Chief-Justice.\n\nTHE BUFFET-GIRL:\n  Oranges, milk. . .\n\nTHE VIOLINISTS (tuning up):\n  La--la--\n\nCUIGY (to Christian, pointing to the hall, which is filling fast):\n  'Tis crowded.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Yes, indeed.\n\nFIRST MARQUIS:\n  All the great world!\n\n(They recognize and name the different elegantly dressed ladies who enter the\nboxes, bowing low to them.  The ladies send smiles in answer.)\n\nSECOND MARQUIS:\n  Madame de Guemenee.\n\nCUIGY:\n  Madame de Bois-Dauphin.\n\nFIRST MARQUIS:\n  Adored by us all!\n\nBRISSAILLE:\n  Madame de Chavigny. . .\n\nSECOND MARQUIS:\n  Who sports with our poor hearts!. . .\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Ha! so Monsieur de Corneille has come back from Rouen!\n\nTHE YOUNG MAN (to his father):\n  Is the Academy here?\n\nTHE BURGHER:\n  Oh, ay, I see several of them.  There is Boudu, Boissat,\nand Cureau de la Chambre, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys,\nBourdon, Arbaud. . .all names that will live!  'Tis fine!\n\nFIRST MARQUIS:\n  Attention!  Here come our precieuses; Barthenoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace,\nFelixerie. . .\n\nSECOND MARQUIS:\n  Ah!  How exquisite their fancy names are!  Do you know them all, Marquis?\n\nFIRST MARQUIS:\n  Ay, Marquis, I do, every one!\n\nLIGNIERE (drawing Christian aside):\n  Friend, I but came here to give you pleasure.  The lady comes not.  I will\nbetake me again to my pet vice.\n\nCHRISTIAN (persuasively):\n  No, no!  You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me\nbetter than any who the lady is for whom I die of love.  Stay yet awhile.\n\nTHE FIRST VIOLIN (striking his bow on the desk):\n  Gentlemen violinists!\n\n(He raises his bow.)\n\nTHE BUFFET-GIRL:\n  Macaroons, lemon-drink. . .\n\n(The violins begin to play.)\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ah!  I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious!\nI, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her--how address her?\nThis language that they speak to-day--ay, and write--confounds me;\nI am but an honest soldier, and timid withal.  She has ever her place,\nthere, on the right--the empty box, see you!\n\nLIGNIERE (making as if to go):\n  I must go.\n\nCHRISTIAN (detaining him):\n  Nay, stay.\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  I cannot.  D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst.\n\nTHE BUFFET-GIRL (passing before him with a tray):\n  Orange drink?\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Ugh!\n\nTHE BUFFET-GIRL:\n  Milk?\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Pah!\n\nTHE BUFFET-GIRL:\n  Rivesalte?\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Stay.\n(To Christian):\n  I will remain awhile.--Let me taste this rivesalte.\n\n(He sits by the buffet; the girl pours some out for him.)\n\nCRIES (from all the audience, at the entrance of a plump little man, joyously\nexcited):\n  Ah!  Ragueneau!\n\nLIGNIERE (to Christian):\n  'Tis the famous tavern-keeper Ragueneau.\n\nRAGUENEAU (dressed in the Sunday clothes of a pastry-cook, going up quickly to\nLigniere):\n  Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano?\n\nLIGNIERE (introducing him to Christian):\n  The pastry-cook of the actors and the poets!\n\nRAGUENEAU (overcome):\n  You do me too great honor. . .\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Nay, hold your peace, Maecenas that you are!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  True, these gentlemen employ me. . .\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  On credit!\n  He is himself a poet of a pretty talent. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  So they tell me.\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  --Mad after poetry!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  'Tis true that, for a little ode. . .\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  You give a tart. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Oh!--a tartlet!\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Brave fellow!  He would fain fain excuse himself!\n  --And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Some little rolls!\n\nLIGNIERE (severely):\n  They were milk-rolls!  And as for the theater, which you love?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Oh! to distraction!\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  How pay you your tickets, ha?--with cakes.\n  Your place, to-night, come tell me in my ear, what did it cost you?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Four custards, and fifteen cream-puffs.\n(He looks around on all sides):\n  Monsieur de Cyrano is not here?  'Tis strange.\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Why so?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Montfleury plays!\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Ay, 'tis true that that old wine-barrel is to take Phedon's part to-night;\nbut what matter is that to Cyrano?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  How?  Know you not?  He has got a hot hate for Montfleury, and so!--has\nforbid him strictly to show his face on the stage for one whole month.\n\nLIGNIERE (drinking his fourth glass):\n  Well?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Montfleury will play!\n\nCUIGY:\n  He can not hinder that.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Oh! oh! that I have come to see!\n\nFIRST MARQUIS:\n  Who is this Cyrano?\n\nCUIGY:\n  A fellow well skilled in all tricks of fence.\n\nSECOND MARQUIS:\n  Is he of noble birth?\n\nCUIGY:\n  Ay, noble enough.  He is a cadet in the Guards.\n(Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for\nsome one):\n  But 'tis his friend Le Bret, yonder, who can best tell you.\n(He calls him):\n  Le Bret!\n(Le Bret comes towards them):\n  Seek you for De Bergerac?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Ay, I am uneasy. . .\n\nCUIGY:\n  Is it not true that he is the strangest of men?\n\nLE BRET (tenderly):\n  True, that he is the choicest of earthly beings!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Poet!\n\nCUIGY:\n  Soldier!\n\nBRISSAILLE:\n  Philosopher!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Musician!\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  And of how fantastic a presence!\n\nRAGENEAU:\n  Marry, 'twould puzzle even our grim painter Philippe de Champaigne to\nportray him!  Methinks, whimsical, wild, comical as he is, only Jacques\nCallot, now dead and gone, had succeeded better, and had made of him the\nmaddest fighter of all his visored crew--with his triple-plumed beaver and\nsix-pointed doublet--the sword-point sticking up 'neath his mantle like an\ninsolent cocktail!  He's prouder than all the fierce Artabans of whom Gascony\nhas ever been and will ever be the prolific Alma Mater!  Above his Toby ruff\nhe carries a nose!--ah, good my lords, what a nose is his!  When one sees it\none is fain to cry aloud, 'Nay! 'tis too much!  He plays a joke on us!'  Then\none laughs, says 'He will anon take it off.'  But no!--Monsieur de Bergerac\nalways keeps it on.\n\nLE BRET (throwing back his head):\n  He keeps it on--and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it!\n\nRAGUENEAU (proudly):\n  His sword--'tis one half of the Fates' shears!\n\nFIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders):\n  He will not come!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  I say he will! and I wager a fowl--a la Ragueneau.\n\nTHE MARQUIS (laughing):\n  Good!\n\n(Murmurs of admiration in hall.  Roxane has just appeared in her box.  She\nseats herself in front, the duenna at the back.  Christian, who is paying the\nbuffet-girl, does not see her entrance.)\n\nSECOND MARQUIS (with little cries of joy):\n  Ah, gentlemen! she is fearfully--terribly--ravishing!\n\nFIRST MARQUIS:\n  When one looks at her one thinks of a peach smiling at a strawberry!\n\nSECOND MARQUIS:\n  And what freshness!  A man approaching her too near might chance to get a\nbad chill at the heart!\n\nCHRISTIAN (raising his head, sees Roxane, and catches Ligniere by the arm):\n  'Tis she!\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Ah! is it she?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ay, tell me quick--I am afraid.\n\nLIGNIERE (tasting his rivesalte in sips):\n  Magdaleine Robin--Roxane, so called!  A subtle wit--a precieuse.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Woe is me!\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Free.  An orphan.  The cousin of Cyrano, of whom we were now speaking.\n\n(At this moment an elegant nobleman, with blue ribbon across his breast,\nenters the box, and talks with Roxane, standing.)\n\nCHRISTIAN (starting):\n  Who is yonder man?\n\nLIGNIERE (who is becoming tipsy, winking at him):\n  Ha! ha!  Count de Guiche.  Enamored of her.  But wedded to the niece of\nArmand de Richelieu.  Would fain marry Roxane to a certain sorry fellow, one\nMonsieur de Valvert, a viscount--and--accommodating!  She will none of that\nbargain; but De Guiche is powerful, and can persecute the daughter of a plain\nuntitled gentleman.  More by token, I myself have exposed this cunning plan of\nhis to the world, in a song which. . .Ho! he must rage at me!  The end hit\nhome. . .Listen!\n\n(He gets up staggering, and raises his glass, ready to sing.)\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  No.  Good-night.\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Where go you?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  To Monsieur de Valvert!\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  Have a care!  It is he who will kill you\n(showing him Roxane by a look):\n  Stay where you are--she is looking at you.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  It is true!\n\n(He stands looking at her.  The group of pickpockets seeing him thus, head in\nair and open-mouthed, draw near to him.)\n\nLIGNIERE:\n  'Tis I who am going.  I am athirst!  And they expect me--in the taverns!\n\n(He goes out, reeling.)\n\nLE BRET (who has been all round the hall, coming back to Ragueneau reassured):\n  No sign of Cyrano.\n\nRAGUENEAU (incredulously):\n  All the same. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  A hope is left to me--that he has not seen the playbill!\n\nTHE AUDIENCE:\n  Begin, begin!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The audience waits for the play to begin. The disheveled satirist Ligniere enters, arm in arm, with the handsome young nobleman Baron Christian de Neuvillette, who tells a group of admiring marquises that he has been in Paris only two or three weeks and that he will join the guards tomorrow. Ligniere has come to report to Christian about the woman with whom Christian has fallen in love. Christian says she is always at the plays. But she has not arrived yet, and Ligniere prepares to leave--he says he needs to find a tavern. When a refreshment girl passes by with wine, Ligniere agrees to stay. Ragueneau, a baker who caters to and idolizes poets, enters, looking for Cyrano de Bergerac. He says he expects trouble because an actor named Montfleury is performing in the play. He knows Cyrano hates Montfleury and has banned him from performing onstage for a month. Christian has never heard of Cyrano de Bergerac, but Ragueneau and Ligniere seem to be almost in awe of him. Christian asks who Cyrano is, and his friend Le Bret says that Cyrano is the \"most delightful man under the sun. The others describe him as a poet, swordsman, scientist, musician, and \"wild swashbuckler\" with a long sword. They also say he has an unbelievably long and imposing nose. But he is a formidable figure, and Le Bret, who serves with Cyrano in the guards, says he too expects trouble. Suddenly, Christian spies the woman with whom he has fallen in love. Ligniere tells him that she is Roxane, a brilliant, young heiress and intellectual. She sits in a box with a somewhat older man--the Comte de Guiche, who is also in love with her. Ligniere says the Comte is married and hopes to marry Roxane to his lackey, the Vicomte de Valvert. Christian is most upset to learn that Roxane is an intellectual. Ligniere leaves to find a tavern, and there is still no sign of Cyrano. The crowd grows anxious for the play to begin"}, {"": "259", "document": "\n\nThis little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable\npleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which\nshe walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely\nglad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the\nEltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much\nalike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was\npeculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few\nminutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the\noccasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward\nto another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From\nHarriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the\nballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly\nopened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior\ncreature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could\nharbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious\ncourtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for\nsupplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther\nrequisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and\nMr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer\nmust be before her!\n\nShe was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he\ncould not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was\nto be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.\n\nHaving arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all\nto rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up\nfor the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa,\nwhen the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she\nhad never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet\nleaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince\nher that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white\nand frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the\nfront-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in\nthe hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.\n\nA young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,\nand surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the\nsuspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted\nwith the whole.\n\nMiss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.\nGoddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and\ntaken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough\nfor safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury,\nmaking a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became\nfor a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies\nhad advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small\ndistance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a\nparty of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and\nMiss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling\non Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at\nthe top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury.\nBut poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp\nafter dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such\na return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and\nexceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.\n\nHow the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more\ncourageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could\nnot be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children,\nheaded by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent\nin look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she\nimmediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a\nshilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She\nwas then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her\nterror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather\nsurrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.\n\nIn this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and\nconditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his\nleaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance\nat this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced\nhim to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,\na mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair\nof scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to\nrestore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a\nfew minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being\non foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The\nterror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then\ntheir own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet\neagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength\nenough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.\nIt was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other\nplace.\n\nThis was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of\nHarriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared\nnot stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him\nnot another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her\nsafety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people\nin the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful\nblessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.\n\nSuch an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman\nthrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain\nideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at\nleast. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician\nhave seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and\nheard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been\nat work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much\nmore must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and\nforesight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her\nmind had already made.\n\nIt was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever\noccurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no\nrencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very\nperson, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing\nto pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And\nknowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this\nperiod, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his\nattachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.\nIt seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting\nconsequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be\nstrongly recommending each to the other.\n\nIn the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while\nHarriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror,\nher naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a\nsensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's\nown account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the\nabominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was\nto take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.\nShe would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of\ninterference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme.\nIt was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed.\n\nEmma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of\nwhat had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but\nshe soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour\nit was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those\nwho talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in\nthe place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's\nball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat,\nand, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their\npromising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort\nto him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his\nneighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss\nSmith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had\nthe pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very\nindifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,\nand Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had\nan unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man,\nfor she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent\nillnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.\n\nThe gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took\nthemselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have\nwalked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history\ndwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her\nnephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and\nJohn were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the\ngipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the\nslightest particular from the original recital.\n\n\n", "summary": "The ball at the Crown Inn is about to take place. The Westons ask Emma to come to the inn before the ball starts in order to give her opinion about the arrangements. When she arrives, she is surprised to find that Mr. Weston's cousins have also been asked to come early and give their opinions about the arrangements; Emma does not approve of Mr. Weston consulting so many people. Emma also learns that the Westons had stopped to bring Miss Bates and Jane with them in their carriage, but the women had made plans to come with the Eltons. While supervising the arrangements, Emma finds Frank restless. He goes out every time he hears the sound of a carriage, claiming he is anxious and curious to meet Mrs. Elton. When the Eltons arrive without Miss Bates and Jane, the Eltons immediately send their carriage to the Bates house. When they finally arrive, Miss Bates and Jane are escorted by Frank and Mr. Weston. Miss Bates begins to speak in her usual rambling manner, and Mrs. Elton chatters in vulgar familiarity, refusing to properly refer to Jane as Miss Jane. Frank notices Augusta's lack of class and tells Emma that he does not like her. When Emma accuses Frank of being ungrateful, he appears to be annoyed. Emma cannot understand the cause of Frank's bad humor. Mrs. Elton and Mr. Weston are the first to dance, followed by Emma and Frank. Although she is dancing with Frank, Emma realizes that he is not very interested in her, and she thinks of him only as a friend. She is, however, jealous of the special consideration shown to Mrs. Elton and thinks that maybe she should also marry. She thinks of Knightley, who Emma notices is not dancing. As she looks at him, Emma is impressed by his tall, upright figure and his youthful looks. She wishes, however, that Knightley would enjoy balls more and like Frank better. She is pleased to see Knightley looking at her. Emma is disturbed that Harriet has no partner. Finally, Mrs. Weston asks Mr. Elton to dance with Harriet, but he refuses, saying that he is a married; instead, he asks to dance with Mrs. Weston herself. Emma feels insulted by Mr. Elton's callous behavior, but is pleased when she sees Knightley leading Harriet to the dance floor. Emma notices that he is dancing well. At dinner, Miss Bates monopolizes the conversation, filled with praise for the Westons for having the party. After supper, Knightley approaches Emma, who thanks him for his dance with Harriet. Knightley boldly asks Emma why the Eltons are her enemies. It is obvious to him that Mr. Elton's refusal to dance with Harriet was meant to insult Emma more than Harriet. Emma admits that she had tried to bring Harriet and Elton together and claims it was a vain thing to do, especially since she had misjudged Elton's character. To make Emma feel better, Knightley tells her that Mrs. Elton lacks the good qualities that Harriet possesses, and any man of sense and taste would surely prefer Harriet to Mrs. Elton. Emma feels flattered that Knightley appreciates her choice of a wife for Elton better than the one Elton has chosen for himself. When the second round of dancing is to begin, Knightley asks Emma who she is going to dance with. She tells Knightley that she would be delighted to dance with him if he asks."}, {"": "260", "document": "THE MATERNITY HOSPITAL IVY HOUSE, HACKNEY\n\nThis Hospital is one for the accommodation of young mothers on the\noccasion of the birth of their illegitimate children. It is a humble\nbuilding, containing twenty-five beds, although I think a few more can\nbe arranged. That it serves its purpose well, until the large\nMaternity Hospital of which I have already spoken can be built, is\nshown by the fact that 286 babies (of whom only twenty-five were not\nillegitimate) were born here in 1900 without the loss of a single\nmother. Thirty babies died, however, which the lady-Officer in charge\nthought rather a high proportion, but one accounted for by the fact\nthat during this particular year a large number of the births were\npremature. In 1908, 270 children were born, of whom twelve died, six\nof these being premature.\n\nThe cases are drawn from London and other towns where the Salvation\nArmy is at work. Generally they, or their relatives and friends, or\nperhaps the father of the child, apply to the Army to help them in\ntheir trouble, thereby, no doubt, preventing many child-murders and\nsome suicides. The charge made by the Institution for these lying-in\ncases is in proportion to the ability of the patient to pay. Many\ncontribute nothing at all. From those who do pay, the average sum\nreceived is 10_s_. a week, in return for which they are furnished with\nmedical attendance, food, nursing, and all other things needful to\ntheir state.\n\nI went over the Hospital, and saw these unfortunate mothers lying in\nbed, each of them with her infant in a cot beside her. Although their\nimmediate trial was over, these poor girls looked very sad.\n\n'They know that their lives are spoiled,' said the lady in charge.\n\nMost of them were quite young, some being only fifteen, and the\nmajority under twenty. This, it was explained to me, is generally due\nto the ignorance of the facts of life in which girls are kept by their\nparents or others responsible for their training. Last year there was\na mother aged thirteen in this Hospital.\n\nOne girl, who seemed particularly sad, had twins lying beside her.\nHoping to cheer her up, I remarked that they were beautiful babies,\nwhereon she hid her face beneath the bedclothes.\n\n'Don't talk about them,' said the Officer, drawing me away, 'that\nchild nearly cried her eyes out when she was told that there were two.\nYou see, it is hard enough for these poor mothers to keep one, but\nwhen it comes to two--!'\n\nI asked whether the majority of these unfortunate young women really\ntried to support their children. The answer was that most of them try\nvery hard indeed, and will use all their money for this purpose, even\nstinting themselves of absolute necessaries. Few of them go wrong\nagain after their first slip, as they have learned their lesson.\nMoreover, during their stay in hospital and afterwards, the Salvation\nArmy does its best to impress on them certain moral teachings, and\nthus to make its work preventive as well as remedial.\n\nPlaces in service are found for a great number of these girls,\ngenerally where only one servant is kept, so that they may not be\ntaunted by the others if these should find out their secret. This as a\nrule, however, is confided to the mistress. The average wage they\nreceive is about L18 a year. As it costs them L13, or 5_s_. a week, to\nsupport an infant (not allowing for its clothes), the struggle is very\nhard unless the Army can discover the father, and make him contribute\ntowards the support of his child, either voluntarily or through a\nbastardy order.\n\nI was informed that many of these fathers are supposed to be\ngentlemen, but when it comes to this matter of payment, they show that\nthey have little title to that description. Of course, in the case of\nmen of humbler degree, money is even harder to recover. I may add,\nthat my own long experience as a magistrate goes to confirm this\nstatement. It is extraordinary to what meanness, subterfuge, and even\nperjury, a man will sometimes resort, in order to avoid paying so\nlittle as 1_s_. 6_d_. a week towards the keep of his own child. Often\nthe line of defence is a cruel attempt to blacken the character of the\nmother, even when the accuser well knows that there is not the\nslightest ground for the charge, and that he alone is responsible for\nthe woman's fall.[5] Also, if the case is proved, and the order made,\nmany such men will run away and hide themselves in another part of the\ncountry to escape the fulfilment of their just obligations.\n\nIn connexion with this Maternity Hospital, the Salvation Army has a\nTraining School for midwives and nurses, all of whom must pass the\nCentral Midwives Board examination before they are allowed to\npractise. Some of the students, after qualifying, continue to work for\nthe Army in its Hospital Department, and others in the Slum\nDepartment, while some go abroad in the service of other Societies.\nThe scale of fees for this four months' course in midwifery varies\naccording to circumstances. The Army asks the full charge of eighteen\nguineas from those students who belong to, or propose to serve other\nSocieties. Those who intend to go abroad to work with medical\nmissionaries, have to pay fifteen guineas, and those who are members\nof the Salvation Army, or who intend to serve the Army in this\nDepartment, pay nothing, unless, at the conclusion of their course,\nthey decide to leave the Army's service.\n\nAt the last examination, out of fourteen students sent up from this\nInstitution, thirteen passed the necessary test.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sarah meets with her mother, Ada, over shopping and a meal at a cafe. Ada gradually gets Sarah to tell her the whole story about her relationship with Billy Prior. Ada scolds her daughter for having sex so soon. She warns her that condoms are not reliable and that if she gets pregnant, she is in big trouble. Ada does not believe in love between a man and a woman; she raised her two daughters by herself. But she considers marriage \"the sole end of female existence\" and she would like nothing more than to see her daughter walk down the aisle with a man of dependable income. Sassoon meets with Graves in a bar for some lunch. He tells Graves that he has agreed to go back to active service if they promise to send him to France. Sassoon implies that Graves has no real courage, as he simply goes along with whatever the army tells him to do despite the fact that he claims to feel that the war is wrong. Graves lectures Sassoon on the importance of behaving in a gentlemanly way and keeping one's word, no matter how one's ideas may have changed. Graves changes the tone of conversation and tells Sassoon about an old friend named Peter, who was caught soliciting himself outside barracks. Peter will be sent to Rivers to be cured, and Sassoon is slightly taken aback. Graves says that since he heard about what happened to Peter, he decided to write to a girl named Nancy. Graves wants to make it clear to Sassoon that he is not a homosexual. Sarah and her friends go back to the munitions factory for a night shift. They talk about how many men in the army are homosexual, and joke that some of them have never been around women in their lives. As they are working, Sarah notices that Betty is not around. Lizzie says that Betty, realizing that she was pregnant, used a coat hanger at home to try to abort the baby. Instead, she punctured her bladder and was taken to the hospital, where the doctor strongly reprimanded her for what she had done. The girls go back to work. Rivers finishes his nightly rounds and goes in to visit his last patient, Sassoon. Sassoon tells him the news about Peter, Graves's friend. Sassoon was hurt that Graves should make it so clear that he finds homosexuality disgusting. Sassoon is also upset that they are sending Peter to a psychiatrist to be \"cured\"; he thought that people had been growing more tolerant. Rivers explains to him that in wartime the powers that be want to make it very clear that there is a right kind and a wrong kind of love between men. They do this by punishing what is deemed the wrong kind. Rivers advises Sassoon to keep his private life private, or else he may find himself to be considered an enemy of his own country"}, {"": "261", "document": "\n\"I was in bed and fast asleep when it pleased God to send the Bulgarians\nto our delightful castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh; they slew my father and\nbrother, and cut my mother in pieces. A tall Bulgarian, six feet high,\nperceiving that I had fainted away at this sight, began to ravish me;\nthis made me recover; I regained my senses, I cried, I struggled, I bit,\nI scratched, I wanted to tear out the tall Bulgarian's eyes--not knowing\nthat what happened at my father's house was the usual practice of war.\nThe brute gave me a cut in the left side with his hanger, and the mark\nis still upon me.\"\n\n\"Ah! I hope I shall see it,\" said honest Candide.\n\n\"You shall,\" said Cunegonde, \"but let us continue.\"\n\n\"Do so,\" replied Candide.\n\nThus she resumed the thread of her story:\n\n\"A Bulgarian captain came in, saw me all bleeding, and the soldier not\nin the least disconcerted. The captain flew into a passion at the\ndisrespectful behaviour of the brute, and slew him on my body. He\nordered my wounds to be dressed, and took me to his quarters as a\nprisoner of war. I washed the few shirts that he had, I did his cooking;\nhe thought me very pretty--he avowed it; on the other hand, I must own\nhe had a good shape, and a soft and white skin; but he had little or no\nmind or philosophy, and you might see plainly that he had never been\ninstructed by Doctor Pangloss. In three months time, having lost all his\nmoney, and being grown tired of my company, he sold me to a Jew, named\nDon Issachar, who traded to Holland and Portugal, and had a strong\npassion for women. This Jew was much attached to my person, but could\nnot triumph over it; I resisted him better than the Bulgarian soldier. A\nmodest woman may be ravished once, but her virtue is strengthened by it.\nIn order to render me more tractable, he brought me to this country\nhouse. Hitherto I had imagined that nothing could equal the beauty of\nThunder-ten-Tronckh Castle; but I found I was mistaken.\n\n\"The Grand Inquisitor, seeing me one day at Mass, stared long at me, and\nsent to tell me that he wished to speak on private matters. I was\nconducted to his palace, where I acquainted him with the history of my\nfamily, and he represented to me how much it was beneath my rank to\nbelong to an Israelite. A proposal was then made to Don Issachar that he\nshould resign me to my lord. Don Issachar, being the court banker, and a\nman of credit, would hear nothing of it. The Inquisitor threatened him\nwith an _auto-da-fe_. At last my Jew, intimidated, concluded a bargain,\nby which the house and myself should belong to both in common; the Jew\nshould have for himself Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, and the\nInquisitor should have the rest of the week. It is now six months since\nthis agreement was made. Quarrels have not been wanting, for they could\nnot decide whether the night from Saturday to Sunday belonged to the old\nlaw or to the new. For my part, I have so far held out against both, and\nI verily believe that this is the reason why I am still beloved.\n\n\"At length, to avert the scourge of earthquakes, and to intimidate Don\nIssachar, my Lord Inquisitor was pleased to celebrate an _auto-da-fe_.\nHe did me the honour to invite me to the ceremony. I had a very good\nseat, and the ladies were served with refreshments between Mass and the\nexecution. I was in truth seized with horror at the burning of those two\nJews, and of the honest Biscayner who had married his godmother; but\nwhat was my surprise, my fright, my trouble, when I saw in a\n_san-benito_ and mitre a figure which resembled that of Pangloss! I\nrubbed my eyes, I looked at him attentively, I saw him hung; I fainted.\nScarcely had I recovered my senses than I saw you stripped, stark naked,\nand this was the height of my horror, consternation, grief, and despair.\nI tell you, truthfully, that your skin is yet whiter and of a more\nperfect colour than that of my Bulgarian captain. This spectacle\nredoubled all the feelings which overwhelmed and devoured me. I screamed\nout, and would have said, 'Stop, barbarians!' but my voice failed me,\nand my cries would have been useless after you had been severely\nwhipped. How is it possible, said I, that the beloved Candide and the\nwise Pangloss should both be at Lisbon, the one to receive a hundred\nlashes, and the other to be hanged by the Grand Inquisitor, of whom I am\nthe well-beloved? Pangloss most cruelly deceived me when he said that\neverything in the world is for the best.\n\n\"Agitated, lost, sometimes beside myself, and sometimes ready to die of\nweakness, my mind was filled with the massacre of my father, mother, and\nbrother, with the insolence of the ugly Bulgarian soldier, with the stab\nthat he gave me, with my servitude under the Bulgarian captain, with my\nhideous Don Issachar, with my abominable Inquisitor, with the execution\nof Doctor Pangloss, with the grand Miserere to which they whipped you,\nand especially with the kiss I gave you behind the screen the day that I\nhad last seen you. I praised God for bringing you back to me after so\nmany trials, and I charged my old woman to take care of you, and to\nconduct you hither as soon as possible. She has executed her commission\nperfectly well; I have tasted the inexpressible pleasure of seeing you\nagain, of hearing you, of speaking with you. But you must be hungry, for\nmyself, I am famished; let us have supper.\"\n\nThey both sat down to table, and, when supper was over, they placed\nthemselves once more on the sofa; where they were when Signor Don\nIssachar arrived. It was the Jewish Sabbath, and Issachar had come to\nenjoy his rights, and to explain his tender love.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cunegonde tells her story to Candide: Bulgar soldiers attack and kill her family and rape her. While Cunegonde fights off her attacker, a captain comes in and, enraged at the officer's disrespect, kills him. He then takes Cunegonde as a prisoner of war. The captain keeps Cunegonde as his servant for three months and then sells her to a Jewish businessman. The businessman shares her services with the same Inquisitor who ordered the execution of Pangloss and flogging of Candide. Cunegonde wards off the sexual advances of both men. Cunegonde attends the post-earthquake execution and recognizes Candide. Cunegonde's story ends. Back in the present, Candide and Cunegonde eat dinner together and hang out until one of her owners, the businessman Don Issachar, comes to get her."}, {"": "262", "document": "XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy\n\n\nIf Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the\nhouse of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,\nand had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he\ncared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,\nwhich overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely\npierced by the light within him.\n\nAnd yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,\nand for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night\nhe vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no\ntransitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary\nfigure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams\nof the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture\nin spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time\nbrought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,\ninto his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known\nhim more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon\nit no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that\nneighbourhood.\n\nOn a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal\nthat \"he had thought better of that marrying matter\") had carried his\ndelicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the\nCity streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health\nfor the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod\nthose stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became\nanimated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,\nthey took him to the Doctor's door.\n\nHe was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had\nnever been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little\nembarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at\nhis face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed\na change in it.\n\n\"I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!\"\n\n\"No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What\nis to be expected of, or by, such profligates?\"\n\n\"Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to\nlive no better life?\"\n\n\"God knows it is a shame!\"\n\n\"Then why not change it?\"\n\nLooking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that\nthere were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he\nanswered:\n\n\"It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall\nsink lower, and be worse.\"\n\nHe leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The\ntable trembled in the silence that followed.\n\nShe had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to\nbe so, without looking at her, and said:\n\n\"Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of\nwhat I want to say to you. Will you hear me?\"\n\n\"If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,\nit would make me very glad!\"\n\n\"God bless you for your sweet compassion!\"\n\nHe unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.\n\n\"Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like\none who died young. All my life might have been.\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am\nsure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.\"\n\n\"Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the\nmystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget\nit!\"\n\nShe was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair\nof himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have\nbeen holden.\n\n\"If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the\nlove of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,\npoor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been\nconscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would\nbring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,\ndisgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have\nno tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot\nbe.\"\n\n\"Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall\nyou--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your\nconfidence? I know this is a confidence,\" she modestly said, after a\nlittle hesitation, and in earnest tears, \"I know you would say this to\nno one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very\nlittle more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that\nyou have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not\nbeen so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this\nhome made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had\ndied out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that\nI thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from\nold voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I\nhave had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off\nsloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all\na dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,\nbut I wish you to know that you inspired it.\"\n\n\"Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!\"\n\n\"No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite\nundeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the\nweakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,\nheap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in\nits nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no\nservice, idly burning away.\"\n\n\"Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy\nthan you were before you knew me--\"\n\n\"Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if\nanything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.\"\n\n\"Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,\nattributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can\nmake it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for\ngood, with you, at all?\"\n\n\"The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come\nhere to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,\nthe remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;\nand that there was something left in me at this time which you could\ndeplore and pity.\"\n\n\"Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with\nall my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!\"\n\n\"Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,\nand I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let\nme believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life\nwas reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there\nalone, and will be shared by no one?\"\n\n\"If that will be a consolation to you, yes.\"\n\n\"Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?\"\n\n\"Mr. Carton,\" she answered, after an agitated pause, \"the secret is\nyours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.\"\n\n\"Thank you. And again, God bless you.\"\n\nHe put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.\n\n\"Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this\nconversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it\nagain. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In\nthe hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and\nshall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made\nto you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried\nin your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!\"\n\nHe was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so\nsad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept\ndown and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he\nstood looking back at her.\n\n\"Be comforted!\" he said, \"I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An\nhour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn\nbut yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any\nwretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I\nshall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be\nwhat you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make\nto you, is, that you will believe this of me.\"\n\n\"I will, Mr. Carton.\"\n\n\"My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve\nyou of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and\nbetween whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say\nit, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to\nyou, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that\nthere was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would\nembrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold\nme in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one\nthing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new\nties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly\nand strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever\ngrace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a\nhappy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright\nbeauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is\na man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!\"\n\nHe said, \"Farewell!\" said a last \"God bless you!\" and left her.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Carton is a frequent visitor at the Manette residence; during his visits, however, he is usually gloomy and pretends that he cares for nothing in life. In truth, he is obsessed with Lucie. He wanders to her house on countless nights when his drinking has brought no relief to his melancholy. Carton just wants to be near the girl of his dreams. One day when he goes to Soho to visit the Manettes, Carton finds Lucie alone at her work. He takes the opportunity to bare his heart to Lucie, professing his deep love for her. He states that he does not expect her to reciprocate his love, for he feels unworthy of her beauty and goodness. He admits that he is a wasted drunk who will only sink further. He is glad, however, that Lucie has rekindled a flame in him, for its warmth is enough to keep him going. He does not have to live with her to love her. In fact, he ironically promises that should the need arrive, he will gladly give his life to replace that of someone she loves. The kind-hearted Lucie is touched by Cartons confession and tries to be reassuring. She states that Carton can be saved and brought on the right track; however, Carton feels that there is nothing to be done with his life and that his grim fate is sealed."}, {"": "263", "document": "When Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, she usually dreamed, unlike the son of her\nold mistress, with her eyes shut. She had a curiously vivid dream that\nnight, and before she had left the son of her old mistress many hours.\nIn fact it was not at all like a dream; it was so very real in every\nrespect. It happened in this wise.\n\nThe bed-chamber occupied by Mr and Mrs Flintwinch was within a few paces\nof that to which Mrs Clennam had been so long confined. It was not on\nthe same floor, for it was a room at the side of the house, which was\napproached by a steep descent of a few odd steps, diverging from the\nmain staircase nearly opposite to Mrs Clennam's door. It could scarcely\nbe said to be within call, the walls, doors, and panelling of the old\nplace were so cumbrous; but it was within easy reach, in any undress,\n      at any hour of the night, in any temperature. At the head of the bed\n      and within a foot of Mrs Flintwinch's ear, was a bell, the line of which\n      hung ready to Mrs Clennam's hand. Whenever this bell rang, up started\n      Affery, and was in the sick room before she was awake.\n\n      Having got her mistress into bed, lighted her lamp, and given her good\n      night, Mrs Flintwinch went to roost as usual, saving that her lord had\n      not yet appeared. It was her lord himself who became--unlike the\n      last theme in the mind, according to the observation of most\n      philosophers--the subject of Mrs Flintwinch's dream.\n\n      It seemed to her that she awoke after sleeping some hours, and found\n      Jeremiah not yet abed. That she looked at the candle she had left\n      burning, and, measuring the time like King Alfred the Great, was\n      confirmed by its wasted state in her belief that she had been asleep for\n      some considerable period. That she arose thereupon, muffled herself up\n      in a wrapper, put on her shoes, and went out on the staircase, much\n      surprised, to look for Jeremiah.\n\n      The staircase was as wooden and solid as need be, and Affery went\n      straight down it without any of those deviations peculiar to dreams.\n      She did not skim over it, but walked down it, and guided herself by the\n      banisters on account of her candle having died out. In one corner of\n      the hall, behind the house-door, there was a little waiting-room, like a\n      well-shaft, with a long narrow window in it as if it had been ripped up.\n      In this room, which was never used, a light was burning.\n\n      Mrs Flintwinch crossed the hall, feeling its pavement cold to her\n      stockingless feet, and peeped in between the rusty hinges on the door,\n      which stood a little open. She expected to see Jeremiah fast asleep or\n      in a fit, but he was calmly seated in a chair, awake, and in his usual\n      health. But what--hey?--Lord forgive us!--Mrs Flintwinch muttered some\n      ejaculation to this effect, and turned giddy.\n\n      For, Mr Flintwinch awake, was watching Mr Flintwinch asleep. He sat on\n      one side of the small table, looking keenly at himself on the other side\n      with his chin sunk on his breast, snoring. The waking Flintwinch had his\n      full front face presented to his wife; the sleeping Flintwinch was\n      in profile. The waking Flintwinch was the old original; the sleeping\n      Flintwinch was the double, just as she might have distinguished between\n      a tangible object and its reflection in a glass, Affery made out this\n      difference with her head going round and round.\n\n      If she had had any doubt which was her own Jeremiah, it would have been\n      resolved by his impatience. He looked about him for an offensive weapon,\n      caught up the snuffers, and, before applying them to the cabbage-headed\n      candle, lunged at the sleeper as though he would have run him through\n      the body.\n\n      'Who's that? What's the matter?' cried the sleeper, starting.\n\n      Mr Flintwinch made a movement with the snuffers, as if he would have\n      enforced silence on his companion by putting them down his throat; the\n      companion, coming to himself, said, rubbing his eyes, 'I forgot where I\n      was.'\n\n      'You have been asleep,' snarled Jeremiah, referring to his watch, 'two\n      hours. You said you would be rested enough if you had a short nap.'\n\n      'I have had a short nap,' said Double.\n\n      'Half-past two o'clock in the morning,' muttered Jeremiah. 'Where's your\n      hat? Where's your coat? Where's the box?'\n\n      'All here,' said Double, tying up his throat with sleepy carefulness in\n      a shawl. 'Stop a minute. Now give me the sleeve--not that sleeve, the\n      other one. Ha! I'm not as young as I was.' Mr Flintwinch had pulled\n      him into his coat with vehement energy. 'You promised me a second glass\n      after I was rested.'\n\n      'Drink it!' returned Jeremiah, 'and--choke yourself, I was going\n      to say--but go, I mean.' At the same time he produced the identical\n      port-wine bottle, and filled a wine-glass.\n\n      'Her port-wine, I believe?' said Double, tasting it as if he were in the\n      Docks, with hours to spare. 'Her health.'\n\n      He took a sip.\n\n      'Your health!'\n\n      He took another sip.\n\n      'His health!'\n\n      He took another sip.\n\n      'And all friends round St Paul's.' He emptied and put down the\n      wine-glass half-way through this ancient civic toast, and took up the\n      box. It was an iron box some two feet square, which he carried under his\n      arms pretty easily. Jeremiah watched his manner of adjusting it, with\n      jealous eyes; tried it with his hands, to be sure that he had a firm\n      hold of it; bade him for his life be careful what he was about; and then\n      stole out on tiptoe to open the door for him. Affery, anticipating\n      the last movement, was on the staircase. The sequence of things was\n      so ordinary and natural, that, standing there, she could hear the door\n      open, feel the night air, and see the stars outside.\n\n      But now came the most remarkable part of the dream. She felt so afraid\n      of her husband, that being on the staircase, she had not the power to\n      retreat to her room (which she might easily have done before he had\n              fastened the door), but stood there staring. Consequently when he came\n      up the staircase to bed, candle in hand, he came full upon her. He\n      looked astonished, but said not a word. He kept his eyes upon her, and\n      kept advancing; and she, completely under his influence, kept retiring\n      before him. Thus, she walking backward and he walking forward, they\n      came into their own room. They were no sooner shut in there, than Mr\n      Flintwinch took her by the throat, and shook her until she was black in\n      the face.\n\n      'Why, Affery, woman--Affery!' said Mr Flintwinch. 'What have you been\n      dreaming of? Wake up, wake up! What's the matter?'\n\n      'The--the matter, Jeremiah?' gasped Mrs Flintwinch, rolling her eyes.\n\n      'Why, Affery, woman--Affery! You have been getting out of bed in your\n      sleep, my dear! I come up, after having fallen asleep myself, below, and\n      find you in your wrapper here, with the nightmare. Affery, woman,' said\n      Mr Flintwinch, with a friendly grin on his expressive countenance, 'if\n      you ever have a dream of this sort again, it'll be a sign of your being\n      in want of physic. And I'll give you such a dose, old woman--such a\n      dose!'\n\n      Mrs Flintwinch thanked him and crept into bed.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Affery goes to bed. Then she has what she thinks is a dream. She \"dreams\" that she goes downstairs and sees Flintwinch talking to himself - no, literally, talking to a double of himself. She totally freaks out and becomes sort of catatonic and paralyzed with fear. The double picks up an iron box and goes out the door. Flintwinch sees Affery on the stairs and pushes her back to the bedroom silently. Then he chokes the living daylights out of her, while shaking her awake. He tells her she's been having a nightmare and if she has another one, he's going to give her a big dose of medicine. You know, the beating-the-crap-out-of-you kind of medicine."}, {"": "264", "document": "\n\n\"Mrs. Allen,\" said Catherine the next morning, \"will there be any harm\nin my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have\nexplained everything.\"\n\n\"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always\nwears white.\"\n\nCatherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more\nimpatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform\nherself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed they were\nin Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's\nwavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she\nwas directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened\naway with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her\nconduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and\nresolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to\nsee her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to\nbelieve, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any\nimpediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for\nMiss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not\nquite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her\ncard. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did\nnot quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss\nTilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left\nthe house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and\ntoo much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,\ncould not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in\nexpectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the\nbottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at a\nwindow, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was\nfollowed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,\nand they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. Catherine, in deep\nmortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself\nat such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she\nremembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers\nmight be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree\nof unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of\nrudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.\n\nDejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the\nothers to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they\nwere not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first\nplace, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the\nsecond, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre\naccordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;\nshe feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness\nfor plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were\nhabituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she\nknew, on Isabella's authority, rendered everything else of the kind\n\"quite horrid.\" She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;\nthe comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during\nthe first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about\nher. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.\nHenry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,\nrecalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite\ngenuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look\nupon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the\nspace of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without\nbeing once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of\nindifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage\nduring two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her,\nand he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended\nit; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.\nCatherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to\nthe box in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings\nrather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her\nown dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly\nresolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards him\nwho could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble\nof seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by\navoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself\nall the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only\neager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.\n\nThe play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was no longer to be\nseen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he\nmight be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes\nhe appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke\nwith like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such\ncalmness was he answered by the latter: \"Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been\nquite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought\nme so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen?\nDid not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a\nphaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times\nrather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?\"\n\n\"My dear, you tumble my gown,\" was Mrs. Allen's reply.\n\nHer assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it\nbrought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and\nhe replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve:\n\"We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk\nafter our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back\non purpose.\"\n\n\"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such\na thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to\nhim as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! You were\nnot there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped,\nI would have jumped out and run after you.\"\n\nIs there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a\ndeclaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he\nsaid everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and\ndependence on Catherine's honour. \"Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not\nangry,\" cried Catherine, \"because I know she was; for she would not see\nme this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next\nminute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps\nyou did not know I had been there.\"\n\n\"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she\nhas been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such\nincivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than\nthat my father--they were just preparing to walk out, and he being\nhurried for time, and not caring to have it put off--made a point of her\nbeing denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,\nand meant to make her apology as soon as possible.\"\n\nCatherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something\nof solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,\nthoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the\ngentleman: \"But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your\nsister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could\nsuppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take\noffence?\"\n\n\"Me! I take offence!\"\n\n\"Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were\nangry.\"\n\n\"I angry! I could have no right.\"\n\n\"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.\" He\nreplied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.\n\nHe remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for\nCatherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,\nhowever, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon\nas possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,\nshe was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the\nworld.\n\nWhile talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that\nJohn Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes\ntogether, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt\nsomething more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself\nthe object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say\nof her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found\nit was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather\nthan postpone his own walk a few minutes. \"How came Mr. Thorpe to know\nyour father?\" was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her\ncompanion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military\nman, had a very large acquaintance.\n\nWhen the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting\nout. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while\nthey waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had\ntravelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in\na consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General\nTilney: \"He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active--looks\nas young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a\ngentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived.\"\n\n\"But how came you to know him?\"\n\n\"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I\nhave met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the\nmoment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have,\nby the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost\nafraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if\nI had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in\nthis world--I took his ball exactly--but I could not make you understand\nit without a table; however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich\nas a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous\ndinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by\nheavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath.\"\n\n\"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?\"\n\n\"And what do you think I said?\"--lowering his voice--\"well done,\ngeneral, said I; I am quite of your mind.\"\n\nHere Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by\nGeneral Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,\nhowever, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued\nthe same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to\nhave done.\n\nThat General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very\ndelightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the\nfamily whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much\nmore, for her than could have been expected.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The next morning, Catherine goes to the place where the Tilneys are staying, planning to explain everything. The servant tells her that Eleanor is not at home, but as Catherine walks away she sees Eleanor exit with her father. Mortified, Catherine fears she has greatly offended the Tilneys. At the theater that night, Catherine spots Henry. Catherine thinks Henry looks at her angrily. After the play he makes his way to Catherine. Henry was somewhat offended by the incident, but when Catherine tells him that she begged John Thorpe to stop the carriage, and would have joined Henry and Eleanor immediately if he had, Henry's coolness melts. Henry seems most relieved when he discovers how little attachment Catherine feels to John Thorpe. Catherine and Henry talk about the play, and while they speak, Catherine sees John Thorpe talking to General Tilney, Henry's father. After Henry leaves and John returns to help Catherine out of her seat, John tells her that the General said she was the \"finest girl in Bath. Heartened by this news--she had feared that the General would not like her--Catherine quickly slips away from John with the Allens."}, {"": "265", "document": "CHAPTER XI\n\n\n\n     I leave that flowery path for eye\n Of childhood, where I sported many a day,\n Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;\n Where every face was innocent and gay,\n Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,\n Sweet, wild, and artless all.\n     THE MINSTREL\n\nAt an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame\nCheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and Madame was\nalready in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast\nwas silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose\nvanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved her in a manner\nthat did not contribute to remove it. It was with much reluctance, that\nEmily's request to take with her the dog, which had been a favourite\nof her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered the\ncarriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the hall door, Emily gave\nanother look into the library, and another farewell glance over the\ngarden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the door to take leave\nof her young lady. 'God for ever keep you, ma'amselle!' said she, while\nEmily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a pressure of\nher hand, and a forced smile.\n\nAt the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father's\npensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have\nspoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having\ndistributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk\nback in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon\nafter, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of\nthe chateau, peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green\nslopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath their\nshades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and then rising in greater\nmajesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices of the\nPyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interesting\nrecollections of her late journey; and these objects of her former\nenthusiastic admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having\ngazed on the chateau and its lovely scenery, till the banks again closed\nupon them, her mind became too much occupied by mournful reflections, to\npermit her to attend to the conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun\non some trivial topic, so that they soon travelled in profound silence.\n\nValancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere, his heart occupied\nwith the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future\nhappiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition\nhe might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an ancient\nfamily of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early period\nof his life, the care of his education and of his small portion had\ndevolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his senior by nearly\ntwenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the accomplishments\nof his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur of\nmind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises then thought\nheroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the necessary expences\nof his education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that\nhis genius and accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his\ninheritance. They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military\nprofession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentleman\ncould engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourt\nwas of course enrolled in the army. The general genius of his mind was\nbut little understood by his brother. That ardour for whatever is great\nand good in the moral world, as well as in the natural one, displayed\nitself in his infant years; and the strong indignation, which he felt\nand expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, sometimes drew upon him\nthe displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it under the general\nterm of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the virtues of\nmildness and moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and compassion,\nwhich always appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune.\n\nHe had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made the\nexcursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him to\nSt. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the more\nanxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he reasonably\napprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate\naddition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, would not\nsatisfy the views, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not\nwithout the latter, but he saw golden visions of promotion in the army;\nand believed, that with Emily he could, in the mean time, be delighted\nto live within the limits of his humble income. His thoughts were now\noccupied in considering the means of making himself known to her family,\nto whom, however, he had yet no address, for he was entirely ignorant of\nEmily's precipitate departure from La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtain\nit.\n\nMeanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequent\nefforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence and\ndejection. Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the\ncircumstance of her being removed to a distance from her lover, and\nbelieving, that the sorrow, which her niece still expressed for the\nloss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an affectation of sensibility,\nendeavoured to make it appear ridiculous to her, that such deep regret\nshould continue to be felt so long after the period usually allowed for\ngrief.\n\nAt length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival of\nthe travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had not been there for many\nyears, and had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised at\nthe ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and furniture; the\nmore so, perhaps, because it was so totally different from the modest\nelegance, to which she had been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron\nthrough a large hall, where several servants in rich liveries appeared,\nto a kind of saloon, fitted up with more shew than taste; and her aunt,\ncomplaining of fatigue, ordered supper immediately. 'I am glad to find\nmyself in my own house again,' said she, throwing herself on a large\nsettee, 'and to have my own people about me. I detest travelling;\nthough, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see abroad always makes\nme delighted to return to my own chateau. What makes you so silent,\nchild?--What is it that disturbs you now?'\n\nEmily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression\nof an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and felt too\nsensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron's\nconversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to herself; and\nthen the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something\nlike kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh\nimpression her mind had received of her aunt's character, and to shew\na willingness to oblige her. The effort did not entirely fail; she\nlistened with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame Cheron expatiated\non the splendour of her house, told of the numerous parties she\nentertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose diffidence\nassumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be that\nof pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew\nnothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;\nwhich, possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every\nother person perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself\nto censure, and seeks shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had\nfrequently blushed at the fearless manners, which she had seen admired,\nand the brilliant nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this\napplause, so far from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had\nwon it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect her\nfrom such absurdity.\n\nMadame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very near\nto contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to\nencourage it by gentleness.\n\nThe entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse of\nMadame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced\nupon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the\nattendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate,\nwas over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servant\ncame to shew Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, and\nthrough several galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, which\nled into a short passage in a remote part of the chateau, and there\nthe servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said was\nMa'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she had\nlong tried to restrain.\n\nThose, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached\neven to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how\nunwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it\nmeets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornness\nof Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she had\nknown from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons,\ndisagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her father's\nfavourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire the character\nand importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned over her when she\nwept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' said she, 'I have nobody\nnow to love me--but you!' and she wept the more. After some time, her\nthoughts returning to her father's injunctions, she remembered how often\nhe had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had pointed\nout to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, that\nthe faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finally\nunnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections dried her\ntears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet\nemulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequently\ninculcated.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "It's off to Tholouse for Ms. Emily, who is none too happy to be headed far from home. Auntie Cheron doesn't even stop the carriage to let Em say goodbye to her father's pensioners. FYI, pensioners are people who were given a sum of money by St. Aubert. Valancourt returns back home to Estuviere brokenhearted. He's more than a little worried about getting Madame Cheron on his side. See, Valancourt's a younger brother. That means he gets to inherit squat. Luckily, his older brother thinks he can make some much-needed cash by joining the military. Meanwhile, at Tholouse, Madame Cheron is really giving Emily the business about Valancourt. Emily can't believe this is really her father's sister. Madame Cheron is such a jerk. Madame Cheron's estates are pretty and all, but in a tacky way. Her number-one goal is to show off her wealth. Once Emily is alone in her room at Tholouse, out come the waterworks. At least she's got her dog, Manchon, who is her only friend. Woe is her. Emily remembers her dad's warning about not indulging her emotions. Whoops."}, {"": "266", "document": "Cyrano, De Guiche.\n\nDE GUICHE (who enters, masked, feeling his way in the dark):\n  What can that cursed Friar be about?\n\nCYRANO:\n  The devil!. . .If he knows my voice!\n(Letting go with one hand, he pretends to turn an invisible key.  Solemnly):\n  Cric!  Crac!\n  Assume thou, Cyrano, to serve the turn,\n  The accent of thy native Bergerac!. . .\n\nDE GUICHE (looking at the house):\n  'Tis there.  I see dim,--this mask hinders me!\n(He is about to enter, when Cyrano leaps from the balcony, holding on to the\nbranch, which bends, dropping him between the door and De Guiche; he pretends\nto fall heavily, as from a great height, and lies flat on the ground,\nmotionless, as if stunned.  De Guiche starts back):\n  What's this?\n(When he looks up, the branch has sprung back into its place.  He sees only\nthe sky, and is lost in amazement):\n  Where fell that man from?\n\nCYRANO (sitting up, and speaking with a Gascon accent):\n  From the moon!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  From?. . .\n\nCYRANO (in a dreamy voice):\n  What's o'clock?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  He's lost his mind, for sure!\n\nCYRANO:\n  What hour?  What country this?  What month?  What day?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  I am stupefied!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Sir!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Like a bomb\n  I fell from the moon!\n\nDE GUICHE (impatiently):\n  Come now!\n\nCYRANO (rising, in a terrible voice):\n  I say,--the moon!\n\nDE GUICHE (recoiling):\n  Good, good! let it be so!. . .He's raving mad!\n\nCYRANO (walking up to him):\n  I say from the moon!  I mean no metaphor!. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Was't a hundred years--a minute, since?\n  --I cannot guess what time that fall embraced!--\n  That I was in that saffron-colored ball?\n\nDE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders):\n  Good! let me pass!\n\nCYRANO (intercepting him):\n  Where am I?  Tell the truth!\n  Fear not to tell!  Oh, spare me not!  Where? where?\n  Have I fallen like a shooting star?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Morbleu!\n\nCYRANO:\n  The fall was lightning-quick! no time to choose\n  Where I should fall--I know not where it be!\n  Oh, tell me!  Is it on a moon or earth,\n  that my posterior weight has landed me?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I tell you, Sir. . .\n\nCYRANO (with a screech of terror, which makes De Guiche start back):\n  No?  Can it be?  I'm on\n  A planet where men have black faces?\n\nDE GUICHE (putting a hand to his face):\n  What?\n\nCYRANO (feigning great alarm):\n  Am I in Africa?  A native you?\n\nDE GUICHE (who has remembered his mask):\n  This mask of mine. . .\n\nCYRANO (pretending to be reassured):\n  In Venice? ha!--or Rome?\n\nDE GUICHE (trying to pass):\n  A lady waits. .\n\nCYRANO (quite reassured):\n  Oh-ho!  I am in Paris!\n\nDE GUICHE (smiling in spite of himself):\n  The fool is comical!\n\nCYRANO:\n  You laugh?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I laugh,\n  But would get by!\n\nCYRANO (beaming with joy):\n  I have shot back to Paris!\n(Quite at ease, laughing, dusting himself, bowing):\n  Come--pardon me--by the last water-spout,\n  Covered with ether,--accident of travel!\n  My eyes still full of star-dust, and my spurs\n  Encumbered by the planets' filaments!\n(Picking something off his sleeve):\n  Ha! on my doublet?--ah, a comet's hair!. . .\n\n(He puffs as if to blow it away.)\n\nDE GUICHE (beside himself):\n  Sir!. . .\n\nCYRANO (just as he is about to pass, holds out his leg as if to show him\nsomething and stops him):\n  In my leg--the calf--there is a tooth\n  Of the Great Bear, and, passing Neptune close,\n  I would avoid his trident's point, and fell,\n  Thus sitting, plump, right in the Scales!  My weight\n  Is marked, still registered, up there in heaven!\n(Hurriedly preventing De Guiche from passing, and detaining him by the button\nof his doublet):\n  I swear to you that if you squeezed my nose\n  It would spout milk!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Milk?\n\nCYRANO:\n  From the Milky Way!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Oh, go to hell!\n\nCYRANO (crossing his arms):\n  I fall, Sir, out of heaven!\n  Now, would you credit it, that as I fell\n  I saw that Sirius wears a nightcap?  True!\n(Confidentially):\n  The other Bear is still too small to bite.\n(Laughing):\n  I went through the Lyre, but I snapped a cord;\n(Grandiloquent):\n  I mean to write the whole thing in a book;\n  The small gold stars, that, wrapped up in my cloak,\n  I carried safe away at no small risks,\n  Will serve for asterisks i' the printed page!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Come, make an end!  I want. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh-ho!  You are sly!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Sir!\n\nCYRANO:\n  You would worm all out of me!--the way\n  The moon is made, and if men breathe and live\n  In its rotund cucurbita?\n\nDE GUICHE (angrily):\n  No, no!\n  I want. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ha, ha!--to know how I got up?\n  Hark, it was by a method all my own.\n\nDE GUICHE (wearied):\n  He's mad!\n\nCYRANO(contemptuously):\n  No! not for me the stupid eagle\n  Of Regiomontanus, nor the timid\n  Pigeon of Archytas--neither of those!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ay, 'tis a fool!  But 'tis a learned fool!\n\nCYRANO:\n  No imitator I of other men!\n(De Guiche has succeeded in getting by, and goes toward Roxane's door.  Cyrano\nfollows him, ready to stop him by force):\n  Six novel methods, all, this brain invented!\n\nDE GUICHE (turning round):\n  Six?\n\nCYRANO (volubly):\n  First, with body naked as your hand,\n  Festooned about with crystal flacons, full\n  O' th' tears the early morning dew distils;\n  My body to the sun's fierce rays exposed\n  To let it suck me up, as 't sucks the dew!\n\nDE GUICHE (surprised, making one step toward Cyrano):\n  Ah! that makes one!\n\nCYRANO (stepping back, and enticing him further away):\n  And then, the second way,\n  To generate wind--for my impetus--\n  To rarefy air, in a cedar case,\n  By mirrors placed icosahedron-wise.\n\nDE GUICHE (making another step):\n  Two!\n\nCYRANO (still stepping backward):\n  Or--for I have some mechanic skill--\n  To make a grasshopper, with springs of steel,\n  And launch myself by quick succeeding fires\n  Saltpeter-fed to the stars' pastures blue!\n\nDE GUICHE (unconsciously following him and counting on his fingers):\n  Three!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Or (since fumes have property to mount)--\n  To charge a globe with fumes, sufficiently\n  To carry me aloft!\n\nDE GUICHE (same play, more and more astonished):\n  Well, that makes four!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Or smear myself with marrow from a bull,\n  Since, at the lowest point of Zodiac,\n  Phoebus well loves to suck that marrow up!\n\nDE GUICHE (amazed):\n  Five!\n\nCYRANO (who, while speaking, had drawn him to the other side of the square\nnear a bench):\n  Sitting on an iron platform--thence\n  To throw a magnet in the air.  This is\n  A method well conceived--the magnet flown,\n  Infallibly the iron will pursue:\n  Then quick! relaunch your magnet, and you thus\n  Can mount and mount unmeasured distances!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Here are six excellent expedients!\n  Which of the six chose you?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Why, none!--a seventh!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Astonishing!  What was it?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I'll recount.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  This wild eccentric becomes interesting!\n\nCYRANO (making a noise like the waves, with weird gestures):\n  Houuh!  Houuh!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Well.\n\nCYRANO:\n  You have guessed?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Not I!\n\nCYRANO:\n  The tide!\n  I' th' witching hour when the moon woos the wave,\n  I laid me, fresh from a sea-bath, on the shore--\n  And, failing not to put head foremost--for\n  The hair holds the sea-water in its mesh--\n  I rose in air, straight! straight! like angel's flight,\n  And mounted, mounted, gently, effortless,. . .\n  When lo! a sudden shock!  Then. . .\n\nDE GUICHE (overcome by curiosity, sitting down on the bench):\n  Then?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh! then. . .\n(Suddenly returning to his natural voice):\n  The quarter's gone--I'll hinder you no more:\n  The marriage-vows are made.\n\nDE GUICHE (springing up):\n  What?  Am I mad?\n  That voice?\n(The house-door opens.  Lackeys appear carrying lighted candelabra.  Light.\nCyrano gracefully uncovers):\n  That nose--Cyrano?\n\nCYRANO (bowing):\n  Cyrano.\n  While we were chatting, they have plighted troth.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Who?\n(He turns round.  Tableau.  Behind the lackeys appear Roxane and Christian,\nholding each other by the hand.  The friar follows them, smiling.  Ragueneau\nalso holds a candlestick.  The duenna closes the rear, bewildered, having made\na hasty toilet):\n  Heavens!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The monk reappears, having discovered that Roxane does live here. He brings a letter to Roxane from de Guiche. In the letter, de Guiche says that he has not gone to the war but has remained behind, hiding in a nearby convent. He intends to visit Roxane tonight. Pretending to read the letter aloud, Roxane says that de Guiche wants Christian to marry Roxane immediately; the monk will conduct the ceremony. The monk hesitates, but when Roxane pretends to discover a postscript promising a large donation to the convent, he agrees to marry them. The monk, Christian, and Roxane go into the house for the ceremony. Roxane asks Cyrano to keep de Guiche outside, talking, to prevent him disturbing the wedding"}, {"": "267", "document": "\n\nEmma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas\nonly varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good\ndeal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing\nFrank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever\nin seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and\nquite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were\nhis spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to\nRandalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit\nherself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed\nfor employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and,\npleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and\nfarther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or\nworking, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close\nof their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing\nelegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his\nside was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside\ninto friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their\nparting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this,\nit struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of\nher previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never\nto marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle\nthan she could foresee in her own feelings.\n\n\"I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,\" said\nshe.--\"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is\nthere any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not\nreally necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will\nnot persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I\nshould be sorry to be more.\"\n\nUpon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.\n\n\"_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very\nmuch in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection\ncontinue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most\ninexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I\nimagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he\nhad believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been\nso wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and\nlanguage at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must\nbe on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing\nwhat it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look\nupon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon\nhis steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine\nthem rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short,\nmakes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I\nshall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a\ngood thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives,\nand I shall have been let off easily.\"\n\nWhen his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and\nshe read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her\nat first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had\nundervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving\nthe particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the\naffection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable,\nand describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed\nattractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of\napology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.\nWeston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast\nbetween the places in some of the first blessings of social life was\njust enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more\nmight have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm\nof her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than\nonce, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a\ncompliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in\nthe very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any\nsuch broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of\nher influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all\nconveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these\nwords--\"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss\nWoodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus\nto her.\" This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was\nremembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects\nas to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;\nMrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own\nimagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.\n\nGratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material\npart, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned\nto Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could\nstill do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her.\nHer intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more\ninteresting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation\nand happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which\nclothed it, the \"beautiful little friend,\" suggested to her the\nidea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it\nimpossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in\nunderstanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness\nof her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the\nprobabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For\nHarriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.\n\n\"I must not dwell upon it,\" said she.--\"I must not think of it. I know\nthe danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have\nhappened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it\nwill be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested\nfriendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.\"\n\nIt was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it\nmight be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter\nwas at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's\nengagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest\nhad entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's\ndisappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible\nform.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr.\nElton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter\nfrom Enscombe before \"Mr. Elton and his bride\" was in every body's\nmouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound.\nShe had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's\nmind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.\nWith Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of\ninsensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had\nnot attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual\napproach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.\n\nPoor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the\nreasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could\ngive. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had\na right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work\nto be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed\nto, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened\nsubmissively, and said \"it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse\ndescribed--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not\nthink about them any longer\" but no change of subject could avail, and\nthe next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as\nbefore. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.\n\n\"Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.\nElton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.\nYou could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.\nIt was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure\nyou.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will\nbe a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of\nforgetting it.\"\n\nHarriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager\nexclamation. Emma continued,\n\n\"I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk\nless of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I\nwould wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my\ncomfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your\nduty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of\nothers, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity.\nThese are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very\nimportant--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act\nupon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.\nI want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes\nhave felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what\nwould be kind by me.\"\n\nThis appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of\nwanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really\nloved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence\nof grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to\nwhat was right and support her in it very tolerably.\n\n\"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want\ngratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do\nfor you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!\"\n\nSuch expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and\nmanner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so\nwell, nor valued her affection so highly before.\n\n\"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,\" said she afterwards to\nherself. \"There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness\nof heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the\nclearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It\nis tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally\nbeloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but\nI know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the\ncharm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change\nyou for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female\nbreathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a\nhundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I\nmention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!\"\n\n\n", "summary": "In which Emma thinks a lot about love: OK, so Emma's decided that she's in love. Who wouldn't be? Frank is obviously meant for her. And he's cute. And he will be rich, if the old aunt will ever get around to dying. Why, then, isn't she more excited? There are no butterflies in her stomach. After considering her state for a few days, Emma decides that she's just the right amount in love - she's not crazy about Frank, but, well, a girl's only got so many options! And she did imagine once that he would be perfect... A letter from Frank arrives at Mrs. Weston's house. As we've mentioned before, everybody is into everybody else's business in this town. Emma, of course, reads the letter. Frank writes very, very nicely. In fact, he's a perfect gentleman on paper. Emma notes that Frank says good things about Harriet in his letter. Could he...? And Harriet? Hmm...it's an interesting idea. Emma gives up her love interest in Frank. After all, arranging a match is just so much more interesting than being in one. Harriet's still moping about Mr. Elton. Let's be honest - Eeyore is probably more well-adjusted than Harriet. Emma argues that Harriet's fixation on Mr. Elton is actually a slap in the face to Emma, which snaps Harriet out of her misery. In Harriet's world, Mr. Elton might be perfect, but Miss Woodhouse - well, Miss Woodhouse is in a class of her own. Luckily, Emma feels exactly the same way."}, {"": "268", "document": "XX. A Plea\n\n\nWhen the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to\noffer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home\nmany hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or\nin looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity\nabout him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.\n\nHe watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of\nspeaking to him when no one overheard.\n\n\"Mr. Darnay,\" said Carton, \"I wish we might be friends.\"\n\n\"We are already friends, I hope.\"\n\n\"You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't\nmean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be\nfriends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.\"\n\nCharles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and\ngood-fellowship, what he did mean?\n\n\"Upon my life,\" said Carton, smiling, \"I find that easier to comprehend\nin my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You\nremember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than\nusual?\"\n\n\"I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that\nyou had been drinking.\"\n\n\"I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I\nalways remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,\nwhen all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to\npreach.\"\n\n\"I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming\nto me.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that\naway. \"On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as\nyou know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I\nwish you would forget it.\"\n\n\"I forgot it long ago.\"\n\n\"Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to\nme, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,\nand a light answer does not help me to forget it.\"\n\n\"If it was a light answer,\" returned Darnay, \"I beg your forgiveness\nfor it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my\nsurprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the\nfaith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good\nHeaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to\nremember, in the great service you rendered me that day?\"\n\n\"As to the great service,\" said Carton, \"I am bound to avow to you, when\nyou speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I\ndon't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I\nsay when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.\"\n\n\"You make light of the obligation,\" returned Darnay, \"but I will not\nquarrel with _your_ light answer.\"\n\n\"Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;\nI was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am\nincapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,\nask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.\"\n\n\"I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.\"\n\n\"Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done\nany good, and never will.\"\n\n\"I don't know that you 'never will.'\"\n\n\"But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure\nto have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent\nreputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be\npermitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might\nbe regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the\nresemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of\nfurniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I\ndoubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I\nshould avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I\ndare say, to know that I had it.\"\n\n\"Will you try?\"\n\n\"That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have\nindicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?\"\n\n\"I think so, Carton, by this time.\"\n\nThey shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute\nafterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.\n\nWhen he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss\nPross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of\nthis conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a\nproblem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not\nbitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw\nhim as he showed himself.\n\nHe had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young\nwife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found\nher waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly\nmarked.\n\n\"We are thoughtful to-night!\" said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.\n\n\"Yes, dearest Charles,\" with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring\nand attentive expression fixed upon him; \"we are rather thoughtful\nto-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.\"\n\n\"What is it, my Lucie?\"\n\n\"Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to\nask it?\"\n\n\"Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?\"\n\nWhat, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the\ncheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!\n\n\"I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and\nrespect than you expressed for him to-night.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my own? Why so?\"\n\n\"That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.\"\n\n\"If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?\"\n\n\"I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very\nlenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that\nhe has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep\nwounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.\"\n\n\"It is a painful reflection to me,\" said Charles Darnay, quite\nastounded, \"that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this\nof him.\"\n\n\"My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is\nscarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable\nnow. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,\neven magnanimous things.\"\n\nShe looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,\nthat her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.\n\n\"And, O my dearest Love!\" she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her\nhead upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, \"remember how strong\nwe are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!\"\n\nThe supplication touched him home. \"I will always remember it, dear\nHeart! I will remember it as long as I live.\"\n\nHe bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded\nher in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,\ncould have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops\nof pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of\nthat husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not\nhave parted from his lips for the first time--\n\n\"God bless her for her sweet compassion!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The first person to visit Lucie and Darnay after they get married is Sydney Carton. Are you really surprised? Darnay is. He's even more surprised when Carton makes a rather strange request: he wants to be Darnay's friend. There's not exactly a ton of love lost between the two men, remember? Nonetheless, Carton wants to be pals. More specifically, he wants to be able to pop over to their house without any warning, just like an old family friend would. Darnay doesn't seem especially inclined to agree, but Carton reminds him of how Carton saved his life in court. Okay, he's got Darnay there. Darnay agrees to be friends. That doesn't mean, however, that he has to like it. Later in the day, he grumbles to Lucie about Carton's strange request. Astonishingly, Lucie gets a bit angry at him for saying mean things about Carton. She tells Darnay to remember that they're very, very happy together--and that Carton is very, very unhappy. As she says, it's hard for happy people to judge unhappy people. It just doesn't seem fair. Darnay seems pretty wowed by the wonderfulness of his wife. The two newlyweds agree to always be kind to poor old Carton. Lucie kisses Darnay and thanks him for his kindness. Darnay kisses Lucie and blesses her for her compassion. Life, in other words, is pretty perfect."}, {"": "269", "document": "\n\nThe Doctor came back from New York, of course without accomplishing his\npurpose. He had expended considerable money, and was rather disheartened.\nMy brother and the children had now been in jail two months, and that also\nwas some expense. My friends thought it was a favorable time to work on his\ndiscouraged feelings. Mr. Sands sent a speculator to offer him nine hundred\ndollars for my brother William, and eight hundred for the two children.\nThese were high prices, as slaves were then selling; but the offer was\nrejected. If it had been merely a question of money, the doctor would have\nsold any boy of Benny's age for two hundred dollars; but he could not bear\nto give up the power of revenge. But he was hard pressed for money, and he\nrevolved the matter in his mind. He knew that if he could keep Ellen till\nshe was fifteen, he could sell her for a high price; but I presume he\nreflected that she might die, or might be stolen away. At all events, he\ncame to the conclusion that he had better accept the slave-trader's offer.\nMeeting him in the street, he inquired when he would leave town. \"To-day,\nat ten o'clock,\" he replied. \"Ah, do you go so soon?\" said the doctor. \"I\nhave been reflecting upon your proposition, and I have concluded to let you\nhave the three negroes if you will say nineteen hundred dollars.\" After\nsome parley, the trader agreed to his terms. He wanted the bill of sale\ndrawn up and signed immediately, as he had a great deal to attend to during\nthe short time he remained in town. The doctor went to the jail and told\nWilliam he would take him back into his service if he would promise to\nbehave himself but he replied that he would rather be sold. \"And you\n_shall_ be sold, you ungrateful rascal!\" exclaimed the doctor. In less than\nan hour the money was paid, the papers were signed, sealed, and delivered,\nand my brother and children were in the hands of the trader.\n\nIt was a hurried transaction; and after it was over, the doctor's\ncharacteristic caution returned. He went back to the speculator, and said,\n\"Sir, I have come to lay you under obligations of a thousand dollars not to\nsell any of those negroes in this state.\" \"You come too late,\" replied the\ntrader; \"our bargain is closed.\" He had, in fact, already sold them to Mr.\nSands, but he did not mention it. The doctor required him to put irons on\n\"that rascal, Bill,\" and to pass through the back streets when he took his\ngang out of town. The trader was privately instructed to concede to his\nwishes. My good old aunt went to the jail to bid the children good by,\nsupposing them to be the speculator's property, and that she should never\nsee them again. As she held Benny in her lap, he said, \"Aunt Nancy, I want\nto show you something.\" He led her to the door and showed her a long row of\nmarks, saying, \"Uncle Will taught me to count. I have made a mark for every\nday I have been here, and it is sixty days. It is a long time; and the\nspeculator is going to take me and Ellen away. He's a bad man. It's wrong\nfor him to take grandmother's children. I want to go to my mother.\"\n\nMy grandmother was told that the children would be restored to her, but she\nwas requested to act as if they were really to be sent away. Accordingly,\nshe made up a bundle of clothes and went to the jail. When she arrived, she\nfound William handcuffed among the gang, and the children in the trader's\ncart. The scene seemed too much like reality. She was afraid there might\nhave been some deception or mistake. She fainted, and was carried home.\n\nWhen the wagon stopped at the hotel, several gentlemen came out and\nproposed to purchase William, but the trader refused their offers, without\nstating that he was already sold. And now came the trying hour for that\ndrove of human beings, driven away like cattle, to be sold they knew not\nwhere. Husbands were torn from wives, parents from children, never to look\nupon each other again this side the grave. There was wringing of hands and\ncries of despair.\n\nDr. Flint had the supreme satisfaction of seeing the wagon leave town, and\nMrs. Flint had the gratification of supposing that my children were going\n\"as far as wind and water would carry them.\" According to agreement, my\nuncle followed the wagon some miles, until they came to an old farm house.\nThere the trader took the irons from William, and as he did so, he said,\n\"You are a damned clever fellow. I should like to own you myself. Them\ngentlemen that wanted to buy you said you was a bright, honest chap, and I\nmust git you a good home. I guess your old master will swear to-morrow, and\ncall himself an old fool for selling the children. I reckon he'll never git\ntheir mammy back again. I expect she's made tracks for the north. Good by,\nold boy. Remember, I have done you a good turn. You must thank me by\ncoaxing all the pretty gals to go with me next fall. That's going to be my\nlast trip. This trading in niggers is a bad business for a fellow that's\ngot any heart. Move on, you fellows!\" And the gang went on, God alone knows\nwhere.\n\nMuch as I despise and detest the class of slave-traders, whom I regard as\nthe vilest wretches on earth, I must do this man the justice to say that he\nseemed to have some feeling. He took a fancy to William in the jail, and\nwanted to buy him. When he heard the story of my children, he was willing\nto aid them in getting out of Dr. Flint's power, even without charging the\ncustomary fee.\n\nMy uncle procured a wagon and carried William and the children back to\ntown. Great was the joy in my grandmother's house! The curtains were\nclosed, and the candles lighted. The happy grandmother cuddled the little\nones to her bosom. They hugged her, and kissed her, and clapped their\nhands, and shouted. She knelt down and poured forth one of her heartfelt\nprayers of thanksgiving to God. The father was present for a while; and\nthough such a \"parental relation\" as existed between him and my children\ntakes slight hold on the hearts or consciences of slaveholders, it must be\nthat he experienced some moments of pure joy in witnessing the happiness he\nhad imparted.\n\nI had no share in the rejoicings of that evening. The events of the day had\nnot come to my knowledge. And now I will tell you something that happened\nto me; though you will, perhaps, think it illustrates the superstition of\nslaves. I sat in my usual place on the floor near the window, where I could\nhear much that was said in the street without being seen. The family had\nretired for the night, and all was still. I sat there thinking of my\nchildren, when I heard a low strain of music. A band of serenaders were\nunder the window, playing \"Home, sweet home.\" I listened till the sounds\ndid not seem like music, but like the moaning of children. It seemed as if\nmy heart would burst. I rose from my sitting posture, and knelt. A streak\nof moonlight was on the floor before me, and in the midst of it appeared\nthe forms of my two children. They vanished; but I had seen them\ndistinctly. Some will call it a dream, others a vision. I know not how to\naccount for it, but it made a strong impression on my mind, and I felt\ncertain something had happened to my little ones.\n\nI had not seen Betty since morning. Now I heard her softly turning the key.\nAs soon as she entered, I clung to her, and begged her to let me know\nwhether my children were dead, or whether they were sold; for I had seen\ntheir spirits in my room, and I was sure something had happened to them.\n\"Lor, chile,\" said she, putting her arms round me, \"you's got de\nhigh-sterics. I'll sleep wid you to-night, 'cause you'll make a noise, and\nruin missis. Something has stirred you up mightily. When you is done cryin,\nI'll talk wid you. De chillern is well, and mighty happy. I seed 'em\nmyself. Does dat satisfy you? Dar, chile, be still! Somebody vill hear\nyou.\" I tried to obey her. She lay down, and was soon sound asleep; but no\nsleep would come to my eyelids.\n\nAt dawn, Betty was up and off to the kitchen. The hours passed on, and the\nvision of the night kept constantly recurring to my thoughts. After a while\nI heard the voices of two women in the entry. In one of them I recognized\nthe housemaid. The other said to her, \"Did you know Linda Brent's children\nwas sold to the speculator yesterday. They say ole massa Flint was mighty\nglad to see 'em drove out of town; but they say they've come back agin. I\n'spect it's all their daddy's doings. They say he's bought William too.\nLor! how it will take hold of ole massa Flint! I'm going roun' to aunt\nMarthy's to see 'bout it.\"\n\nI bit my lips till the blood came to keep from crying out. Were my children\nwith their grandmother, or had the speculator carried them off? The\nsuspense was dreadful. Would Betty _never_ come, and tell me the truth\nabout it? At last she came, and I eagerly repeated what I had overheard.\nHer face was one broad, bright smile. \"Lor, you foolish ting!\" said she.\n\"I'se gwine to tell you all 'bout it. De gals is eating thar breakfast, and\nmissus tole me to let her tell you; but, poor creeter! t'aint right to keep\nyou waitin', and I'se gwine to tell you. Brudder, chillern, all is bought\nby de daddy! I'se laugh more dan nuff, tinking 'bout ole massa Flint. Lor,\nhow he _vill_ swar! He's got ketched dis time, any how; but I must be\ngetting out o' dis, or dem gals vill come and ketch _me_.\"\n\nBetty went off laughing; and I said to myself, \"Can it be true that my\nchildren are free? I have not suffered for them in vain. Thank God!\"\n\nGreat surprise was expressed when it was known that my children had\nreturned to their grandmother's. The news spread through the town, and many\na kind word was bestowed on the little ones.\n\nDr. Flint went to my grandmother's to ascertain who was the owner of my\nchildren, and she informed him. \"I expected as much,\" said he. \"I am glad\nto hear it. I have had news from Linda lately, and I shall soon have her.\nYou need never expect to see _her_ free. She shall be my slave as long as I\nlive, and when I am dead she shall be the slave of my children. If I ever\nfind out that you or Phillip had anything to do with her running off I'll\nkill him. And if I meet William in the street, and he presumes to look at\nme, I'll flog him within an inch of his life. Keep those brats out of my\nsight!\"\n\nAs he turned to leave, my grandmother said something to remind him of his\nown doings. He looked back upon her, as if he would have been glad to\nstrike her to the ground.\n\nI had my season of joy and thanksgiving. It was the first time since my\nchildhood that I had experienced any real happiness. I heard of the old\ndoctor's threats, but they no longer had the same power to trouble me. The\ndarkest cloud that hung over my life had rolled away. Whatever slavery\nmight do to me, it could not shackle my children. If I fell a sacrifice, my\nlittle ones were saved. It was well for me that my simple heart believed\nall that had been promised for their welfare. It is always better to trust\nthan to doubt.\n\n\n", "summary": "No luck. Dr. Flint returns from New York empty-handed. Well, duh, she's hiding right down the road. Mr. Sands sends an agent to buy Linda's children and her brother. Eventually, Dr. Flint agrees--but only because he doesn't know who he's really selling to. Mr. Sands now owns Ellen, Benny, and William, who are all really stoked. Well, as much as they can be, since they're still human property. Dr. Flint finds out that Mr. Sands owns the children and flips out. Now he's never going to sell Linda."}, {"": "270", "document": "\n\nThe same evening Barbicane and his companions returned to Tampa\nTown; and Murchison, the engineer, re-embarked on board the\nTampico for New Orleans.  His object was to enlist an army of\nworkmen, and to collect together the greater part of the materials.\nThe members of the Gun Club remained at Tampa Town, for the\npurpose of setting on foot the preliminary works by the aid of\nthe people of the country.\n\nEight days after its departure, the Tampico returned into the\nbay of Espiritu Santo, with a whole flotilla of steamboats.\nMurchison had succeeded in assembling together fifteen\nhundred artisans.  Attracted by the high pay and considerable\nbounties offered by the Gun Club, he had enlisted a choice\nlegion of stokers, iron-founders, lime-burners, miners,\nbrickmakers, and artisans of every trade, without distinction\nof color.  As many of these people brought their families with\nthem, their departure resembled a perfect emigration.\n\nOn the 31st of October, at ten o'clock in the morning, the troop\ndisembarked on the quays of Tampa Town; and one may imagine the\nactivity which pervaded that little town, whose population was\nthus doubled in a single day.\n\nDuring the first few days they were busy discharging the cargo\nbrought by the flotilla, the machines, and the rations, as well\nas a large number of huts constructed of iron plates, separately\npieced and numbered.  At the same period Barbicane laid the\nfirst sleepers of a railway fifteen miles in length, intended to\nunite Stones Hill with Tampa Town.  On the first of November\nBarbicane quitted Tampa Town with a detachment of workmen; and\non the following day the whole town of huts was erected round\nStones Hill.  This they enclosed with palisades; and in respect\nof energy and activity, it might have been mistaken for one of\nthe great cities of the Union.  Everything was placed under a\ncomplete system of discipline, and the works were commenced in\nmost perfect order.\n\nThe nature of the soil having been carefully examined, by means\nof repeated borings, the work of excavation was fixed for the\n4th of November.\n\nOn that day Barbicane called together his foremen and addressed\nthem as follows:  \"You are well aware, my friends, of the\nobject with which I have assembled you together in this wild\npart of Florida.  Our business is to construct a cannon measuring\nnine feet in its interior diameter, six feet thick, and with a\nstone revetment of nineteen and a half feet in thickness.  We have,\ntherefore, a well of sixty feet in diameter to dig down to a\ndepth of nine hundred feet.  This great work must be completed\nwithin eight months, so that you have 2,543,400 cubic feet of\nearth to excavate in 255 days; that is to say, in round numbers,\n2,000 cubic feet per day.  That which would present no difficulty\nto a thousand navvies working in open country will be of course\nmore troublesome in a comparatively confined space.  However, the\nthing must be done, and I reckon for its accomplishment upon your\ncourage as much as upon your skill.\"\n\nAt eight o'clock the next morning the first stroke of the\npickaxe was struck upon the soil of Florida; and from that\nmoment that prince of tools was never inactive for one moment\nin the hands of the excavators.  The gangs relieved each other\nevery three hours.\n\nOn the 4th of November fifty workmen commenced digging, in the\nvery center of the enclosed space on the summit of Stones Hill,\na circular hole sixty feet in diameter.  The pickaxe first\nstruck upon a kind of black earth, six inches in thickness,\nwhich was speedily disposed of.  To this earth succeeded two\nfeet of fine sand, which was carefully laid aside as being\nvaluable for serving the casting of the inner mould.  After the\nsand appeared some compact white clay, resembling the chalk of\nGreat Britain, which extended down to a depth of four feet.\nThen the iron of the picks struck upon the hard bed of the soil;\na kind of rock formed of petrified shells, very dry, very solid,\nand which the picks could with difficulty penetrate.  At this\npoint the excavation exhibited a depth of six and a half feet\nand the work of the masonry was begun.\n\nAt the bottom of the excavation they constructed a wheel of oak,\na kind of circle strongly bolted together, and of immense strength.\nThe center of this wooden disc was hollowed out to a diameter\nequal to the exterior diameter of the Columbiad.  Upon this wheel\nrested the first layers of the masonry, the stones of which were\nbound together by hydraulic cement, with irresistible tenacity.\nThe workmen, after laying the stones from the circumference to\nthe center, were thus enclosed within a kind of well twenty-one\nfeet in diameter.  When this work was accomplished, the miners\nresumed their picks and cut away the rock from underneath the wheel\nitself, taking care to support it as they advanced upon blocks of\ngreat thickness.  At every two feet which the hole gained in depth\nthey successively withdrew the blocks.  The wheel then sank little\nby little, and with it the massive ring of masonry, on the upper\nbed of which the masons labored incessantly, always reserving some\nvent holes to permit the escape of gas during the operation of\nthe casting.\n\nThis kind of work required on the part of the workmen extreme\nnicety and minute attention.  More than one, in digging\nunderneath the wheel, was dangerously injured by the splinters\nof stone.  But their ardor never relaxed, night or day.  By day\nthey worked under the rays of the scorching sun; by night, under\nthe gleam of the electric light.  The sounds of the picks against\nthe rock, the bursting of mines, the grinding of the machines,\nthe wreaths of smoke scattered through the air, traced around\nStones Hill a circle of terror which the herds of buffaloes and\nthe war parties of the Seminoles never ventured to pass.\nNevertheless, the works advanced regularly, as the steam-cranes\nactively removed the rubbish.  Of unexpected obstacles there was\nlittle account; and with regard to foreseen difficulties, they\nwere speedily disposed of.\n\nAt the expiration of the first month the well had attained the\ndepth assigned for that lapse of time, namely, 112 feet.  This depth\nwas doubled in December, and trebled in January.\n\nDuring the month of February the workmen had to contend with a\nsheet of water which made its way right across the outer soil.\nIt became necessary to employ very powerful pumps and\ncompressed-air engines to drain it off, so as to close up the\norifice from whence it issued; just as one stops a leak on\nboard ship.  They at last succeeded in getting the upper hand of\nthese untoward streams; only, in consequence of the loosening of\nthe soil, the wheel partly gave way, and a slight partial\nsettlement ensued.  This accident cost the life of several workmen.\n\nNo fresh occurrence thenceforward arrested the progress of the\noperation; and on the tenth of June, twenty days before the\nexpiration of the period fixed by Barbicane, the well, lined\nthroughout with its facing of stone, had attained the depth of\n900 feet.  At the bottom the masonry rested upon a massive block\nmeasuring thirty feet in thickness, while on the upper portion\nit was level with the surrounding soil.\n\nPresident Barbicane and the members of the Gun Club warmly\ncongratulated their engineer Murchison; the cyclopean work had\nbeen accomplished with extraordinary rapidity.\n\nDuring these eight months Barbicane never quitted Stones Hill\nfor a single instant.  Keeping ever close by the work of\nexcavation, he busied himself incessantly with the welfare\nand health of his workpeople, and was singularly fortunate\nin warding off the epidemics common to large communities of\nmen, and so disastrous in those regions of the globe which\nare exposed to the influences of tropical climates.\n\nMany workmen, it is true, paid with their lives for the rashness\ninherent in these dangerous labors; but these mishaps are impossible\nto be avoided, and they are classed among the details with which\nthe Americans trouble themselves but little.  They have in fact\nmore regard for human nature in general than for the individual\nin particular.\n\nNevertheless, Barbicane professed opposite principles to these,\nand put them in force at every opportunity.  So, thanks to his\ncare, his intelligence, his useful intervention in all\ndifficulties, his prodigious and humane sagacity, the average of\naccidents did not exceed that of transatlantic countries, noted\nfor their excessive precautions-- France, for instance, among\nothers, where they reckon about one accident for every two\nhundred thousand francs of work.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Now the real work begins. Barbicane offers his workers \"liberal pay and proportionate bonuses\" in order to get the best of the best. As a result, Tampa's population practically doubles overnight. They work for about eight months, and by June, they've already dug the nine-hundred-feet deep hole. Excellent work, fellas."}, {"": "271", "document": "CHAPTER XXXIX. OF THE SIGNIFICATION IN SCRIPTURE OF THE WORD CHURCH\n\n\n\n\n\nChurch The Lords House\n\nThe word Church, (Ecclesia) signifieth in the Books of Holy Scripture\ndivers things. Sometimes (though not often) it is taken for Gods House,\nthat is to say, for a Temple, wherein Christians assemble to perform\nholy duties publiquely; as, 1 Cor. 14. ver. 34. \"Let your women keep\nsilence in the Churches:\" but this is Metaphorically put, for the\nCongregation there assembled; and hath been since used for the\nEdifice it self, to distinguish between the Temples of Christians, and\nIdolaters. The Temple of Jerusalem was Gods House, and the House of\nPrayer; and so is any Edifice dedicated by Christians to the worship of\nChrist, Christs House: and therefore the Greek Fathers call it Kuriake,\nThe Lords House; and thence, in our language it came to be called Kyrke,\nand Church.\n\n\n\n\nEcclesia Properly What\n\nChurch (when not taken for a House) signifieth the same that Ecclesia\nsignified in the Grecian Common-wealths; that is to say, a Congregation,\nor an Assembly of Citizens, called forth, to hear the Magistrate speak\nunto them; and which in the Common-wealth of Rome was called Concio, as\nhe that spake was called Ecclesiastes, and Concionator. And when they\nwere called forth by lawfull Authority, (Acts 19.39.) it was Ecclesia\nLegitima, a Lawfull Church, Ennomos Ecclesia. But when they were excited\nby tumultuous, and seditious clamor, then it was a confused Church,\nEcclesia Sugkechumene.\n\nIt is taken also sometimes for the men that have right to be of the\nCongregation, though not actually assembled; that is to say, for the\nwhole multitude of Christian men, how far soever they be dispersed: as\n(Act. 8.3.) where it is said, that \"Saul made havock of the Church:\" And\nin this sense is Christ said to be Head of the Church. And sometimes for\na certain part of Christians, as (Col. 4.15.) \"Salute the Church that is\nin his house.\" Sometimes also for the Elect onely; as (Ephes. 5.27.) \"A\nGlorious Church, without spot, or wrinkle, holy, and without blemish;\"\nwhich is meant of the Church Triumphant, or, Church To Come. Sometimes,\nfor a Congregation assembled, of professors of Christianity, whether\ntheir profession be true, or counterfeit, as it is understood, Mat.\n18.17. where it is said, \"Tell it to the Church, and if hee neglect to\nhear the Church, let him be to thee as a Gentile, or Publican.\"\n\n\n\n\nIn What Sense The Church Is One Person Church Defined\n\nAnd in this last sense only it is that the Church can be taken for one\nPerson; that is to say, that it can be said to have power to will, to\npronounce, to command, to be obeyed, to make laws, or to doe any other\naction whatsoever; For without authority from a lawfull Congregation,\nwhatsoever act be done in a concourse of people, it is the particular\nact of every one of those that were present, and gave their aid to the\nperformance of it; and not the act of them all in grosse, as of one\nbody; much lesse that act of them that were absent, or that being\npresent, were not willing it should be done. According to this sense, I\ndefine a CHURCH to be, \"A company of men professing Christian Religion,\nunited in the person of one Soveraign; at whose command they ought to\nassemble, and without whose authority they ought not to assemble.\" And\nbecause in all Common-wealths, that Assembly, which is without warrant\nfrom the Civil Soveraign, is unlawful; that Church also, which is\nassembled in any Common-wealth, that hath forbidden them to assemble, is\nan unlawfull Assembly.\n\n\n\n\nA Christian Common-wealth, And A Church All One\n\nIt followeth also, that there is on Earth, no such universall Church as\nall Christians are bound to obey; because there is no power on Earth, to\nwhich all other Common-wealths are subject: There are Christians, in\nthe Dominions of severall Princes and States; but every one of them\nis subject to that Common-wealth, whereof he is himself a member; and\nconsequently, cannot be subject to the commands of any other Person.\nAnd therefore a Church, such as one as is capable to Command, to Judge,\nAbsolve, Condemn, or do any other act, is the same thing with a Civil\nCommon-wealth, consisting of Christian men; and is called a Civill\nState, for that the subjects of it are Men; and a Church, for that the\nsubjects thereof are Christians. Temporall and Spirituall Government,\nare but two words brought into the world, to make men see double, and\nmistake their Lawfull Soveraign. It is true, that the bodies of the\nfaithfull, after the Resurrection shall be not onely Spirituall, but\nEternall; but in this life they are grosse, and corruptible. There\nis therefore no other Government in this life, neither of State, nor\nReligion, but Temporall; nor teaching of any doctrine, lawfull to any\nSubject, which the Governour both of the State, and of the Religion,\nforbiddeth to be taught: And that Governor must be one; or else there\nmust needs follow Faction, and Civil war in the Common-wealth, between\nthe Church and State; between Spiritualists, and Temporalists; between\nthe Sword Of Justice, and the Shield Of Faith; and (which is more) in\nevery Christian mans own brest, between the Christian, and the Man.\nThe Doctors of the Church, are called Pastors; so also are Civill\nSoveraignes: But if Pastors be not subordinate one to another, so\nas that there may bee one chief Pastor, men will be taught contrary\nDoctrines, whereof both may be, and one must be false. Who that one\nchief Pastor is, according to the law of Nature, hath been already\nshewn; namely, that it is the Civill Soveraign; And to whom the\nScripture hath assigned that Office, we shall see in the Chapters\nfollowing.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Deryn and Newkirk are back on the spine, working with the bats again; below, they see the German machines waiting for the Leviathan to come within range. Deryn realizes the whale is adapting to the new Clanker engines, using them to evolve. The all-hands-aft signal sounds, and everyone runs to the tail to try to pitch the nose of the ship up. She feels the airship become suddenly lighter , which means it just misses being hit by the German guns. The ship flies out of range, and Deryn tells Newkirk the Germans won't be able to catch them now: Clanker engines on Darwinist fabrications are more powerful than either one alone. Ha."}, {"": "272", "document": "\n\"I shall have ever present to my memory the dreadful day, on which I saw\nmy father and mother killed, and my sister ravished. When the Bulgarians\nretired, my dear sister could not be found; but my mother, my father,\nand myself, with two maid-servants and three little boys all of whom had\nbeen slain, were put in a hearse, to be conveyed for interment to a\nchapel belonging to the Jesuits, within two leagues of our family seat.\nA Jesuit sprinkled us with some holy water; it was horribly salt; a few\ndrops of it fell into my eyes; the father perceived that my eyelids\nstirred a little; he put his hand upon my heart and felt it beat. I\nreceived assistance, and at the end of three weeks I recovered. You\nknow, my dear Candide, I was very pretty; but I grew much prettier, and\nthe reverend Father Didrie,[16] Superior of that House, conceived the\ntenderest friendship for me; he gave me the habit of the order, some\nyears after I was sent to Rome. The Father-General needed new levies of\nyoung German-Jesuits. The sovereigns of Paraguay admit as few Spanish\nJesuits as possible; they prefer those of other nations as being more\nsubordinate to their commands. I was judged fit by the reverend\nFather-General to go and work in this vineyard. We set out--a Pole, a\nTyrolese, and myself. Upon my arrival I was honoured with a\nsub-deaconship and a lieutenancy. I am to-day colonel and priest. We\nshall give a warm reception to the King of Spain's troops; I will answer\nfor it that they shall be excommunicated and well beaten. Providence\nsends you here to assist us. But is it, indeed, true that my dear sister\nCunegonde is in the neighbourhood, with the Governor of Buenos Ayres?\"\n\nCandide assured him on oath that nothing was more true, and their tears\nbegan afresh.\n\nThe Baron could not refrain from embracing Candide; he called him his\nbrother, his saviour.\n\n\"Ah! perhaps,\" said he, \"we shall together, my dear Candide, enter the\ntown as conquerors, and recover my sister Cunegonde.\"\n\n\"That is all I want,\" said Candide, \"for I intended to marry her, and I\nstill hope to do so.\"\n\n\"You insolent!\" replied the Baron, \"would you have the impudence to\nmarry my sister who has seventy-two quarterings! I find thou hast the\nmost consummate effrontery to dare to mention so presumptuous a design!\"\n\nCandide, petrified at this speech, made answer:\n\n\"Reverend Father, all the quarterings in the world signify nothing; I\nrescued your sister from the arms of a Jew and of an Inquisitor; she has\ngreat obligations to me, she wishes to marry me; Master Pangloss always\ntold me that all men are equal, and certainly I will marry her.\"\n\n\"We shall see that, thou scoundrel!\" said the Jesuit Baron de\nThunder-ten-Tronckh, and that instant struck him across the face with\nthe flat of his sword. Candide in an instant drew his rapier, and\nplunged it up to the hilt in the Jesuit's belly; but in pulling it out\nreeking hot, he burst into tears.\n\n\"Good God!\" said he, \"I have killed my old master, my friend, my\nbrother-in-law! I am the best-natured creature in the world, and yet I\nhave already killed three men, and of these three two were priests.\"\n\nCacambo, who stood sentry by the door of the arbour, ran to him.\n\n\"We have nothing more for it than to sell our lives as dearly as we\ncan,\" said his master to him, \"without doubt some one will soon enter\nthe arbour, and we must die sword in hand.\"\n\nCacambo, who had been in a great many scrapes in his lifetime, did not\nlose his head; he took the Baron's Jesuit habit, put it on Candide, gave\nhim the square cap, and made him mount on horseback. All this was done\nin the twinkling of an eye.\n\n\"Let us gallop fast, master, everybody will take you for a Jesuit, going\nto give directions to your men, and we shall have passed the frontiers\nbefore they will be able to overtake us.\"\n\nHe flew as he spoke these words, crying out aloud in Spanish:\n\n\"Make way, make way, for the reverend Father Colonel.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Baron tells his life story to Candide: After the Bulgar soldiers attack, he is severely wounded and taken away to be buried. A Jesuit priest sprinkles saltwater over the supposedly dead Baron as a blessing, but sees the Baron's eyes flicker. Fortunately, the Jesuit cares for the Baron and restores him to health. The Baron trains as a colonel and as a priest and travels to Latin America. The Baron finishes telling his life story. Back in the present, the Baron asks Candide where his sister is and the men decide to rescue her together. Candide explains that he intends to marry Cunegonde. In a fit of rage, the Baron attacks Candide for his insolence and presumption in thinking that he is worthy of her in light of his ancestry. Candide thinks fast and kills the Baron by stabbing him. Then Candide thinks things through a bit. After several deep and contemplative minutes, Candide realizes what he's done. He feels remorseful. Also terrified. Cacambo quickly dresses Candide in the Baron's clothes and the two escape on horseback in disguise."}, {"": "273", "document": "\n\nNot far from this time Nat Turner's insurrection broke out; and the news\nthrew our town into great commotion. Strange that they should be alarmed,\nwhen their slaves were so \"contented and happy\"! But so it was.\n\nIt was always the custom to have a muster every year. On that occasion\nevery white man shouldered his musket. The citizens and the so-called\ncountry gentlemen wore military uniforms. The poor whites took their places\nin the ranks in every-day dress, some without shoes, some without hats.\nThis grand occasion had already passed; and when the slaves were told there\nwas to be another muster, they were surprised and rejoiced. Poor creatures!\nThey thought it was going to be a holiday. I was informed of the true state\nof affairs, and imparted it to the few I could trust. Most gladly would I\nhave proclaimed it to every slave; but I dared not. All could not be relied\non. Mighty is the power of the torturing lash.\n\nBy sunrise, people were pouring in from every quarter within twenty miles\nof the town. I knew the houses were to be searched; and I expected it would\nbe done by country bullies and the poor whites. I knew nothing annoyed them\nso much as to see colored people living in comfort and respectability; so I\nmade arrangements for them with especial care. I arranged every thing in my\ngrandmother's house as neatly as possible. I put white quilts on the beds,\nand decorated some of the rooms with flowers. When all was arranged, I sat\ndown at the window to watch. Far as my eye could reach, it rested on a\nmotley crowd of soldiers. Drums and fifes were discoursing martial music.\nThe men were divided into companies of sixteen, each headed by a captain.\nOrders were given, and the wild scouts rushed in every direction, wherever\na colored face was to be found.\n\nIt was a grand opportunity for the low whites, who had no negroes of their\nown to scourge. They exulted in such a chance to exercise a little brief\nauthority, and show their subserviency to the slaveholders; not reflecting\nthat the power which trampled on the colored people also kept themselves in\npoverty, ignorance, and moral degradation. Those who never witnessed such\nscenes can hardly believe what I know was inflicted at this time on\ninnocent men, women, and children, against whom there was not the slightest\nground for suspicion. Colored people and slaves who lived in remote parts\nof the town suffered in an especial manner. In some cases the searchers\nscattered powder and shot among their clothes, and then sent other parties\nto find them, and bring them forward as proof that they were plotting\ninsurrection. Every where men, women, and children were whipped till the\nblood stood in puddles at their feet. Some received five hundred lashes;\nothers were tied hands and feet, and tortured with a bucking paddle, which\nblisters the skin terribly. The dwellings of the colored people, unless\nthey happened to be protected by some influential white person, who was\nnigh at hand, were robbed of clothing and every thing else the marauders\nthought worth carrying away. All day long these unfeeling wretches went\nround, like a troop of demons, terrifying and tormenting the helpless. At\nnight, they formed themselves into patrol bands, and went wherever they\nchose among the colored people, acting out their brutal will. Many women\nhid themselves in woods and swamps, to keep out of their way. If any of the\nhusbands or fathers told of these outrages, they were tied up to the public\nwhipping post, and cruelly scourged for telling lies about white men. The\nconsternation was universal. No two people that had the slightest tinge of\ncolor in their faces dared to be seen talking together.\n\nI entertained no positive fears about our household, because we were in the\nmidst of white families who would protect us. We were ready to receive the\nsoldiers whenever they came. It was not long before we heard the tramp of\nfeet and the sound of voices. The door was rudely pushed open; and in they\ntumbled, like a pack of hungry wolves. They snatched at every thing within\ntheir reach. Every box, trunk, closet, and corner underwent a thorough\nexamination. A box in one of the drawers containing some silver change was\neagerly pounced upon. When I stepped forward to take it from them, one of\nthe soldiers turned and said angrily, \"What d'ye foller us fur? D'ye s'pose\nwhite folks is come to steal?\"\n\nI replied, \"You have come to search; but you have searched that box, and I\nwill take it, if you please.\"\n\nAt that moment I saw a white gentleman who was friendly to us; and I called\nto him, and asked him to have the goodness to come in and stay till the\nsearch was over. He readily complied. His entrance into the house brought\nin the captain of the company, whose business it was to guard the outside\nof the house, and see that none of the inmates left it. This officer was\nMr. Litch, the wealthy slaveholder whom I mentioned, in the account of\nneighboring planters, as being notorious for his cruelty. He felt above\nsoiling his hands with the search. He merely gave orders; and, if a bit of\nwriting was discovered, it was carried to him by his ignorant followers,\nwho were unable to read.\n\nMy grandmother had a large trunk of bedding and table cloths. When that was\nopened, there was a great shout of surprise; and one exclaimed, \"Where'd\nthe damned niggers git all dis sheet an' table clarf?\"\n\nMy grandmother, emboldened by the presence of our white protector said,\n\"You may be sure we didn't pilfer 'em from _your_ houses.\"\n\n\"Look here, mammy,\" said a grim-looking fellow without any coat, \"you seem\nto feel mighty gran' 'cause you got all them 'ere fixens. White folks\noughter have 'em all.\"\n\nHis remarks were interrupted by a chorus of voices shouting, \"We's got 'em!\nWe's got 'em! Dis 'ere yaller gal's got letters!\"\n\nThere was a general rush for the supposed letter, which, upon examination,\nproved to be some verses written to me by a friend. In packing away my\nthings, I had overlooked them. When their captain informed them of their\ncontents, they seemed much disappointed. He inquired of me who wrote them.\nI told him it was one of my friends. \"Can you read them?\" he asked. When I\ntold him I could, he swore, and raved, and tore the paper into bits. \"Bring\nme all your letters!\" said he, in commanding tone. I told him I had none.\n\"Don't be afraid,\" he continued, in an insinuating way. \"Bring them all to\nme. Nobody shall do you any harm.\" Seeing I did not move to obey him, his\npleasant tone changed to oaths and threats. \"Who writes to you? half free\nniggers?\" inquired he. I replied, \"O, no; most of my letters are from white\npeople. Some request me to burn them after they are read, and some I\ndestroy without reading.\"\n\nAn exclamation of surprise from some of the company put a stop to our\nconversation. Some silver spoons which ornamented an old-fashioned buffet\nhad just been discovered. My grandmother was in the habit of preserving\nfruit for many ladies in the town, and of preparing suppers for parties;\nconsequently she had many jars of preserves. The closet that contained\nthese was next invaded, and the contents tasted. One of them, who was\nhelping himself freely, tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, and said, \"Wal\ndone! Don't wonder de niggers want to kill all de white folks, when dey\nlive on 'sarves\" [meaning preserves]. I stretched out my hand to take the\njar, saying, \"You were not sent here to search for sweetmeats.\"\n\n\"And what _were_ we sent for?\" said the captain, bristling up to me. I\nevaded the question.\n\nThe search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn us.\nThey next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush and vine,\nwith no better success. The captain called his men together, and, after a\nshort consultation, the order to march was given. As they passed out of the\ngate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a malediction on the house.\nHe said it ought to be burned to the ground, and each of its inmates\nreceive thirty-nine lashes. We came out of this affair very fortunately;\nnot losing any thing except some wearing apparel.\n\nTowards evening the turbulence increased. The soldiers, stimulated by\ndrink, committed still greater cruelties. Shrieks and shouts continually\nrent the air. Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under the window\ncurtain. I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored people, each white\nman, with his musket upraised, threatening instant death if they did not\nstop their shrieks. Among the prisoners was a respectable old colored\nminister. They had found a few parcels of shot in his house, which his wife\nhad for years used to balance her scales. For this they were going to shoot\nhim on Court House Green. What a spectacle was that for a civilized\ncountry! A rabble, staggering under intoxication, assuming to be the\nadministrators of justice!\n\nThe better class of the community exerted their influence to save the\ninnocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded, by\nkeeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated. At last the white\ncitizens found that their own property was not safe from the lawless rabble\nthey had summoned to protect them. They rallied the drunken swarm, drove\nthem back into the country, and set a guard over the town.\n\nThe next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored people\nthat lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were committed\nwith perfect impunity. Every day for a fortnight, if I looked out, I saw\nhorsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles, and compelled\nby the lash to keep up with their speed, till they arrived at the jail\nyard. Those who had been whipped too unmercifully to walk were washed with\nbrine, tossed into a cart, and carried to jail. One black man, who had not\nfortitude to endure scourging, promised to give information about the\nconspiracy. But it turned out that he knew nothing at all. He had not even\nheard the name of Nat Turner. The poor fellow had, however, made up a\nstory, which augmented his own sufferings and those of the colored people.\n\nThe day patrol continued for some weeks, and at sundown a night guard was\nsubstituted. Nothing at all was proved against the colored people, bond or\nfree. The wrath of the slaveholders was somewhat appeased by the capture of\nNat Turner. The imprisoned were released. The slaves were sent to their\nmasters, and the free were permitted to return to their ravaged homes.\nVisiting was strictly forbidden on the plantations. The slaves begged the\nprivilege of again meeting at their little church in the woods, with their\nburying ground around it. It was built by the colored people, and they had\nno higher happiness than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour\nout their hearts in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the\nchurch was demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a\ncertain portion of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There,\nwhen every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction had\nbeen pronounced, the minister said, \"Come down, now, my colored friends.\"\nThey obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine, in\ncommemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, \"God is your Father,\nand all ye are brethren.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Word spreads of Nat Turner's slave rebellion in Virginia. Worried that the slaves may be planning a revolt, the slaveholders in Edenton hire poor whites to search everyone. Dozens of slaves--men, women and children--are whipped and tortured. Linda cleans her grandmother's house to get the searchers off her back. Mr. Litch, a neighboring slaveholder, leads the search of Aunt Martha's house. They ask her what she's doing with so many letters, and she says they're poetry from one of her white friends. The search team leaves after not finding anything incriminating, and you can imagine they're a little disappointed. This goes on for weeks. It doesn't manage to turn up any plots for rebellion--although if you're just looking at numbers of people tortured and jailed, it's a huge success."}, {"": "274", "document": "\nThe Hard-Won Triumph\n\n\nThree weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest moment in\nall the year,--the great chestnuts in blossom, and the grass all deep\nand daisied,--Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in the\nevening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the old\ndeep-rooted affection at the respectable red brick house, which always\nseemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the\nhearts as sad as they might inside. There is a very pleasant light in\nTom's blue-gray eyes as he glances at the house-windows; that fold in\nhis brow never disappears, but it is not unbecoming; it seems to imply\na strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when the\neyes and mouth have their gentlest expression. His firm step becomes\nquicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the compression\nwhich is meant to forbid a smile.\n\nThe eyes in the parlor were not turned toward the bridge just then,\nand the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence,--Mr. Tulliver\nin his arm-chair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a worn\nlook, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing while\nher mother was making the tea.\n\nThey all looked up with surprise when they heard the well-known foot.\n\n\"Why, what's up now, Tom?\" said his father. \"You're a bit earlier than\nusual.\"\n\n\"Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. Well,\nmother!\"\n\nTom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of unusual good-humor\nwith him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie in\nall the three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at home\nprevented this from being noticeable to their parents.\n\n\"Father,\" said Tom, when they had finished tea, \"do you know exactly\nhow much money there is in the tin box?\"\n\n\"Only a hundred and ninety-three pound,\" said Mr. Tulliver. \"You've\nbrought less o' late; but young fellows like to have their own way\nwith their money. Though I didn't do as I liked before _I_ was of\nage.\" He spoke with rather timid discontent.\n\n\"Are you quite sure that's the sum, father?\" said Tom. \"I wish you\nwould take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. I think you have\nperhaps made a mistake.\"\n\n\"How should I make a mistake?\" said his father, sharply. \"I've counted\nit often enough; but I can fetch it, if you won't believe me.\"\n\nIt was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, to\nfetch the tin box and count the money.\n\n\"Don't go out of the room, mother,\" said Tom, as he saw her moving\nwhen his father was gone upstairs.\n\n\"And isn't Maggie to go?\" said Mrs. Tulliver; \"because somebody must\ntake away the things.\"\n\n\"Just as she likes,\" said Tom indifferently.\n\nThat was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with the\nsudden conviction that Tom was going to tell their father the debts\ncould be paid; and Tom would have let her be absent when that news was\ntold! But she carried away the tray and came back immediately. The\nfeeling of injury on her own behalf could not predominate at that\nmoment.\n\nTom drew to the corner of the table near his father when the tin box\nwas set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on them\nmade conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the dark-eyed father and the\nsuppressed joy in the face of the fair-complexioned son. The mother\nand Maggie sat at the other end of the table, the one in blank\npatience, the other in palpitating expectation.\n\nMr. Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on the table,\nand then said, glancing sharply at Tom:\n\n\"There now! you see I was right enough.\"\n\nHe paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency.\n\n\"There's more nor three hundred wanting; it'll be a fine while before\n_I_ can save that. Losing that forty-two pound wi' the corn was a sore\njob. This world's been too many for me. It's took four year to lay\n_this_ by; it's much if I'm above ground for another four year. I must\ntrusten to you to pay 'em,\" he went on, with a trembling voice, \"if\nyou keep i' the same mind now you're coming o' age. But you're like\nenough to bury me first.\"\n\nHe looked up in Tom's face with a querulous desire for some assurance.\n\n\"No, father,\" said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, though there\nwas tremor discernible in his voice too, \"you will live to see the\ndebts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand.\"\n\nHis tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. A\nslight electric shock seemed to pass through Mr. Tulliver, and he kept\nhis eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie,\nunable to restrain herself, rushed to her father's side and knelt down\nby him. Tom was silent a little while before he went on.\n\n\"A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money to trade\nwith, and that has answered. I have three hundred and twenty pounds in\nthe bank.\"\n\nHis mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last words were\nuttered, and she said, half crying:\n\n\"Oh, my boy, I knew you'd make iverything right again, when you got a\nman.\"\n\nBut his father was silent; the flood of emotion hemmed in all power of\nspeech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with fear lest the shock of\njoy might even be fatal. But the blessed relief of tears came. The\nbroad chest heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and the\ngray-haired man burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping gradually\nsubsided, and he sat quiet, recovering the regularity of his\nbreathing. At last he looked up at his wife and said, in a gentle\ntone:\n\n\"Bessy, you must come and kiss me now--the lad has made you amends.\nYou'll see a bit o' comfort again, belike.\"\n\nWhen she had kissed him, and he had held her hand a minute, his\nthoughts went back to the money.\n\n\"I wish you'd brought me the money to look at, Tom,\" he said,\nfingering the sovereigns on the table; \"I should ha' felt surer.\"\n\n\"You shall see it to-morrow, father,\" said Tom. \"My uncle Deane has\nappointed the creditors to meet to-morrow at the Golden Lion, and he\nhas ordered a dinner for them at two o'clock. My uncle Glegg and he\nwill both be there. It was advertised in the 'Messenger' on Saturday.\"\n\n\"Then Wakem knows on't!\" said Mr. Tulliver, his eye kindling with\ntriumphant fire. \"Ah!\" he went on, with a long-drawn guttural\nenunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the only luxury he had left\nhimself, and tapping it with something of his old air of defiance.\n\"I'll get from under _his_ thumb now, though I _must_ leave the old\nmill. I thought I could ha' held out to die here--but I can't----we've\ngot a glass o' nothing in the house, have we, Bessy?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Tulliver, drawing out her much-reduced bunch of keys,\n\"there's some brandy sister Deane brought me when I was ill.\"\n\n\"Get it me, then; get it me. I feel a bit weak.\"\n\n\"Tom, my lad,\" he said, in a stronger voice, when he had taken some\nbrandy-and-water, \"you shall make a speech to 'em. I'll tell 'em it's\nyou as got the best part o' the money. They'll see I'm honest at last,\nand ha' got an honest son. Ah! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have a\nson like mine,--a fine straight fellow,--i'stead o' that poor crooked\ncreatur! You'll prosper i' the world, my lad; you'll maybe see the day\nwhen Wakem and his son 'ull be a round or two below you. You'll like\nenough be ta'en into partnership, as your uncle Deane was before\nyou,--you're in the right way for't; and then there's nothing to\nhinder your getting rich. And if ever you're rich enough--mind\nthis--try and get th' old mill again.\"\n\nMr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, which had so\nlong been the home of nothing but bitter discontent and foreboding,\nsuddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune.\nBut some subtle influence prevented him from foreseeing the good\nfortune as happening to himself.\n\n\"Shake hands wi' me, my lad,\" he said, suddenly putting out his hand.\n\"It's a great thing when a man can be proud as he's got a good son.\nI've had _that_ luck.\"\n\nTom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as that; and\nMaggie couldn't help forgetting her own grievances. Tom _was_ good;\nand in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of true\nadmiration and gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon in\nher had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousy\nthis evening that, for the first time, she seemed to be thrown into\nthe background in her father's mind.\n\nThere was much more talk before bedtime. Mr. Tulliver naturally wanted\nto hear all the particulars of Tom's trading adventures, and he\nlistened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to know\nwhat had been said on every occasion; if possible, what had been\nthought; and Bob Jakin's part in the business threw him into peculiar\noutbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that\nremarkable packman. Bob's juvenile history, so far as it had come\nunder Mr. Tulliver's knowledge, was recalled with that sense of\nastonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in all\nreminiscences of the childhood of great men.\n\nIt was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep under\nthe vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which would\notherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into with\ndangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gave\nthreats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevant\nexclamation.\n\nIt was long before Mr. Tulliver got to sleep that night; and the\nsleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past five\no'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was already rising, he\nalarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and looking\nround in a bewildered way at the walls of the bedroom.\n\n\"What's the matter, Mr. Tulliver?\" said his wife. He looked at her,\nstill with a puzzled expression, and said at last:\n\n\"Ah!--I was dreaming--did I make a noise?--I thought I'd got hold of\nhim.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Three weeks have passed. Tom gathers all the family in the parlor to tell them some news. First Tom asks his dad to check out his box of money and see how much is in it. Mr. Tulliver thinks this is dumb since he already knows how much is in there, because he counts his money every day. Tom then asks how much money is needed to pay off the debts and Mr. Tulliver is like, \"I know how much!\" Tom finally quits jerking everyone around and announces that he has raised enough money to pay the family debts. The family is overjoyed. Tom explains that the debts will be paid off tomorrow. Mr. Deane has arranged a meeting with the creditors and Mr. Glegg will be there tomorrow also. Mr. Tulliver is excited and tells Tom that he can make a speech to the creditors about restoring the family's good name. Tom is totally triumphant and is joyful. Maggie puts aside her anger and praises Tom. Tom then tells Mr. Tulliver the whole story of how he raised the money. Mr. Tulliver gives props to Bob Jakin for helping them out. That night Mr. Tulliver wakes up from a dream, thinking that he finally had gotten even with Mr. Wakem."}, {"": "275", "document": "TROUBLE\n\n\nThe days went merrily by for the freight-car family. Hardly a day\npassed, however, without some exciting adventure. Mrs. McAllister,\nfinding out in some way that Violet was a clever seamstress, sent home\nfine linen handkerchiefs for her to hem. Each one had a tiny colored\nrose in the corner, and Violet was delighted with the dainty work. She\nsat sewing daily by the swimming pool while Benny sailed wonderful boats\nof chips, and waded around to his heart's content.\n\nThe freight-car pantry now held marvelous dishes rescued from the dump;\nsuch rarities as a regular bread knife, a blue and gold soap dish, and\nhalf of a real cut-glass bowl.\n\nHenry proudly deposited thirty-one dollars in the savings bank under the\nname of Henry James, and worked eagerly for his kind friend, who never\nasked him any more embarrassing questions.\n\nBenny actually learned to read fairly well. The girls occupied their\ntime making balsam pillows for the four beds, and trying to devise\nwonderful meals out of very little material. Violet kept a different\nbouquet daily in the little vase. She had a perfect genius for arranging\nthree purple irises to look like a picture, or a single wood lily with\nits leaves like a Japanese print. Each day the children enjoyed a cooked\ndinner, filling in the chinks with perfect satisfaction with bread and\nbutter, or bread and milk, or bread and cheese. They named their queer\nhouse, \"Home for Tramps,\" and printed this title in fancy lettering\ninside the car.\n\nOne day Jess began to teach Benny a little arithmetic. He learned very\nreadily that two and one make three.\n\n\"I knew that before,\" he said cheerfully. But it was a different matter\nwhen Jess proposed to him that two minus one left one.\n\n\"No, it does not left _one_,\" said Benny indignantly. \"It left _two_.\"\n\n\"Why, Benny!\" cried Jess in astonishment. \"Supposing you had two apples\nand I took away one, wouldn't you have one left?\"\n\n\"You never would,\" objected Benny with confidence.\n\n\"No, but supposing Watch took one,\" suggested Jess.\n\n[Illustration: _One day the stranger was allowed to see Violet_]\n\n\"Watchie wouldn't take one, neither,\" said Benny. \"Would you, doggie?\"\n\nWatch opened one eye and wagged his tail. Jess looked at Violet in\ndespair. \"What shall I do with him?\" she asked.\n\nViolet took out her chalk and printed clearly on the outside of the\nfreight car the following example:\n\n    2 - 1 =\n\n\"Now, Benny, don't you see,\" she began, \"that if you have two things,\nand somebody takes away one, that you _must_ have one left?\"\n\n\"I'll show you myself,\" agreed Benny finally with resignation. \"Now see\nthe 2?\" He actually made a respectable figure 2 on the freight car.\n\"Now, here's a nice 1. Now, s'posen I take away the 1, don't you see the\n2's left right on the car?\" He covered the figure 1 with his chubby hand\nand looked about at his audience expectantly.\n\nJess rolled over against a tree trunk and laughed till she nearly cried.\nViolet laughed until she really did cry. And here we come to the first\nunpleasant incident in the story of the runaway children.\n\nViolet could not stop crying, apparently, and Jess soon made up her mind\nthat she was really ill. She helped her carefully into the car, and\nheaped all the pine needles around and under her, making her the softest\nbed she could. Then she wet cloths in the cool water of the brook and\nlaid them across her little sister's hot forehead.\n\n\"How glad I am that it is time for Henry to come!\" she said to herself,\nholding Violet's slender brown hands in her cool ones.\n\nHenry came promptly at the usual time. He thought she had a cold, he\nsaid. And this seemed likely, for Violet began to cough gently while the\nrest ate a hasty supper.\n\n\"We don't want to let her go to a hospital if we can possibly help it,\"\nsaid Henry, more troubled than he cared to show. \"If she goes there\nwe'll have to give her name, and then Grandfather will find us surely.\"\n\nJess agreed, and together the two older children kept changing the cool\ncloths on Violet's aching head. But about ten o'clock that night Violet\nhad a chill. She shivered and shook, and her teeth chattered so that\nJess could plainly hear them. Apparently nothing could warm the little\ngirl, although she was completely packed in hay and pine needles.\n\n\"I'm going down to Dr. McAllister's,\" said Henry quietly. \"I'm afraid\nViolet is very ill.\"\n\nNobody ever knew how fast he ran down the hill. Even in his famous race,\nHenry hardly touched his present speed. He was so thoroughly frightened\nthat he never stopped to notice how quickly the doctor seemed to\nunderstand what was wanted. He did not even notice that he did not have\nto tell the doctor which way to drive his car in order to reach the\nhill. When the car reached the road at the base of the hill, Dr.\nMcAllister said shortly, \"Stay here in the car,\" and disappeared up the\nhill alone.\n\nWhen the doctor returned he was carrying Violet in his arms. Jess and\nBenny and Watch were following closely. Nobody spoke during the drive to\nthe McAllister house as they flew through the darkness. When they\nstopped at last, the doctor said three words to his mother, who opened\nthe door anxiously.\n\nThe three words were, \"Pneumonia, I'm afraid.\" They all heard it.\n\nIrish Mary appeared from the kitchen with hot-water bottles and warm\nblankets, and Mrs. McAllister flew around, opening beds and bringing\npillows. A trained nurse in a white dress appeared like magic from\nnowhere in particular. They all worked as best they could to get the\nsick child warmed up. Soon the hot blankets, hot water, and steaming\ndrinks began to take effect and the shivering stopped.\n\nMrs. McAllister left the sick room then, to attend to the other\nchildren. Henry and Benny were left in a large spare room with a double\nbed. Jess was put in a little dressing room just out of Mrs.\nMcAllister's own room. Upon receiving assurances that Violet was warm\nagain, they went to sleep.\n\nBut Violet was not out of danger, for she soon grew as hot as she had\nbeen cold. And the doctor never left her side until ten o'clock the next\nmorning. Violet, although very ill, did not have pneumonia.\n\nAt about nine o'clock the doctor had a visitor. It was a man who said he\nwould wait. He did wait in the cool front parlor for over half an hour.\nThen Benny drifted in.\n\n\"Where _is_ the doctor?\" asked the man sharply of Benny.\n\n\"He's nupstairs,\" answered Benny readily.\n\n\"This means a lot of money to him, if he only knew it,\" said the visitor\nimpatiently.\n\n\"Oh, _that_ wouldn't make any difference,\" Benny replied with great\nassurance as he started to go out again. But the man caught him.\n\n\"What do you mean by that, sonny?\" he asked curiously. \"What's he\ndoing?\"\n\n\"He's taking care of my sister Violet. She's sick.\"\n\n\"And you mean he wouldn't leave her even if I gave him a lot of money?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's it,\" said Benny politely. \"That's what I mean.\"\n\nThe visitor seemed to restrain his impatience with a great effort. \"You\nsee, I've lost a little boy somewhere,\" he said. \"The doctor knows where\nhe is, I think. He would be about as old as you are.\"\n\n\"Well, if you don't find him, you can have me, I shouldn't wonder,\"\nobserved Benny comfortingly. \"I like you.\"\n\n\"You do?\" said the man in surprise.\n\n\"That's because you've got such a nice, soft suit on,\" explained Benny,\nstroking the man's knee gently. The gentleman laughed heartily.\n\n\"No, I guess it's because you have such a nice, soft laugh,\" said Benny\nchanging his mind. The fact was that Benny himself did not know why he\nliked this stranger who was so gruff at times and so pleasant at others.\nHe finally accepted the man's invitation and climbed into his lap to see\nhis dog's picture in his watch, feeling of the \"nice soft suit,\" on the\nway. The doctor found him here when he came down at ten o'clock.\n\n\"Better go and find Watch, Benny,\" suggested the doctor.\n\n\"Perhaps some day I'll come again,\" observed Benny to his new friend. \"I\nlike your dog, and I'm sorry he's dead.\" With that he scampered off to\nfind Watch, who was very much alive.\n\n\"I expected you, Mr. Cordyce,\" said the doctor smiling, \"only not quite\nso soon.\"\n\n\"I came the moment I heard your name hinted at,\" said James Cordyce. \"My\nchauffeur heard two workmen say that you knew where my four\ngrandchildren were. That's all I waited to hear. Is it true? And where\nare they?\"\n\n\"That was one of them,\" said the doctor quietly.\n\n\"That was one of them!\" repeated the man. \"That beautiful little boy?\"\n\n\"Yes, he is beautiful,\" assented Dr. McAllister. \"They all are. The only\ntrouble is, they're all frightened to death to think of your finding\nthem.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\" said Mr. Cordyce, sharply.\n\n\"They've changed their name. At least the older boy did. In public,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"What did he change it to?\"\n\nDr. McAllister watched his visitor's face closely while he pronounced\nthe name clearly, \"Henry James.\"\n\nA flood of recollections passed over the man's face, and he flushed\ndeeply.\n\n\"That boy!\" he exclaimed. \"That wonderful running boy?\"\n\nThen events began to move along rapidly.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Alden hopes the children will live with him so he's been preparing some rooms for them. When the children arrive at his house, they're shocked--they had no idea he was a fancy rich person. Violet's room is decorated with violets. It's a bit literal, but Violet seems happy. Benny's room has animals everywhere, while Jessie's room has a special bed for Watch the dog. Speaking of ... ding-dong. Looks like someone's at the door to talk to Mr. Alden about the dog. Suddenly, the children feel nervous. Watch seems happy to see the person at the door. As it turns out, this man was his former owner, but he sold Watch to a woman. He's here to collect the dog and return him to the woman. Henry suggests that the woman get a new dog; he and his siblings will keep Watch. Everyone goes to see the unnamed woman. She's sympathetic to the children's pleas, and she says she'll take another dog so the children can keep Watch. Phew. Mr. Alden pays the man for the dog. Then, they go home for dinner, where everyone is waited on by maids--including Watch. Over time, the children begin to miss the boxcar. They love their grandfather's fancy house, but the boxcar had a certain something. Mr. Alden sends the children to Dr. Moore's for the day, and when they get home, they're surprised to see their boxcar in Mr. Alden's garden. The children are delighted, and then everyone lives happily ever after. The end."}, {"": "276", "document": "Roxane, Christian.  In the distance cadets coming and going.  Carbon and De\nGuiche give orders.\n\nROXANE (running up to Christian):\n  Ah, Christian, at last!. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN (taking her hands):\n  Now tell me why--\n  Why, by these fearful paths so perilous--\n  Across these ranks of ribald soldiery,\n  You have come?\n\nROXANE:\n  Love, your letters brought me here!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What say you?\n\nROXANE:\n  'Tis your fault if I ran risks!\n  Your letters turned my head!  Ah! all this month,\n  How many!--and the last one ever bettered\n  The one that went before!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What!--for a few\n  Inconsequent love-letters!\n\nROXANE:\n  Hold your peace!\n  Ah! you cannot conceive it!  Ever since\n  That night, when, in a voice all new to me,\n  Under my window you revealed your soul--\n  Ah! ever since I have adored you!  Now\n  Your letters all this whole month long!--meseemed\n  As if I heard that voice so tender, true,\n  Sheltering, close!  Thy fault, I say!  It drew me,\n  The voice o' th' night!  Oh! wise Penelope\n  Would ne'er have stayed to broider on her hearthstone,\n  If her Ulysses could have writ such letters!\n  But would have cast away her silken bobbins,\n  And fled to join him, mad for love as Helen!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  I read, read again--grew faint for love;\n  I was thine utterly.  Each separate page\n  Was like a fluttering flower-petal, loosed\n  From your own soul, and wafted thus to mine.\n  Imprinted in each burning word was love\n  Sincere, all-powerful. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  A love sincere!\n  Can that be felt, Roxane!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, that it can!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  You come. . .?\n\nROXANE:\n  O, Christian, my true lord, I come--\n  (Were I to throw myself, here, at your knees,\n  You would raise me--but 'tis my soul I lay\n  At your feet--you can raise it nevermore!)\n  --I come to crave your pardon.  (Ay, 'tis time\n  To sue for pardon, now that death may come!)\n  For the insult done to you when, frivolous,\n  At first I loved you only for your face!\n\nCHRISTIAN (horror-stricken):\n  Roxane!\n\nROXANE:\n  And later, love--less frivolous--\n  Like a bird that spreads its wings, but can not fly--\n  Arrested by your beauty, by your soul\n  Drawn close--I loved for both at once!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  And now?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah! you yourself have triumphed o'er yourself,\n  And now, I love you only for your soul!\n\nCHRISTIAN (stepping backward):\n  Roxane!\n\nROXANE:\n  Be happy.  To be loved for beauty--\n  A poor disguise that time so soon wears threadbare--\n  Must be to noble souls--to souls aspiring--\n  A torture.  Your dear thoughts have now effaced\n  That beauty that so won me at the outset.\n  Now I see clearer--and I no more see it!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  You are doubtful of such victory?\n\nCHRISTIAN (pained):\n  Roxane!\n\nROXANE:\n  I see you cannot yet believe it.\n  Such love. . .?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I do not ask such love as that!\n  I would be loved more simply; for. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  For that\n  Which they have all in turns loved in thee?--\n  Shame!\n  Oh! be loved henceforth in a better way!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  No! the first love was best!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah! how you err!\n  'Tis now that I love best--love well!  'Tis that\n  Which is thy true self, see!--that I adore!\n  Were your brilliance dimmed. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Hush!\n\nROXANE:\n  I should love still!\n  Ay, if your beauty should to-day depart. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Say not so!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, I say it!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ugly?  How?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ugly!  I swear I'd love you still!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  My God!\n\nROXANE:\n  Are you content at last?\n\nCHRISTIAN (in a choked voice):\n  Ay!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  What is wrong?\n\nCHRISTIAN (gently pushing her away):\n  Nothing. . .I have two words to say:--one second. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  But?. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN (pointing to the cadets):\n  Those poor fellows, shortly doomed to death,--\n  My love deprives them of the sight of you:\n  Go,--speak to them--smile on them ere they die!\n\nROXANE (deeply affected):\n  Dear Christian!. . .\n\n(She goes up to the cadets, who respectfully crowd round her.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Christian asks why Roxane risked death to see him again, and she says that she was driven mad by his beautiful love letters. She says that, at first, she loved only his beauty, but now she has forgotten about his beauty and loves his inner self, the soul she felt in the letters. When Roxane says she would love him even if he were ugly, Christian is miserable. He sends her to go speak to the cadets and to smile at them because they are about to die"}, {"": "277", "document": "\n    \"Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr.\n    No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr.\n    Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr.\n    Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who every one gave in his\n    private verdict against him among themselves, and afterwards\n    unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the\n    judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the\n    foreman, said, I see clearly that this man is a heretic.\n    Then said Mr. No-good, Away with such a fellow from the\n    earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very look of him.\n    Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him. Nor I,\n    said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my\n    way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said\n    Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity.\n    He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him,\n    said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way said\n    Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might I have all\n    the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him;\n    therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death.\"\n                                            --Pilgrim's Progress.\n\n\nWhen immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions\nbringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful?  That is a\nrare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know\nourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd--to be sure that what we\nare denounced for is solely the good in us.  The pitiable lot is that\nof the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to\npersuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions\nincarnate--who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right,\nbut for not being the man he professed to be.\n\nThis was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he\nmade his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going to end\nhis stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces.\nThe duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one\ndread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal\nbefore which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy.  His\nequivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained the\nconception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror\nupon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full\nconfession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with\ninward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy\nto win invisible pardon--what name would she call them by?  That she\nshould ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear.\nHe felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the\nsense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst\ncondemnation on him.  Some time, perhaps--when he was dying--he would\ntell her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand\nin the gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his\ntouch.  Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and\nthe impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper\nhumiliation.\n\nHe was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated\nany harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress\nat the sight of her suffering.  She had sent her daughters away to\nboard at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from\nthem as far as possible.  Set free by their absence from the\nintolerable necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their\nfrightened wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that\nwas every day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids\nlanguid.\n\n\"Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet,\"\nBulstrode had said to her; \"I mean with regard to arrangements of\nproperty.  It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this\nneighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision.  If you have\nany wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me.\"\n\nA few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her\nbrother's, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for\nsome time been in her mind.\n\n\"I _should_ like to do something for my brother's family, Nicholas; and\nI think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband.\nWalter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost\ngood for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere\nwith.  I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some\namends to my poor brother's family.\"\n\nMrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the\nphrase \"make some amends;\" knowing that her husband must understand\nher.  He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for\nwincing under her suggestion.  He hesitated before he said--\n\n\"It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my\ndear.  Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me.\nHe has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him.  Mrs. Casaubon\nadvanced him the sum for that purpose.  Here is his letter.\"\n\nThe letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely.  The mention of Mrs.\nCasaubon's loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held\nit a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her\nhusband.  She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after\nthe other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away.  Bulstrode,\nsitting opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face,\nwhich two months before had been bright and blooming.  It had aged to\nkeep sad company with his own withered features.  Urged into some\neffort at comforting her, he said--\n\n\"There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your\nbrother's family, if you like to act in it.  And it would, I think, be\nbeneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land\nwhich I mean to be yours.\"\n\nShe looked attentive.\n\n\"Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in\norder to place your nephew Fred there.  The stock was to remain as it\nis, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an\nordinary rent.  That would be a desirable beginning for the young man,\nin conjunction with his employment under Garth.  Would it be a\nsatisfaction to you?\"\n\n\"Yes, it would,\" said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy.\n\"Poor Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do\nhim some good before I go away.  We have always been brother and\nsister.\"\n\n\"You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet,\" said Mr.\nBulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had\nin view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife.  \"You\nmust state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need\nhave no transactions with me.  Communications can be made through\nStandish.  I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent.  I can\nput into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating\nconditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them.  I\nthink it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing\nfor the sake of your nephew.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Bulstrode has retreated into solitude and withdrawn from all public life. He is arranging his business affairs prior to leaving the town. The hardest thing for him to bear is that he who wanted to be a better person than his neighbor is found by them to be much worse. He is haunted by the fear of losing his wifes sympathy and cannot bear to confide in her all the facts about his past and Raffles death. But he is anxious to reduce her suffering. Hence he tells her he has transferred all his land around the town to her name and asks what she would like to do with it. Her wish to help Lydgate cannot be fulfilled as Lydgate has refused all his earlier help and repaid his loan. Instead, he suggests reviving the old arrangement with Garth and Fred for Stone Court. Garth may be willing to deal with her personally, and it would help Fred to settle down."}, {"": "278", "document": "\n\nDr. Flint owned a fine residence in town, several farms, and about fifty\nslaves, besides hiring a number by the year.\n\nHiring-day at the south takes place on the 1st of January. On the 2d, the\nslaves are expected to go to their new masters. On a farm, they work until\nthe corn and cotton are laid. They then have two holidays. Some masters\ngive them a good dinner under the trees. This over, they work until\nChristmas eve. If no heavy charges are meantime brought against them, they\nare given four or five holidays, whichever the master or overseer may think\nproper. Then comes New Year's eve; and they gather together their little\nalls, or more properly speaking, their little nothings, and wait anxiously\nfor the dawning of day. At the appointed hour the grounds are thronged with\nmen, women, and children, waiting, like criminals, to hear their doom\npronounced. The slave is sure to know who is the most humane, or cruel\nmaster, within forty miles of him.\n\nIt is easy to find out, on that day, who clothes and feeds his slaves well;\nfor he is surrounded by a crowd, begging, \"Please, massa, hire me this\nyear. I will work _very_ hard, massa.\"\n\nIf a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped, or locked\nup in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to run away during\nthe year. Should he chance to change his mind, thinking it justifiable to\nviolate an extorted promise, woe unto him if he is caught! The whip is used\ntill the blood flows at his feet; and his stiffened limbs are put in\nchains, to be dragged in the field for days and days!\n\nIf he lives until the next year, perhaps the same man will hire him again,\nwithout even giving him an opportunity of going to the hiring-ground. After\nthose for hire are disposed of, those for sale are called up.\n\nO, you happy free women, contrast _your_ New Year's day with that of the\npoor bond-woman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the light of the day\nis blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where, and gifts are showered\nupon you. Even hearts that have been estranged from you soften at this\nseason, and lips that have been silent echo back, \"I wish you a happy New\nYear.\" Children bring their little offerings, and raise their rosy lips for\na caress. They are your own, and no hand but that of death can take them\nfrom you.\n\nBut to the slave mother New Year's day comes laden with peculiar sorrows.\nShe sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children who may all be torn\nfrom her the next morning; and often does she wish that she and they might\ndie before the day dawns. She may be an ignorant creature, degraded by the\nsystem that has brutalized her from childhood; but she has a mother's\ninstincts, and is capable of feeling a mother's agonies.\n\nOn one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to the\nauction-block. She knew that _some_ of them would be taken from her; but\nthey took _all_. The children were sold to a slave-trader, and their mother\nwas bought by a man in her own town. Before night her children were all\nfar away. She begged the trader to tell her where he intended to take them;\nthis he refused to do. How _could_ he, when he knew he would sell them, one\nby one, wherever he could command the highest price? I met that mother in\nthe street, and her wild, haggard face lives to-day in my mind. She wrung\nher hands in anguish, and exclaimed, \"Gone! All gone! Why _don't_ God kill\nme?\" I had no words wherewith to comfort her. Instances of this kind are of\ndaily, yea, of hourly occurrence.\n\nSlaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of getting rid\nof _old_ slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their service. I knew an\nold woman, who for seventy years faithfully served her master. She had\nbecome almost helpless, from hard labor and disease. Her owners moved to\nAlabama, and the old black woman was left to be sold to any body who would\ngive twenty dollars for her.\n\n\n", "summary": "New Year's Day! Brunches, champagne, and resolutions to finally lose that 10 pounds. Unless you're a slave. In that case, January 1st is the day slaves are sold to new masters. On one \"hiring-day,\" Linda watched a slave mother lose all seven of her children at the auction-block. In case we're not outraged enough, Linda also describes how old slaves are deemed useless since they can no longer work. She knows one slave whose owners abandoned her at the auction-block when she was sick. For twenty dollars, they let anyone take her."}, {"": "279", "document": "\n\nThe American public took a lively interest in the smallest\ndetails of the enterprise of the Gun Club.  It followed day by\nday the discussion of the committee.  The most simple\npreparations for the great experiment, the questions of figures\nwhich it involved, the mechanical difficulties to be resolved--\nin one word, the entire plan of work-- roused the popular\nexcitement to the highest pitch.\n\nThe purely scientific attraction was suddenly intensified by the\nfollowing incident:\n\nWe have seen what legions of admirers and friends Barbicane's\nproject had rallied round its author.  There was, however,\none single individual alone in all the States of the Union who\nprotested against the attempt of the Gun Club.  He attacked it\nfuriously on every opportunity, and human nature is such that\nBarbicane felt more keenly the opposition of that one man than\nhe did the applause of all the others.  He was well aware of the\nmotive of this antipathy, the origin of this solitary enmity,\nthe cause of its personality and old standing, and in what\nrivalry of self-love it had its rise.\n\nThis persevering enemy the president of the Gun Club had never seen.\nFortunate that it was so, for a meeting between the two men would\ncertainly have been attended with serious consequences.  This rival\nwas a man of science, like Barbicane himself, of a fiery, daring,\nand violent disposition; a pure Yankee.  His name was Captain\nNicholl; he lived at Philadelphia.\n\nMost people are aware of the curious struggle which arose during\nthe Federal war between the guns and armor of iron-plated ships.\nThe result was the entire reconstruction of the navy of both the\ncontinents; as the one grew heavier, the other became thicker\nin proportion.  The Merrimac, the Monitor, the Tennessee, the\nWeehawken discharged enormous projectiles themselves, after\nhaving been armor-clad against the projectiles of others.  In fact\nthey did to others that which they would not they should do to them--\nthat grand principle of immortality upon which rests the whole art\nof war.\n\nNow if Barbicane was a great founder of shot, Nicholl was a\ngreat forger of plates; the one cast night and day at Baltimore,\nthe other forged day and night at Philadelphia.  As soon as ever\nBarbicane invented a new shot, Nicholl invented a new plate;\neach followed a current of ideas essentially opposed to the other.\nHappily for these citizens, so useful to their country, a distance\nof from fifty to sixty miles separated them from one another, and\nthey had never yet met.  Which of these two inventors had the\nadvantage over the other it was difficult to decide from the\nresults obtained.  By last accounts, however, it would seem that\nthe armor-plate would in the end have to give way to the shot;\nnevertheless, there were competent judges who had their doubts\non the point.\n\nAt the last experiment the cylindro-conical projectiles of\nBarbicane stuck like so many pins in the Nicholl plates.\nOn that day the Philadelphia iron-forger then believed himself\nvictorious, and could not evince contempt enough for his rival;\nbut when the other afterward substituted for conical shot simple\n600-pound shells, at very moderate velocity, the captain was\nobliged to give in.  In fact, these projectiles knocked his best\nmetal plate to shivers.\n\nMatters were at this stage, and victory seemed to rest with the\nshot, when the war came to an end on the very day when Nicholl\nhad completed a new armor-plate of wrought steel.  It was a\nmasterpiece of its kind, and bid defiance to all the projectiles\nof the world.  The captain had it conveyed to the Polygon at\nWashington, challenging the president of the Gun Club to break it.\nBarbicane, peace having been declared, declined to try the experiment.\n\nNicholl, now furious, offered to expose his plate to the shock\nof any shot, solid, hollow, round, or conical.  Refused by the\npresident, who did not choose to compromise his last success.\n\nNicholl, disgusted by this obstinacy, tried to tempt Barbicane\nby offering him every chance.  He proposed to fix the plate\nwithin two hundred yards of the gun.  Barbicane still obstinate\nin refusal.  A hundred yards?  Not even seventy-five!\n\n\"At fifty then!\" roared the captain through the newspapers.\n\"At twenty-five yards! and I'll stand behind!\"\n\nBarbicane returned for answer that, even if Captain Nicholl\nwould be so good as to stand in front, he would not fire any more.\n\nNicholl could not contain himself at this reply; threw out hints\nof cowardice; that a man who refused to fire a cannon-shot was\npretty near being afraid of it; that artillerists who fight at\nsix miles distance are substituting mathematical formulae for\nindividual courage.\n\nTo these insinuations Barbicane returned no answer; perhaps he\nnever heard of them, so absorbed was he in the calculations for\nhis great enterprise.\n\nWhen his famous communication was made to the Gun Club, the\ncaptain's wrath passed all bounds; with his intense jealousy was\nmingled a feeling of absolute impotence.  How was he to invent\nanything to beat this 900-feet Columbiad?  What armor-plate\ncould ever resist a projectile of 30,000 pounds weight?\nOverwhelmed at first under this violent shock, he by and by\nrecovered himself, and resolved to crush the proposal by weight\nof his arguments.\n\nHe then violently attacked the labors of the Gun Club, published\na number of letters in the newspapers, endeavored to prove Barbicane\nignorant of the first principles of gunnery.  He maintained that\nit was absolutely impossible to impress upon any body whatever\na velocity of 12,000 yards per second; that even with such a\nvelocity a projectile of such a weight could not transcend the\nlimits of the earth's atmosphere.  Further still, even regarding\nthe velocity to be acquired, and granting it to be sufficient,\nthe shell could not resist the pressure of the gas developed by\nthe ignition of 1,600,000 pounds of powder; and supposing it to\nresist that pressure, it would be less able to support that\ntemperature; it would melt on quitting the Columbiad, and fall\nback in a red-hot shower upon the heads of the imprudent spectators.\n\nBarbicane continued his work without regarding these attacks.\n\nNicholl then took up the question in its other aspects.  Without\ntouching upon its uselessness in all points of view, he regarded\nthe experiment as fraught with extreme danger, both to the\ncitizens, who might sanction by their presence so reprehensible\na spectacle, and also to the towns in the neighborhood of this\ndeplorable cannon.  He also observed that if the projectile did\nnot succeed in reaching its destination (a result absolutely\nimpossible), it must inevitably fall back upon the earth, and\nthat the shock of such a mass, multiplied by the square of its\nvelocity, would seriously endanger every point of the globe.\nUnder the circumstances, therefore, and without interfering with\nthe rights of free citizens, it was a case for the intervention\nof Government, which ought not to endanger the safety of all for\nthe pleasure of one individual.\n\nIn spite of all his arguments, however, Captain Nicholl\nremained alone in his opinion.  Nobody listened to him, and he\ndid not succeed in alienating a single admirer from the\npresident of the Gun Club.  The latter did not even take the\npains to refute the arguments of his rival.\n\nNicholl, driven into his last entrenchments, and not able to\nfight personally in the cause, resolved to fight with money.\nHe published, therefore, in the Richmond _Inquirer_ a series of\nwagers, conceived in these terms, and on an increasing scale:\n\nNo. 1 ($1,000).-- That the necessary funds for the experiment\nof the Gun Club will not be forthcoming.\n\nNo. 2 ($2,000).-- That the operation of casting a cannon of 900\nfeet is impracticable, and cannot possibly succeed.\n\nNo. 3 ($3,000).-- That is it impossible to load the Columbiad,\nand that the pyroxyle will take fire spontaneously under the\npressure of the projectile.\n\nNo. 4 ($4,000).-- That the Columbiad will burst at the first fire.\n\nNo. 5 ($5,000).-- That the shot will not travel farther than six miles,\nand that it will fall back again a few seconds after its discharge.\n\nIt was an important sum, therefore, which the captain risked in\nhis invincible obstinacy.  He had no less than $15,000 at stake.\n\nNotwithstanding the importance of the challenge, on the 19th of\nMay he received a sealed packet containing the following\nsuperbly laconic reply:\n                              \"BALTIMORE, October 19.\n                          \"Done.\n                              \"BARBICANE.\"\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "It seems like every single person in the United States is head over heels for this idea. Everyone, that is, except for Captain Nicholl. Captain Nicholl is the anti-Barbicane: Instead of investing his genius into the creation of weapons, Nicholl is \"a great manufacturer of iron plates\" . During the Civil War, these two men got into a fierce rivalry, each creating a new invention to outperform the other's, and so on and so forth. Barbicane won their duel when he invented a shot that could pound through any amount of Nicholl's armor. Nicholl actually invented a new type of plating to stop these shots, but the war ended before it could be implemented. Drat. After learning of the Gun Club's new mission, Nicholl starts writing op-eds for newspapers tearing the plan to pieces. He even places a \"series of wagers\" that the project will fall flat on its face. Oh, it's on. Bring it, Nicholl."}, {"": "280", "document": "SCENE 5.\n\nA room in the Garter Inn.\n\n[Enter HOST and SIMPLE.]\n\nHOST.\nWhat wouldst thou have, boor? What, thick-skin? Speak, breathe,\ndiscuss; brief, short, quick, snap.\n\nSIMPLE.\nMarry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender.\n\nHOST.\nThere's his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and\ntruckle-bed; 'tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal,\nfresh and new. Go knock and call; he'll speak like an\nAnthropophaginian unto thee; knock, I say.\n\nSIMPLE.\nThere's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber; I'll\nbe so bold as stay, sir, till she come down; I come to speak with\nher, indeed.\n\nHOST.\nHa! a fat woman? The knight may be robbed. I'll call. Bully knight!\nBully Sir John! Speak from thy lungs military. Art thou there? It\nis thine host, thine Ephesian, calls.\n\nFALSTAFF.\n[Above] How now, mine host?\n\nHOST.\nHere's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman.\nLet her descend, bully, let her descend; my chambers are honourible.\nFie! privacy? fie!\n\n[Enter FALSTAFF.]\n\nFALSTAFF.\nThere was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with, me; but\nshe's gone.\n\nSIMPLE.\nPray you, sir, was't not the wise woman of Brainford?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nAy, marry was it, mussel-shell: what would you with her?\n\nSIMPLE.\nMy master, sir, my Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go\nthorough the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that\nbeguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nI spake with the old woman about it.\n\nSIMPLE.\nAnd what says she, I pray, sir?\n\nFALSTAFF. \nMarry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender\nof his chain cozened him of it.\n\nSIMPLE.\nI would I could have spoken with the woman herself; I had other\nthings to have spoken with her too, from him.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWhat are they? Let us know.\n\nHOST.\nAy, come; quick.\n\nSIMPLE.\nI may not conceal them, sir.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nConceal them, or thou diest.\n\nSIMPLE.\nWhy, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page: to know\nif it were my master's fortune to have her or no.\n\nFALSTAFF.\n'Tis, 'tis his fortune.\n\nSIMPLE.\nWhat sir?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nTo have her, or no. Go; say the woman told me so.\n\nSIMPLE.\nMay I be bold to say so, sir?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nAy, Sir Tike; like who more bold?\n\nSIMPLE.\nI thank your worship; I shall make my master glad with these tidings.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nHOST.\nThou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise\nwoman with thee?\n\nFALSTAFF.\nAy, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit\nthan ever I learned before in my life; and I paid nothing for it\nneither, but was paid for my learning.\n\n[Enter BARDOLPH.]\n\nBARDOLPH.\nOut, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage!\n\nHOST.\nWhere be my horses? Speak well of them, varletto.\n\nBARDOLPH.\nRun away, with the cozeners; for so soon as I came beyond Eton,\nthey threw me off, from behind one of them, in a slough of mire;\nand set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor\nFaustuses.\n\nHOST.\nThey are gone but to meet the Duke, villain; do not say they be\nfled; Germans are honest men.\n\n[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS.]\n\nEVANS.\nWhere is mine host?\n\nHOST.\nWhat is the matter, sir?\n\nEVANS.\nHave a care of your entertainments: there is a friend of mine come\nto town tells me there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all\nthe hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and\nmoney. I tell you for good will, look you; you are wise, and full\nof gibes and vlouting-stogs, and 'tis not convenient you should be\ncozened. Fare you well.\n\n[Exit.]\n\n[Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.]\n\nCAIUS.\nVere is mine host de Jarteer?\n\nHOST.\nHere, Master Doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma.\n\nCAIUS.\nI cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a me dat you make grand\npreparation for a Duke de Jamany. By my trot, dere is no duke that\nthe court is know to come; I tell you for good will: Adieu.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nHOST.\nHue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight; I am undone. Fly,\nrun, hue and cry, villain; I am undone!\n\n[Exeunt HOST and BARDOLPH.]\n\nFALSTAFF.\nI would all the world might be cozened, for I have been cozened and\nbeaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court how I have\nbeen transformed, and how my transformation hath been washed and\ncudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and\nliquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant they would whip me\nwith their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear.\nI never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my\nwind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent.\n\n[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]\n\nNow! whence come you?\n\nQUICKLY.\nFrom the two parties, forsooth.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nThe devil take one party and his dam the other! And so they shall\nbe both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than\nthe villainous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to bear.\n\nQUICKLY.\nAnd have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant; speciously one of them;\nMistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you\ncannot see a white spot about her.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nWhat tellest thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into\nall the colours of the rainbow; and was like to be apprehended for\nthe witch of Brainford. But that my admirable dexterity of wit,\nmy counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the\nknave constable had set me i' the stocks, i' the common stocks,\nfor a witch.\n\nQUICKLY.\nSir, let me speak with you in your chamber; you shall hear how\nthings go, and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will\nsay somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together!\nSure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed.\n\nFALSTAFF.\nCome up into my chamber.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\nSCENE 6.\n\nAnother room in the Garter Inn.\n\n[Enter FENTON and HOST.]\n\nHOST.\nMaster Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy; I will give over all.\n\nFENTON.\nYet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose,\nAnd, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee\nA hundred pound in gold more than your loss.\n\nHOST.\nI will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will, at the least, keep your\ncounsel.\n\nFENTON.\nFrom time to time I have acquainted you\nWith the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page,\nWho, mutually, hath answered my affection,\nSo far forth as herself might be her chooser,\nEven to my wish. I have a letter from her\nOf such contents as you will wonder at;\nThe mirth whereof so larded with my matter\nThat neither, singly, can be manifested\nWithout the show of both; wherein fat Falstaff\nHath a great scare: the image of the jest\nI'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host:\nTo-night at Herne's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one,\nMust my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen;\nThe purpose why is here: in which disguise,\nWhile other jests are something rank on foot,\nHer father hath commanded her to slip\nAway with Slender, and with him at Eton\nImmediately to marry; she hath consented:\nNow, sir,\nHer mother, even strong against that match\nAnd firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed\nThat he shall likewise shuffle her away,\nWhile other sports are tasking of their minds;\nAnd at the deanery, where a priest attends,\nStraight marry her: to this her mother's plot\nShe seemingly obedient likewise hath\nMade promise to the doctor. Now thus it rests:\nHer father means she shall be all in white;\nAnd in that habit, when Slender sees his time\nTo take her by the hand and bid her go,\nShe shall go with him: her mother hath intended\nThe better to denote her to the doctor,--\nFor they must all be mask'd and vizarded--\nThat quaint in green she shall be loose enrob'd,\nWith ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head;\nAnd when the doctor spies his vantage ripe,\nTo pinch her by the hand: and, on that token,\nThe maid hath given consent to go with him.\n\nHOST.\nWhich means she to deceive, father or mother?\n\nFENTON.\nBoth, my good host, to go along with me:\nAnd here it rests, that you'll procure the vicar\nTo stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one,\nAnd in the lawful name of marrying,\nTo give our hearts united ceremony.\n\nHOST.\nWell, husband your device; I'll to the vicar.\nBring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest.\n\nFENTON.\nSo shall I evermore be bound to thee;\nBesides, I'll make a present recompense.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Scene 5-6 . At the Garter Inn, Simple is looking for the fat woman of Brainford. She is also known as a wise woman, and he has a question to ask her from Slender. Simple asks to see Falstaff, because he has caught sight of him still in his disguise and thinks that the woman is in Falstaff's room. After Falstaff tells the Host that she has gone, Simple tells Falstaff that Slender wanted to ask the wise woman whether he would marry Anne Page. Falstaff gives him a \"wise guy\" answer that doesn't tell him anything, and says he heard it from the old woman herself. Satisfied with this, Simple leaves. . Bardolph enters with news that the Germans have stolen the Host's horses, but the Host is loathe to believe the worst of his guests. That is, until Evans enters with the information that the Germans have tricked all the innkeepers of the nearby towns of their horses and their money. Caius confirms that there is no duke at the court who goes by the name that the Germans have supplied. Distressed, the Host calls for a hue and cry to catch the thieves. He exits with Bardolph. . Mistress Quickly enters and says she has come from Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford. Falstaff is in no mood to listen to her, and says he has suffered enough. She says that the women have suffered too, especially Mrs. Ford, who has been badly beaten by her husband. Quickly presents Falstaff with a letter , and he invites her into his room. . In scene 6, Fenton promises to pay the Host even more money than he has lost if he will cooperate with him. Fenton explains that Anne has been told by her father to slip away from the forest in her disguise as the fairy queen, and go to Eton where she will be immediately be married to Slender. Fenton says that Anne has consented to this plan . But Mrs. Page, says Fenton, has other plans. She has arranged for Anne to slip away and be married to Caius, to which plan it appears that Anne has also agreed. Page expects his daughter to be dressed in white in the forest, whereas Mrs. Page expects her to be dressed in green. The color of her clothing is important because that is how the would-be grooms will be able to recognize her. Fenton wants the Host to secure the services of a vicar and to wait at the church, where he intends to bring Anne and marry her. ."}, {"": "281", "document": "IN looking back to this period, and calling to remembrance the\nnumberless proofs of kindness and respect which I received from the\nnatives of the valley, I can scarcely understand how it was that, in the\nmidst of so many consolatory circumstances, my mind should still have\nbeen consumed by the most dismal forebodings, and have remained a\nprey to the profoundest melancholy. It is true that the suspicious\ncircumstances which had attended the disappearance of Toby were enough\nof themselves to excite distrust with regard to the savages, in whose\npower I felt myself to be entirely placed, especially when it was\ncombined with the knowledge that these very men, kind and respectful\nas they were to me, were, after all, nothing better than a set of\ncannibals.\n\nBut my chief source of anxiety, and that which poisoned every temporary\nenjoyment, was the mysterious disease in my leg, which still remained\nunabated. All the herbal applications of Tinor, united with the severer\ndiscipline of the old leech, and the affectionate nursing of Kory-Kory,\nhad failed to relieve me. I was almost a cripple, and the pain I endured\nat intervals was agonizing. The unaccountable malady showed no signs\nof amendment: on the contrary, its violence increased day by day, and\nthreatened the most fatal results, unless some powerful means were\nemployed to counteract it. It seemed as if I were destined to sink\nunder this grievous affliction, or at least that it would hinder me from\navailing myself of any opportunity of escaping from the valley.\n\nAn incident which occurred as nearly as I can estimate about three weeks\nafter the disappearance of Toby, convinced me that the natives, from\nsome reason or other, would interpose every possible obstacle to my\nleaving them.\n\nOne morning there was no little excitement evinced by the people near\nmy abode, and which I soon discovered proceeded from a vague report\nthat boats, had been seen at a great distance approaching the bay.\nImmediately all was bustle and animation. It so happened that day that\nthe pain I suffered having somewhat abated, and feeling in much better\nspirits than usual, I had complied with Kory-Kory's invitation to visit\nthe chief Mehevi at the place called the 'Ti', which I have before\ndescribed as being situated within the precincts of the Taboo Groves.\nThese sacred recesses were at no great distance from Marheyo's\nhabitation, and lay between it and the sea; the path that conducted to\nthe beach passing directly in front of the Ti, and thence skirting along\nthe border of the groves.\n\nI was reposing upon the mats, within the sacred building, in company\nwith Mehevi and several other chiefs, when the announcement was first\nmade. It sent a thrill of joy through my whole frame;--perhaps Toby was\nabout to return. I rose at once to my feet, and my instinctive impulse\nwas to hurry down to the beach, equally regardless of the distance that\nseparated me from it, and of my disabled condition. As soon as Mehevi\nnoticed the effect the intelligence had produced upon me, and the\nimpatience I betrayed to reach the sea, his countenance assumed that\ninflexible rigidity of expression which had so awed me on the afternoon\nof our arrival at the house of Marheyo. As I was proceeding to leave\nthe Ti, he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and said gravely, 'abo, abo'\n(wait, wait). Solely intent upon the one thought that occupied my mind,\nand heedless of his request, I was brushing past him, when suddenly he\nassumed a tone of authority, and told me to 'moee' (sit down). Though\nstruck by the alteration in his demeanour, the excitement under which I\nlaboured was too strong to permit me to obey the unexpected command,\nand I was still limping towards the edge of the pi-pi with Kory-Kory\nclinging to one arm in his efforts to restrain me, when the natives\naround started to their feet, ranged themselves along the open front of\nthe building, while Mehevi looked at me scowlingly, and reiterated his\ncommands still more sternly.\n\nIt was at this moment, when fifty savage countenances were glaring upon\nme, that I first truly experienced I was indeed a captive in the\nvalley. The conviction rushed upon me with staggering force, and I was\noverwhelmed by this confirmation of my worst fears. I saw at once that\nit was useless for me to resist, and sick at heart, I reseated myself\nupon the mats, and for the moment abandoned myself to despair.\n\nI now perceived the natives one after the other hurrying past the Ti and\npursuing the route that conducted to the sea. These savages, thought\nI, will soon be holding communication with some of my own countrymen\nperhaps, who with ease could restore me to liberty did they know of the\nsituation I was in. No language can describe the wretchedness which I\nfelt; and in the bitterness of my soul I imprecated a thousand curses on\nthe perfidious Toby, who had thus abandoned me to destruction. It was in\nvain that Kory-Kory tempted me with food, or lighted my pipe, or sought\nto attract my attention by performing the uncouth antics that\nhad sometimes diverted me. I was fairly knocked down by this last\nmisfortune, which, much as I had feared it, I had never before had the\ncourage calmly to contemplate.\n\nRegardless of everything but my own sorrow, I remained in the Ti for\nseveral hours, until shouts proceeding at intervals from the groves\nbeyond the house proclaimed the return of the natives from the beach.\n\nWhether any boats visited the bay that morning or not, I never could\nascertain. The savages assured me that there had not--but I was inclined\nto believe that by deceiving me in this particular they sought to allay\nthe violence of my grief. However that might be, this incident showed\nplainly that the Typees intended to hold me a prisoner. As they still\ntreated me with the same sedulous attention as before, I was utterly\nat a loss how to account for their singular conduct. Had I been in a\nsituation to instruct them in any of the rudiments of the mechanic arts,\nor had I manifested a disposition to render myself in any way useful\namong them, their conduct might have been attributed to some adequate\nmotive, but as it was, the matter seemed to me inexplicable.\n\nDuring my whole stay on the island there occurred but two or three\ninstances where the natives applied to me with the view of availing\nthemselves of my superior information; and these now appear so ludicrous\nthat I cannot forbear relating them.\n\nThe few things we had brought from Nukuheva had been done up into a\nsmall bundle which we had carried with us in our descent to the valley.\nThis bundle, the first night of our arrival, I had used as a pillow, but\non the succeeding morning, opening it for the inspection of the natives,\nthey gazed upon the miscellaneous contents as though I had just revealed\nto them a casket of diamonds, and they insisted that so precious a\ntreasure should be properly secured. A line was accordingly attached to\nit, and the other end being passed over the ridge-pole of the house, it\nwas hoisted up to the apex of the roof, where it hung suspended directly\nover the mats where I usually reclined. When I desired anything from it\nI merely raised my finger to a bamboo beside me, and taking hold of\nthe string which was there fastened, lowered the package. This was\nexceedingly handy, and I took care to let the natives understand how\nmuch I applauded the invention. Of this package the chief contents were\na razor with its case, a supply of needles and thread, a pound or two of\ntobacco and a few yards of bright-coloured calico.\n\nI should have mentioned that shortly after Toby's disappearance,\nperceiving the uncertainty of the time I might be obliged to remain in\nthe valley--if, indeed, I ever should escape from it--and considering\nthat my whole wardrobe consisted of a shirt and a pair of trousers, I\nresolved to doff these garments at once, in order to preserve them in\na suitable condition for wear should I again appear among civilized\nbeings. I was consequently obliged to assume the Typee costume, a little\naltered, however, to suit my own views of propriety, and in which I have\nno doubt I appeared to as much advantage as a senator of Rome enveloped\nin the folds of his toga. A few folds of yellow tappa tucked about my\nwaist, descended to my feet in the style of a lady's petticoat, only\nI did not have recourse to those voluminous paddings in the rear with\nwhich our gentle dames are in the habit of augmenting the sublime\nrotundity of their figures. This usually comprised my in-door dress;\nwhenever I walked out, I superadded to it an ample robe of the same\nmaterial, which completely enveloped my person, and screened it from the\nrays of the sun.\n\nOne morning I made a rent in this mantle; and to show the islanders with\nwhat facility it could be repaired, I lowered my bundle, and taking\nfrom it a needle and thread, proceeded to stitch up the opening. They\nregarded this wonderful application of science with intense admiration;\nand whilst I was stitching away, old Marheyo, who was one of the\nlookers-on, suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead, and rushing to\na corner of the house, drew forth a soiled and tattered strip of faded\ncalico which he must have procured some time or other in traffic on the\nbeach--and besought me eagerly to exercise a little of my art upon it.\nI willingly complied, though certainly so stumpy a needle as mine never\ntook such gigantic strides over calico before. The repairs completed,\nold Marheyo gave me a paternal hug; and divesting himself of his 'maro'\n(girdle), swathed the calico about his loins, and slipping the beloved\nornaments into his ears, grasped his spear and sallied out of the house,\nlike a valiant Templar arrayed in a new and costly suit of armour.\n\nI never used my razor during my stay in the island, but although a\nvery subordinate affair, it had been vastly admired by the Typees; and\nNarmonee, a great hero among them, who was exceedingly precise in the\narrangements of his toilet and the general adjustment of is person,\nbeing the most accurately tattooed and laboriously horrified individual\nin all the valley, thought it would be a great advantage to have it\napplied to the already shaven crown of his head.\n\nThe implement they usually employ is a shark's tooth, which is about as\nwell adapted to the purpose as a one-pronged fork for pitching hay. No\nwonder, then, that the acute Narmonee perceived the advantage my razor\npossessed over the usual implement. Accordingly, one day he requested as\na personal favour that I would just run over his head with the razor. In\nreply, I gave him to understand that it was too dull, and could not be\nused to any purpose without being previously sharpened. To assist my\nmeaning, I went through an imaginary honing process on the palm of my\nhand. Narmonee took my meaning in an instant, and running out of the\nhouse, returned the next moment with a huge rough mass of rock as big\nas a millstone, and indicated to me that that was exactly the thing\nI wanted. Of course there was nothing left for me but to proceed to\nbusiness, and I began scraping away at a great rate. He writhed and\nwriggled under the infliction, but, fully convinced of my skill, endured\nthe pain like a martyr.\n\nThough I never saw Narmonee in battle I will, from what I then observed,\nstake my life upon his courage and fortitude. Before commencing\noperations, his head had presented a surface of short bristling hairs,\nand by the time I had concluded my unskilful operation it resembled not\na little a stubble field after being gone over with a harrow. However,\nas the chief expressed the liveliest satisfaction at the result, I was\ntoo wise to dissent from his opinion.\n\n\n", "summary": "Tommo remains melancholic since Toby disappeared. He feels lonely and his leg still hurts. Tommo also has concluded that he may truly be trapped in the valley. One day at the Ti with the chiefs, they hear a rumor that boats may have once again appeared in the bay. Tommo feels elated, since he thinks that Toby may have returned for him. When Mehevi sees the happiness on Tommo's face, his own expression grows severe. Tommo tries to walk towards the door to see if it could truly be Toby returning, but Mehevi orders him to sit. Kory-Kory tries to please Tommo by bringing him a pipe and some food, but Tommo feels despondent since he realizes that he truly is a captive of the Typees and that there is nothing he can do. Tommo bundles the clothes that he brought from the ship and starts wearing Typee clothing. Tommo's bundle is tied up near the roof of his hut, with some other packages. One day, Tommo uses his needle and thread to stitch his Typee costume more tightly together. The Typees find this very amusing. He also shows them his razor and ends up shaving the head of Narmonee, a great warrior"}, {"": "282", "document": "\n\nHuman nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting\nsituations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of\nbeing kindly spoken of.\n\nA week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in\nHighbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have\nevery recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly\naccomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived\nto triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits,\nthere was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian\nname, and say whose music she principally played.\n\nMr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and\nmortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what\nappeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right\nlady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He\nhad gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and\nto another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such\ncircumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay\nand self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse,\nand defying Miss Smith.\n\nThe charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of\nperfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune,\nof so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some\ndignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not\nthrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts;\nand he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of\nintroduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice;\nthe history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress\nof the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental\nrencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs.\nBrown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and\nagitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so\nsweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase,\nbeen so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally\ncontented.\n\nHe had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and\nwas just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and\nhis own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed\nat--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young\nladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more\ncautiously gallant.\n\nThe wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to\nplease, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and\nwhen he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which\na certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he\nnext entered Highbury he would bring his bride.\n\nDuring his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough\nto feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression\nof his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now\nspread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder\nthat she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so\ninseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that,\nexcept in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable\nhumiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured\nof never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave\nher pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most\nsatisfaction.\n\nThe pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must\ncertainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be\nprevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would\nbe an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink\nwithout remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility\nagain.\n\nOf the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough\nfor Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome\nenough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion,\nthere Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted\nclaims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article,\ntruth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_\nshe was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not\nappear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no\nblood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters\nof a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole\nof the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it\nwas not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very\nmoderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath;\nbut Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the\nfather and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law\nline--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than\nthat he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma\nguessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise.\nAnd all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder\nsister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_\n_way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the\nhistory; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.\n\nCould she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had\ntalked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out\nof it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's\nmind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he\ncertainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin\nwould have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure\nher. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always\nin love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this\nreappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him\nsomewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every\nday Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him,\n_just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something\noccur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of\nsurprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about\nhim; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who\nsaw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as\nthe discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every\nguess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the\narrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and\nfurniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was\nreceiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept\nalive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss\nHawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed\nattached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his\nhat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!\n\nHad it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her\nfriend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind,\nEmma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton\npredominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful\nas a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of\nthe agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the\nknowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth\nMartin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had\nnot been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written\nin the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great\ndeal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much\noccupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return,\nand wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in\nperson, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were\nforgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again,\nEmma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best\nfor her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit.\n\nHow that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and\nwhat might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.\nAbsolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would\nbe ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the\nacquaintance--!\n\nAfter much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than\nHarriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had\nunderstanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal\nacquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the\nAbbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again\nso soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous\nrecurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree\nof intimacy was chosen for the future.\n\nShe could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it\nwhich her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely\nglossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?\n\n\n", "summary": "In Highbury, there is great speculation about Miss Hawkins, Mr. Elton's fiancee. Mr. Elton returns to the village long enough to confirm the rumors that his bride-to-be is beautiful, accomplished, and of some fortune. Emma is relieved that his marriage will ease the awkwardness of his return to their social circle, but she has some uncharitable thoughts about Miss Hawkins's inferior connections. She has difficulty persuading Harriet to share her coolness, however. Only the topic of Mr. Martin puts Mr. Elton out of Harriet's mind. Harriet is flustered when Mr. Martin's sister leaves her a note at Mrs. Goddard's. Emma decides that Harriet should return the visit but stay only a brief time in order to reinforce the distance that Emma, despite a twinge of conscience, believes Harriet must maintain from the Martin family"}, {"": "283", "document": "ACT IV   SCENE I\n\n  CLEANTE, TARTUFFE\n\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Yes, it's become the talk of all the town,\n  And make a stir that's scarcely to your credit;\n  And I have met you, sir, most opportunely,\n  To tell you in a word my frank opinion.\n  Not to sift out this scandal to the bottom,\n  Suppose the worst for us--suppose Damis\n  Acted the traitor, and accused you falsely;\n  Should not a Christian pardon this offence,\n  And stifle in his heart all wish for vengeance?\n  Should you permit that, for your petty quarrel,\n  A son be driven from his father's house?\n  I tell you yet again, and tell you frankly,\n  Everyone, high or low, is scandalised;\n  If you'll take my advice, you'll make it up,\n  And not push matters to extremities.\n  Make sacrifice to God of your resentment;\n  Restore the son to favour with his father.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Alas! So far as I'm concerned, how gladly\n  Would I do so! I bear him no ill will;\n  I pardon all, lay nothing to his charge,\n  And wish with all my heart that I might serve him;\n  But Heaven's interests cannot allow it;\n  If he returns, then I must leave the house.\n  After his conduct, quite unparalleled,\n  All intercourse between us would bring scandal;\n  God knows what everyone's first thought would be!\n  They would attribute it to merest scheming\n  On my part--say that conscious of my guilt\n  I feigned a Christian love for my accuser,\n  But feared him in my heart, and hoped to win him\n  And underhandedly secure his silence.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  You try to put us off with specious phrases;\n  But all your arguments are too far-fetched.\n  Why take upon yourself the cause of Heaven?\n  Does Heaven need our help to punish sinners?\n  Leave to itself the care of its own vengeance,\n  And keep in mind the pardon it commands us;\n  Besides, think somewhat less of men's opinions,\n  When you are following the will of Heaven.\n  Shall petty fear of what the world may think\n  Prevent the doing of a noble deed?\n  No!--let us always do as Heaven commands,\n  And not perplex our brains with further questions.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Already I have told you I forgive him;\n  And that is doing, sir, as Heaven commands.\n  But after this day's scandal and affront\n  Heaven does not order me to live with him.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  And does it order you to lend your ear\n  To what mere whim suggested to his father,\n  And to accept gift of his estates,\n  On which, in justice, you can make no claim?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  No one who knows me, sir, can have the thought\n  That I am acting from a selfish motive.\n  The goods of this world have no charms for me;\n  I am not dazzled by their treacherous glamour;\n  And if I bring myself to take the gift\n  Which he insists on giving me, I do so,\n  To tell the truth, only because I fear\n  This whole estate may fall into bad hands,\n  And those to whom it comes may use it ill\n  And not employ it, as is my design,\n  For Heaven's glory and my neighbours' good.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Eh, sir, give up these conscientious scruples\n  That well may cause a rightful heir's complaints.\n  Don't take so much upon yourself, but let him\n  Possess what's his, at his own risk and peril;\n  Consider, it were better he misused it,\n  Than you should be accused of robbing him.\n  I am astounded that unblushingly\n  You could allow such offers to be made!\n  Tell me--has true religion any maxim\n  That teaches us to rob the lawful heir?\n  If Heaven has made it quite impossible\n  Damis and you should live together here,\n  Were it not better you should quietly\n  And honourably withdraw, than let the son\n  Be driven out for your sake, dead against\n  All reason? 'Twould be giving, sir, believe me,\n  Such an example of your probity ...\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Sir, it is half-past three; certain devotions\n  Recall me to my closet; you'll forgive me\n  For leaving you so soon.\n\n  CLEANTE (alone)\n  Ah!\n\n\n\n\nSCENE II\n\n  ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DORINE\n\n\n  DORINE (to Cleante)\n  Sir, we beg you\n  To help us all you can in her behalf;\n  She's suffering almost more than heart can bear;\n  This match her father means to make to-night\n  Drives her each moment to despair. He's coming.\n  Let us unite our efforts now, we beg you,\n  And try by strength or skill to change his purpose.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Orgon explains that the strongbox contains some papers which were left in his keeping by a friend. If the papers were made public, both Orgon and his friend would be in serious trouble. Earlier, Tartuffe had persuaded Orgon to allow him to keep the entire strongbox and now Tartuffe has taken the secret papers and left. Orgon cannot understand how anyone could be so base and wicked as Tartuffe; he vows to hate the entire race of men. Cleante advises him to learn to practice restraint. At this point, Orgon's son, Damis, rushes in and tells his father that he will be only too glad to put an end to Tartuffe's life. Again, Cleante has to recommend restraint and moderation."}, {"": "284", "document": "SCENE VII\n\n  TARTUFFE, AN OFFICER, MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE,\n  MARIANE, VALERE, DAMIS, DORINE\n\n\n  TARTUFFE (stopping Orgon)\n  Softly, sir, softly; do not run so fast;\n  You haven't far to go to find your lodging;\n  By order of the prince, we here arrest you.\n\n  ORGON\n  Traitor! You saved this worst stroke for the last;\n  This crowns your perfidies, and ruins me.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  I shall not be embittered by your insults,\n  For Heaven has taught me to endure all things.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Your moderation, I must own, is great.\n\n  DAMIS\n  How shamelessly the wretch makes bold with Heaven!\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Your ravings cannot move me; all my thought\n  Is but to do my duty.\n\n  MARIANE\n  You must claim\n  Great glory from this honourable act.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  The act cannot be aught but honourable,\n  Coming from that high power which sends me here.\n\n  ORGON\n  Ungrateful wretch, do you forget 'twas I\n  That rescued you from utter misery?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  I've not forgot some help you may have given;\n  But my first duty now is toward my prince.\n  The higher power of that most sacred claim\n  Must stifle in my heart all gratitude;\n  And to such puissant ties I'd sacrifice\n  My friend, my wife, my kindred, and myself.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  The hypocrite!\n\n  DORINE\n  How well he knows the trick\n  Of cloaking him with what we most revere!\n\n  CLEANTE\n  But if the motive that you make parade of\n  Is perfect as you say, why should it wait\n  To show itself, until the day he caught you\n  Soliciting his wife? How happens it\n  You have not thought to go inform against him\n  Until his honour forces him to drive you\n  Out of his house? And though I need not mention\n  That he'd just given you his whole estate,\n  Still, if you meant to treat him now as guilty,\n  How could you then consent to take his gift?\n\n  TARTUFFE (to the Officer)\n  Pray, sir, deliver me from all this clamour;\n  Be good enough to carry out your order.\n\n  THE OFFICER\n  Yes, I've too long delayed its execution;\n  'Tis very fitting you should urge me to it;\n  So therefore, you must follow me at once\n  To prison, where you'll find your lodging ready.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Who? I, sir?\n\n  THE OFFICER\n  You.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  By why to prison?\n\n  THE OFFICER\n  You\n  Are not the one to whom I owe account.\n  You, sir (to Orgon), recover from your hot alarm.\n  Our prince is not a friend to double dealing,\n  His eyes can read men's inmost hearts, and all\n  The art of hypocrites cannot deceive him.\n  His sharp discernment sees things clear and true;\n  His mind cannot too easily be swayed,\n  For reason always holds the balance even.\n  He honours and exalts true piety,\n  But knows the false, and views it with disgust.\n  This fellow was by no means apt to fool him,\n  Far subtler snares have failed against his wisdom,\n  And his quick insight pierced immediately\n  The hidden baseness of this tortuous heart.\n  Accusing you, the knave betrayed himself,\n  And by true recompense of Heaven's justice\n  He stood revealed before our monarch's eyes\n  A scoundrel known before by other names,\n  Whose horrid crimes, detailed at length, might fill\n  A long-drawn history of many volumes.\n  Our monarch--to resolve you in a word--\n  Detesting his ingratitude and baseness,\n  Added this horror to his other crimes,\n  And sent me hither under his direction\n  To see his insolence out-top itself,\n  And force him then to give you satisfaction.\n  Your papers, which the traitor says are his,\n  I am to take from him, and give you back;\n  The deed of gift transferring your estate\n  Our monarch's sovereign will makes null and void;\n  And for the secret personal offence\n  Your friend involved you in, he pardons you:\n  Thus he rewards your recent zeal, displayed\n  In helping to maintain his rights, and shows\n  How well his heart, when it is least expected,\n  Knows how to recompense a noble deed,\n  And will not let true merit miss its due,\n  Remembering always rather good than evil.\n\n  DORINE\n  Now Heaven be praised!\n\n  MADAME PERNELLE\n  At last I breathe again.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  A happy outcome!\n\n  MARIANE\n  Who'd have dared to hope it?\n\n  ORGON (to Tartuffe, who is being led by the officer)\n  There traitor! Now you're ...\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Tartuffe shows up, with a police office in tow. He's got even worse news for Orgon: he's headed to prison. Orgon curses Tartuffe and calls him a villain. Tartuffe pays no attention, saying that \"those who serve Heaven must expect abuse\" . He still hasn't given up his self-righteous act. Cleante and Dorine insult Tartuffe, then Mariane, then Orgon again. He doesn't care; even when Orgon reminds him that he saved him from poverty, Tartuffe merely says that his \"first duty is to serve King.\" He would sacrifice his wife...family...friend...to serve him\" . Again, Elmire and Dorine insult Tartuffe. Cleante asks him where this newfound patriotic zeal came from, and wonders how he \"could condescend\" to be the heir of a traitor. Tartuffe pays no attention to this; he sics the police officer on Orgon. Plot twist! The officer turns around and arrests...Tartuffe. Tartuffe is, of course, blown away. The office turns to Orgon and explains himself. The King, it seems, is a little more with it than Orgon; he saw right through Tartuffe's little scheme. He's the kind of guy that Cleante would love: he knows true piety when he sees it, he's wise, and he has experience foiling these kind of liars. Oh, and as it turns out, this isn't the first time Tartuffe has tried to swindle someone; he's got a long criminal record, long enough to fill \"ten volumes and be writing still\" . He's a bad, bad, bad dude. The officer gives Orgon back the papers from the strongbox, and declares that the deed Tartuffe had written up is invalid. The King also pardons Orgon for hiding the papers, on account of his loyal deeds in the late civil war. Orgon a war hero? Whodathunkit? Everyone breathes a sigh of relief and praises the Lord. Except for Orgon. He begins to chew out Tartuffe, but luckily Cleante intervenes before he can say anything too stupid. He reminds Orgon that Tartuffe is already going to suffer for what he's done. Hopefully, he says, Tartuffe can actually find God, become a good person, and maybe get out on parole. You'd be better off, he tells Orgon, thanking the King for his kindness. And so Orgon lets bygones be bygones and gets ready to go see the King. Once that's been done, he says, we can finally get Mariane and Valere married. And they all lived happily ever after."}, {"": "285", "document": "\nCandide and Martin went in a gondola on the Brenta, and arrived at the\npalace of the noble Signor Pococurante. The gardens, laid out with\ntaste, were adorned with fine marble statues. The palace was beautifully\nbuilt. The master of the house was a man of sixty, and very rich. He\nreceived the two travellers with polite indifference, which put Candide\na little out of countenance, but was not at all disagreeable to Martin.\n\nFirst, two pretty girls, very neatly dressed, served them with\nchocolate, which was frothed exceedingly well. Candide could not refrain\nfrom commending their beauty, grace, and address.\n\n\"They are good enough creatures,\" said the Senator. \"I make them lie\nwith me sometimes, for I am very tired of the ladies of the town, of\ntheir coquetries, of their jealousies, of their quarrels, of their\nhumours, of their pettinesses, of their prides, of their follies, and of\nthe sonnets which one must make, or have made, for them. But after all,\nthese two girls begin to weary me.\"\n\nAfter breakfast, Candide walking into a long gallery was surprised by\nthe beautiful pictures. He asked, by what master were the two first.\n\n\"They are by Raphael,\" said the Senator. \"I bought them at a great\nprice, out of vanity, some years ago. They are said to be the finest\nthings in Italy, but they do not please me at all. The colours are too\ndark, the figures are not sufficiently rounded, nor in good relief; the\ndraperies in no way resemble stuffs. In a word, whatever may be said, I\ndo not find there a true imitation of nature. I only care for a picture\nwhen I think I see nature itself; and there are none of this sort. I\nhave a great many pictures, but I prize them very little.\"\n\nWhile they were waiting for dinner Pococurante ordered a concert.\nCandide found the music delicious.\n\n\"This noise,\" said the Senator, \"may amuse one for half an hour; but if\nit were to last longer it would grow tiresome to everybody, though they\ndurst not own it. Music, to-day, is only the art of executing difficult\nthings, and that which is only difficult cannot please long. Perhaps I\nshould be fonder of the opera if they had not found the secret of making\nof it a monster which shocks me. Let who will go to see bad tragedies\nset to music, where the scenes are contrived for no other end than to\nintroduce two or three songs ridiculously out of place, to show off an\nactress's voice. Let who will, or who can, die away with pleasure at the\nsight of an eunuch quavering the _role_ of Caesar, or of Cato, and\nstrutting awkwardly upon the stage. For my part I have long since\nrenounced those paltry entertainments which constitute the glory of\nmodern Italy, and are purchased so dearly by sovereigns.\"\n\nCandide disputed the point a little, but with discretion. Martin was\nentirely of the Senator's opinion.\n\nThey sat down to table, and after an excellent dinner they went into the\nlibrary. Candide, seeing a Homer magnificently bound, commended the\nvirtuoso on his good taste.\n\n\"There,\" said he, \"is a book that was once the delight of the great\nPangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.\"\n\n\"It is not mine,\" answered Pococurante coolly. \"They used at one time to\nmake me believe that I took a pleasure in reading him. But that\ncontinual repetition of battles, so extremely like one another; those\ngods that are always active without doing anything decisive; that Helen\nwho is the cause of the war, and who yet scarcely appears in the piece;\nthat Troy, so long besieged without being taken; all these together\ncaused me great weariness. I have sometimes asked learned men whether\nthey were not as weary as I of that work. Those who were sincere have\nowned to me that the poem made them fall asleep; yet it was necessary to\nhave it in their library as a monument of antiquity, or like those rusty\nmedals which are no longer of use in commerce.\"\n\n\"But your Excellency does not think thus of Virgil?\" said Candide.\n\n\"I grant,\" said the Senator, \"that the second, fourth, and sixth books\nof his _AEneid_ are excellent, but as for his pious AEneas, his strong\nCloanthus, his friend Achates, his little Ascanius, his silly King\nLatinus, his bourgeois Amata, his insipid Lavinia, I think there can be\nnothing more flat and disagreeable. I prefer Tasso a good deal, or even\nthe soporific tales of Ariosto.\"\n\n\"May I presume to ask you, sir,\" said Candide, \"whether you do not\nreceive a great deal of pleasure from reading Horace?\"\n\n\"There are maxims in this writer,\" answered Pococurante, \"from which a\nman of the world may reap great benefit, and being written in energetic\nverse they are more easily impressed upon the memory. But I care little\nfor his journey to Brundusium, and his account of a bad dinner, or of\nhis low quarrel between one Rupilius whose words he says were full of\npoisonous filth, and another whose language was imbued with vinegar. I\nhave read with much distaste his indelicate verses against old women and\nwitches; nor do I see any merit in telling his friend Maecenas that if he\nwill but rank him in the choir of lyric poets, his lofty head shall\ntouch the stars. Fools admire everything in an author of reputation. For\nmy part, I read only to please myself. I like only that which serves my\npurpose.\"\n\nCandide, having been educated never to judge for himself, was much\nsurprised at what he heard. Martin found there was a good deal of reason\nin Pococurante's remarks.\n\n\"Oh! here is Cicero,\" said Candide. \"Here is the great man whom I fancy\nyou are never tired of reading.\"\n\n\"I never read him,\" replied the Venetian. \"What is it to me whether he\npleads for Rabirius or Cluentius? I try causes enough myself; his\nphilosophical works seem to me better, but when I found that he doubted\nof everything, I concluded that I knew as much as he, and that I had no\nneed of a guide to learn ignorance.\"\n\n\"Ha! here are four-score volumes of the Academy of Sciences,\" cried\nMartin. \"Perhaps there is something valuable in this collection.\"\n\n\"There might be,\" said Pococurante, \"if only one of those rakers of\nrubbish had shown how to make pins; but in all these volumes there is\nnothing but chimerical systems, and not a single useful thing.\"\n\n\"And what dramatic works I see here,\" said Candide, \"in Italian,\nSpanish, and French.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the Senator, \"there are three thousand, and not three\ndozen of them good for anything. As to those collections of sermons,\nwhich altogether are not worth a single page of Seneca, and those huge\nvolumes of theology, you may well imagine that neither I nor any one\nelse ever opens them.\"\n\nMartin saw some shelves filled with English books.\n\n\"I have a notion,\" said he, \"that a Republican must be greatly pleased\nwith most of these books, which are written with a spirit of freedom.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Pococurante, \"it is noble to write as one thinks; this\nis the privilege of humanity. In all our Italy we write only what we do\nnot think; those who inhabit the country of the Caesars and the\nAntoninuses dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a\nDominican friar. I should be pleased with the liberty which inspires the\nEnglish genius if passion and party spirit did not corrupt all that is\nestimable in this precious liberty.\"\n\nCandide, observing a Milton, asked whether he did not look upon this\nauthor as a great man.\n\n\"Who?\" said Pococurante, \"that barbarian, who writes a long commentary\nin ten books of harsh verse on the first chapter of Genesis; that coarse\nimitator of the Greeks, who disfigures the Creation, and who, while\nMoses represents the Eternal producing the world by a word, makes the\nMessiah take a great pair of compasses from the armoury of heaven to\ncircumscribe His work? How can I have any esteem for a writer who has\nspoiled Tasso's hell and the devil, who transforms Lucifer sometimes\ninto a toad and other times into a pigmy, who makes him repeat the same\nthings a hundred times, who makes him dispute on theology, who, by a\nserious imitation of Ariosto's comic invention of firearms, represents\nthe devils cannonading in heaven? Neither I nor any man in Italy could\ntake pleasure in those melancholy extravagances; and the marriage of Sin\nand Death, and the snakes brought forth by Sin, are enough to turn the\nstomach of any one with the least taste, [and his long description of a\npest-house is good only for a grave-digger]. This obscure, whimsical,\nand disagreeable poem was despised upon its first publication, and I\nonly treat it now as it was treated in its own country by\ncontemporaries. For the matter of that I say what I think, and I care\nvery little whether others think as I do.\"\n\nCandide was grieved at this speech, for he had a respect for Homer and\nwas fond of Milton.\n\n\"Alas!\" said he softly to Martin, \"I am afraid that this man holds our\nGerman poets in very great contempt.\"\n\n\"There would not be much harm in that,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Oh! what a superior man,\" said Candide below his breath. \"What a great\ngenius is this Pococurante! Nothing can please him.\"\n\nAfter their survey of the library they went down into the garden, where\nCandide praised its several beauties.\n\n\"I know of nothing in so bad a taste,\" said the master. \"All you see\nhere is merely trifling. After to-morrow I will have it planted with a\nnobler design.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Candide to Martin when they had taken their leave, \"you\nwill agree that this is the happiest of mortals, for he is above\neverything he possesses.\"\n\n\"But do you not see,\" answered Martin, \"that he is disgusted with all he\npossesses? Plato observed a long while ago that those stomachs are not\nthe best that reject all sorts of food.\"\n\n\"But is there not a pleasure,\" said Candide, \"in criticising\neverything, in pointing out faults where others see nothing but\nbeauties?\"\n\n\"That is to say,\" replied Martin, \"that there is some pleasure in having\nno pleasure.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Candide, \"I find that I shall be the only happy man\nwhen I am blessed with the sight of my dear Cunegonde.\"\n\n\"It is always well to hope,\" said Martin.\n\nHowever, the days and the weeks passed. Cacambo did not come, and\nCandide was so overwhelmed with grief that he did not even reflect that\nPaquette and Friar Giroflee did not return to thank him.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Now inside the senator's home, Candide and Martin find that the man is not at all satisfied with his life or his many possessions, but is constantly critical or cynical about all that he has. For example, his paintings by Rafael don't please him, Homer bores him and he finds neither the writing of Virgil, Horace or Milton very great. Later, when Candide and Martin discuss their visit alone, Candide tries to salvage his premise that Pocourante is the happiest of all men, saying that there must be some kind of pleasure in \"seeing faults where other people think they see beauties. Yet when Martin challenges his thesis, Candide admits that perhaps only he himself is optimistic at the prospect of again seeing Cunegonde"}, {"": "286", "document": "\n\nThe first of December had arrived! the fatal day! for, if the\nprojectile were not discharged that very night at 10h. 48m. 40s.\nP.M., more than eighteen years must roll by before the moon\nwould again present herself under the same conditions of zenith\nand perigee.\n\nThe weather was magnificent.  Despite the approach of winter,\nthe sun shone brightly, and bathed in its radiant light that\nearth which three of its denizens were about to abandon for a\nnew world.\n\nHow many persons lost their rest on the night which preceded\nthis long-expected day!  All hearts beat with disquietude, save\nonly the heart of Michel Ardan.  That imperturbable personage\ncame and went with his habitual business-like air, while nothing\nwhatever denoted that any unusual matter preoccupied his mind.\n\nAfter dawn, an innumerable multitude covered the prairie which\nextends, as far as the eye can reach, round Stones Hill.  Every\nquarter of an hour the railway brought fresh accessions of\nsightseers; and, according to the statement of the Tampa Town\n_Observer_, not less than five millions of spectators thronged\nthe soil of Florida.\n\nFor a whole month previously, the mass of these persons had\nbivouacked round the enclosure, and laid the foundations for a\ntown which was afterward called \"Ardan's Town.\"  The whole plain\nwas covered with huts, cottages, and tents.  Every nation under\nthe sun was represented there; and every language might be heard\nspoken at the same time.  It was a perfect Babel re-enacted.\nAll the various classes of American society were mingled\ntogether in terms of absolute equality.  Bankers, farmers,\nsailors, cotton-planters, brokers, merchants, watermen,\nmagistrates, elbowed each other in the most free-and-easy way.\nLouisiana Creoles fraternized with farmers from Indiana;\nKentucky and Tennessee gentlemen and haughty Virginians\nconversed with trappers and the half-savages of the lakes and\nbutchers from Cincinnati.  Broad-brimmed white hats and Panamas,\nblue-cotton trousers, light-colored stockings, cambric frills,\nwere all here displayed; while upon shirt-fronts, wristbands,\nand neckties, upon every finger, even upon the very ears, they\nwore an assortment of rings, shirt-pins, brooches, and trinkets,\nof which the value only equaled the execrable taste.  Women, children,\nand servants, in equally expensive dress, surrounded their husbands,\nfathers, or masters, who resembled the patriarchs of tribes in the\nmidst of their immense households.\n\nAt meal-times all fell to work upon the dishes peculiar to the\nSouthern States, and consumed with an appetite that threatened\nspeedy exhaustion of the victualing powers of Florida,\nfricasseed frogs, stuffed monkey, fish chowder, underdone\n'possum, and raccoon steaks.  And as for the liquors which\naccompanied this indigestible repast!  The shouts, the\nvociferations that resounded through the bars and taverns\ndecorated with glasses, tankards, and bottles of marvelous\nshape, mortars for pounding sugar, and bundles of straws!\n\"Mint-julep\" roars one of the barmen; \"Claret sangaree!\"\nshouts another; \"Cocktail!\" \"Brandy-smash!\" \"Real mint-julep\nin the new style!\"  All these cries intermingled produced a\nbewildering and deafening hubbub.\n\nBut on this day, 1st of December, such sounds were rare.  No one\nthought of eating or drinking, and at four P.M. there were vast\nnumbers of spectators who had not even taken their customary\nlunch!  And, a still more significant fact, even the national\npassion for play seemed quelled for the time under the general\nexcitement of the hour.\n\nUp till nightfall, a dull, noiseless agitation, such as\nprecedes great catastrophes, ran through the anxious multitude.\nAn indescribable uneasiness pervaded all minds, an indefinable\nsensation which oppressed the heart.  Every one wished it was over.\n\nHowever, about seven o'clock, the heavy silence was dissipated.\nThe moon rose above the horizon.  Millions of hurrahs hailed\nher appearance.  She was punctual to the rendezvous, and shouts\nof welcome greeted her on all sides, as her pale beams shone\ngracefully in the clear heavens.  At this moment the three\nintrepid travelers appeared.  This was the signal for renewed\ncries of still greater intensity.  Instantly the vast\nassemblage, as with one accord, struck up the national hymn of\nthe United States, and \"Yankee Doodle,\" sung by five million of\nhearty throats, rose like a roaring tempest to the farthest\nlimits of the atmosphere.  Then a profound silence reigned\nthroughout the crowd.\n\nThe Frenchman and the two Americans had by this time entered the\nenclosure reserved in the center of the multitude.  They were\naccompanied by the members of the Gun Club, and by deputations\nsent from all the European Observatories.  Barbicane, cool and\ncollected, was giving his final directions.  Nicholl, with\ncompressed lips, his arms crossed behind his back, walked with\na firm and measured step.  Michel Ardan, always easy, dressed in\nthorough traveler's costume, leathern gaiters on his legs, pouch\nby his side, in loose velvet suit, cigar in mouth, was full of\ninexhaustible gayety, laughing, joking, playing pranks with J.\nT. Maston.  In one word, he was the thorough \"Frenchman\" (and\nworse, a \"Parisian\") to the last moment.\n\nTen o'clock struck!  The moment had arrived for taking their\nplaces in the projectile!  The necessary operations for the\ndescent, and the subsequent removal of the cranes and\nscaffolding that inclined over the mouth of the Columbiad,\nrequired a certain period of time.\n\nBarbicane had regulated his chronometer to the tenth part of a\nsecond by that of Murchison the engineer, who was charged with\nthe duty of firing the gun by means of an electric spark.\nThus the travelers enclosed within the projectile were enabled\nto follow with their eyes the impassive needle which marked the\nprecise moment of their departure.\n\nThe moment had arrived for saying \"good-by!\"  The scene was a\ntouching one.  Despite his feverish gayety, even Michel Ardan\nwas touched.  J. T. Maston had found in his own dry eyes one\nancient tear, which he had doubtless reserved for the occasion.\nHe dropped it on the forehead of his dear president.\n\n\"Can I not go?\" he said, \"there is still time!\"\n\n\"Impossible, old fellow!\" replied Barbicane.  A few moments\nlater, the three fellow-travelers had ensconced themselves in\nthe projectile, and screwed down the plate which covered the\nentrance-aperture.  The mouth of the Columbiad, now completely\ndisencumbered, was open entirely to the sky.\n\nThe moon advanced upward in a heaven of the purest clearness,\noutshining in her passage the twinkling light of the stars.\nShe passed over the constellation of the Twins, and was now\nnearing the halfway point between the horizon and the zenith.\nA terrible silence weighed upon the entire scene!  Not a breath of\nwind upon the earth! not a sound of breathing from the countless\nchests of the spectators!  Their hearts seemed afraid to beat!\nAll eyes were fixed upon the yawning mouth of the Columbiad.\n\nMurchison followed with his eye the hand of his chronometer.\nIt wanted scarce forty seconds to the moment of departure, but\neach second seemed to last an age!  At the twentieth there was\na general shudder, as it occurred to the minds of that vast\nassemblage that the bold travelers shut up within the projectile\nwere also counting those terrible seconds.  Some few cries here\nand there escaped the crowd.\n\n\"Thirty-five!-- thirty-six!-- thirty-seven!-- thirty-eight!--\nthirty-nine!-- forty!  FIRE!!!\"\n\nInstantly Murchison pressed with his finger the key of the\nelectric battery, restored the current of the fluid, and\ndischarged the spark into the breech of the Columbiad.\n\nAn appalling unearthly report followed instantly, such as can be\ncompared to nothing whatever known, not even to the roar of\nthunder, or the blast of volcanic explosions!  No words can\nconvey the slightest idea of the terrific sound!  An immense\nspout of fire shot up from the bowels of the earth as from a crater.\nThe earth heaved up, and with great difficulty some few spectators\nobtained a momentary glimpse of the projectile victoriously\ncleaving the air in the midst of the fiery vapors!\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "It's December first, the day of the launch--Stone Hill is surrounded by a massive crowd of people from all over the world. Our three proto-astronauts are greeted by a decent rendition of \"Yankee Doodle,\" and J.T. Maston tries one last time to get into the capsule. He is rebuffed one last time, though. Poor guy. Finally, they enter the capsule and prepare for launch. When the cannon is finally fired, it releases a \"superhuman\" sound and \"immense column of flame\" . That's supposed to happen, right?"}, {"": "287", "document": "Actus Tertius. Scene 1.\n\nEnter Hero and two Gentlemen, Margaret, and Vrsula.\n\n  Hero. Good Margaret runne thee to the parlour,\nThere shalt thou finde my Cosin Beatrice,\nProposing with the Prince and Claudio,\nWhisper her eare, and tell her I and Vrsula,\nWalke in the Orchard, and our whole discourse\nIs all of her, say that thou ouer-heardst vs,\nAnd bid her steale into the pleached bower,\nWhere hony-suckles ripened by the sunne,\nForbid the sunne to enter: like fauourites,\nMade proud by Princes, that aduance their pride,\nAgainst that power that bred it, there will she hide her,\nTo listen our purpose, this is thy office,\nBeare thee well in it, and leaue vs alone\n\n   Marg. Ile make her come I warrant you presently\n\n   Hero. Now Vrsula, when Beatrice doth come,\nAs we do trace this alley vp and downe,\nOur talke must onely be of Benedicke,\nWhen I doe name him, let it be thy part,\nTo praise him more then euer man did merit,\nMy talke to thee must be how Benedicke\nIs sicke in loue with Beatrice; of this matter,\nIs little Cupids crafty arrow made,\nThat onely wounds by heare-say: now begin,\nEnter Beatrice.\n\nFor looke where Beatrice like a Lapwing runs\nClose by the ground, to heare our conference\n\n   Vrs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish\nCut with her golden ores the siluer streame,\nAnd greedily deuoure the treacherous baite:\nSo angle we for Beatrice, who euen now,\nIs couched in the wood-bine couerture,\nFeare you not my part of the Dialogue\n\n   Her. Then go we neare her that her eare loose nothing,\nOf the false sweete baite that we lay for it:\nNo truely Vrsula, she is too disdainfull,\nI know her spirits are as coy and wilde,\nAs Haggerds of the rocke\n\n   Vrsula. But are you sure,\nThat Benedicke loues Beatrice so intirely?\n  Her. So saies the Prince, and my new trothed Lord\n\n   Vrs. And did they bid you tell her of it, Madam?\n  Her. They did intreate me to acquaint her of it,\nBut I perswaded them, if they lou'd Benedicke,\nTo wish him wrastle with affection,\nAnd neuer to let Beatrice know of it\n\n   Vrsula. Why did you so, doth not the Gentleman\nDeserue as full as fortunate a bed,\nAs euer Beatrice shall couch vpon?\n  Hero. O God of loue! I know he doth deserue,\nAs much as may be yeelded to a man:\nBut Nature neuer fram'd a womans heart,\nOf prowder stuffe then that of Beatrice:\nDisdaine and Scorne ride sparkling in her eyes,\nMis-prizing what they looke on, and her wit\nValues it selfe so highly, that to her\nAll matter else seemes weake: she cannot loue,\nNor take no shape nor proiect of affection,\nShee is so selfe indeared\n\n   Vrsula. Sure I thinke so,\nAnd therefore certainely it were not good\nShe knew his loue, lest she make sport at it\n\n   Hero. Why you speake truth, I neuer yet saw man,\nHow wise, how noble, yong, how rarely featur'd.\nBut she would spell him backward: if faire fac'd,\nShe would sweare the gentleman should be her sister:\nIf blacke, why Nature drawing of an anticke,\nMade a foule blot: if tall, a launce ill headed:\nIf low, an agot very vildlie cut:\nIf speaking, why a vane blowne with all windes:\nIf silent, why a blocke moued with none.\nSo turnes she euery man the wrong side out,\nAnd neuer giues to Truth and Vertue, that\nWhich simplenesse and merit purchaseth\n\n   Vrsu. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable\n\n   Hero. No, not to be so odde, and from all fashions,\nAs Beatrice is, cannot be commendable,\nBut who dare tell her so? if I should speake,\nShe would mocke me into ayre, O she would laugh me\nOut of my selfe, presse me to death with wit,\nTherefore let Benedicke like couered fire,\nConsume away in sighes, waste inwardly:\nIt were a better death, to die with mockes,\nWhich is as bad as die with tickling\n\n   Vrsu. Yet tell her of it, heare what shee will say\n\n   Hero. No, rather I will goe to Benedicke,\nAnd counsaile him to fight against his passion,\nAnd truly Ile deuise some honest slanders,\nTo staine my cosin with, one doth not know,\nHow much an ill word may impoison liking\n\n   Vrsu. O doe not doe your cosin such a wrong,\nShe cannot be so much without true iudgement,\nHauing so swift and excellent a wit\nAs she is prisde to haue, as to refuse\nSo rare a Gentleman as signior Benedicke\n\n   Hero. He is the onely man of Italy,\nAlwaies excepted, my deare Claudio\n\n   Vrsu. I pray you be not angry with me, Madame,\nSpeaking my fancy: Signior Benedicke,\nFor shape, for bearing argument and valour,\nGoes formost in report through Italy\n\n   Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent good name\n\n   Vrsu. His excellence did earne it ere he had it:\nWhen are you married Madame?\n  Hero. Why euerie day to morrow, come goe in,\nIle shew thee some attires, and haue thy counsell,\nWhich is the best to furnish me to morrow\n\n   Vrsu. Shee's tane I warrant you,\nWe haue caught her Madame?\n  Hero. If it proue so, then louing goes by haps,\nSome Cupid kills with arrowes, some with traps.\nEnter.\n\n  Beat. What fire is in mine eares? can this be true?\nStand I condemn'd for pride and scorne so much?\nContempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adew,\nNo glory liues behinde the backe of such.\nAnd Benedicke, loue on, I will requite thee,\nTaming my wilde heart to thy louing hand:\nIf thou dost loue, my kindnesse shall incite thee\nTo binde our loues vp in a holy band.\nFor others say thou dost deserue, and I\nBeleeue it better then reportingly.\nEnter.\n\n\n", "summary": "In this scene, King Henry IV is in his palace at Westminster. It is the middle of the night and he is in his nightgown, but he is still awake and working on the paperwork of the war. When he is left alone, King Henry begins to talk to himself and the audience. He says that he has extremely bad insomnia and that these days he cannot sleep at all. Bitterly, he realizes that even the poorest of his subjects can sleep at night in their tattered beds, but he, the wealthy king, is too weighed down by worry, remorse, and anxiety to be able to do so. He concludes that people in positions of power are usually less happy and carefree than the poor and simple. The Earl of Warwick and the Earl of Surrey, to whom the King sent messages at the beginning of the scene, enter and interrupt him in his reverie . The three discuss the nation's current state of affairs: they know that the Earl of Northumberland is considering waging war against them. The king muses about how swiftly time flows, the years turn, and people change. Less than ten years ago, Northumberland was a good friend of King Richard II, the king who reigned before Henry IV. Eight years ago, Northumberland turned against Richard and helped Henry take the throne from him. And now, Northumberland has turned against Henry himself. King Richard had prophesied that this would happen, and King Henry is now disturbed at the realization that Richard had been right. Warwick, however, points out to the king that Richard had simply guessed that Northumberland would prove a traitor because he had already betrayed Richard. King Henry agrees, and the conversation turns to the course of the war. There is a rumor that the rebels have fifty thousand men, but Warwick is sure that these are merely rumors and that the rebels have no more than half that number. Moreover, he has good news from the west: Owen Glendower, the leader of the rebellious Welsh guerrilla fighters, is dead, so the king will be able to focus his efforts on the English rebels. Since the king has been growing sicker lately, the lords urge him to go to bed. King Henry, regretting once again that this war has prevented him from joining the Crusades in Jerusalem, agrees."}, {"": "288", "document": "XLIV. MY LORD AND LADY.\n\n\n                           \n\n\n\"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The\nluggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying\nto find some things I want,\" said Laurie, coming in the next day to find\nMrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made \"the baby\"\nagain.\n\n\"Certainly. Go, dear; I forget that you have any home but this,\" and\nMrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding-ring, as if\nasking pardon for her maternal covetousness.\n\n\"I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it; but I can't get\non without my little woman any more than a--\"\n\n\"Weathercock can without wind,\" suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile;\nJo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home.\n\n\"Exactly; for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only\nan occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an easterly\nspell since I was married; don't know anything about the north, but am\naltogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?\"\n\n\"Lovely weather so far; I don't know how long it will last, but I'm not\nafraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear,\nand I'll find your bootjack; I suppose that's what you are rummaging\nafter among my things. Men are _so_ helpless, mother,\" said Amy, with a\nmatronly air, which delighted her husband.\n\n\"What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?\" asked\nJo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.\n\n\"We have our plans; we don't mean to say much about them yet, because we\nare such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into\nbusiness with a devotion that shall delight grandfather, and prove to\nhim that I'm not spoilt. I need something of the sort to keep me steady.\nI'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man.\"\n\n\"And Amy, what is she going to do?\" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at\nLaurie's decision, and the energy with which he spoke.\n\n\"After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall\nastonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant\nsociety we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall\nexert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame\nR\u00e9camier?\" asked Laurie, with a quizzical look at Amy.\n\n\"Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by\ncalling me names before their faces,\" answered Amy, resolving that there\nshould be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a _salon_ as a\nqueen of society.\n\n\"How happy those children seem together!\" observed Mr. March, finding it\ndifficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple had\ngone.\n\n\"Yes, and I think it will last,\" added Mrs. March, with the restful\nexpression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.\n\n\"I know it will. Happy Amy!\" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as\nProfessor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.\n\nLater in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the\nbootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, who was flitting about,\narranging her new art treasures,--\n\n\"Mrs. Laurence.\"\n\n\"My lord!\"\n\n\"That man intends to marry our Jo!\"\n\n\"I hope so; don't you, dear?\"\n\n\"Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that\nexpressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal\nricher.\"\n\n\"Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love\none another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.\nWomen _never_ should marry for money--\" Amy caught herself up short as\nthe words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with\nmalicious gravity,--\n\n\"Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend\nto do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your\nduty to make a rich match; that accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a\ngood-for-nothing like me.\"\n\n\"O my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I\nsaid 'Yes.' I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes\nwish you _were_ poor that I might show how much I love you;\" and Amy,\nwho was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave\nconvincing proofs of the truth of her words.\n\n\"You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be\nonce, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd\ngladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your\nliving by rowing on the lake.\"\n\n\"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a\nricher man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I\nhave the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to\nthink it is their only salvation; but you had better lessons, and,\nthough I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the\ndaughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told mamma so yesterday,\nand she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a\nmillion, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral\nremarks, Mrs. Laurence;\" and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent\nlook, though fixed upon his face.\n\n\"Yes, I am, and admiring the dimple in your chin at the same time. I\ndon't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my\nhandsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is\n_such_ a comfort to me;\" and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature\nwith artistic satisfaction.\n\nLaurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that\nsuited him better, as he plainly showed, though he did laugh at his\nwife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly,--\n\n\"May I ask you a question, dear?\"\n\n\"Of course you may.\"\n\n\"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?\"\n\n\"Oh, that's the trouble, is it? I thought there was something in the\ndimple that didn't suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the\nhappiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a\nheart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?\"\n\nAmy looked up at him, and was satisfied; her last little jealous fear\nvanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and\nconfidence.\n\n\"I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't\nwe invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in\nGermany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?\" said Laurie, when they\nbegan to pace up and down the long drawing-room, arm-in-arm, as they\nwere fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.\n\n             [Illustration: They began to pace up and down]\n\n\"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all; she is very proud of him, just\nas he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful\nthing.\"\n\n\"Bless her dear heart! she won't think so when she has a literary\nhusband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We\nwon't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in\nspite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she\nbelieves in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in\nthat way.\"\n\n\"How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was\nalways one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely; and, thanks\nto you, the dream has come true.\"\n\n\"Ah! we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty\nthat I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of,\nbut poor gentlefolks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people\ndon't dare to offer charity; yet there are a thousand ways of helping\nthem, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not\noffend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a\nblarneying beggar; I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is\nharder.\"\n\n\"Because it takes a gentleman to do it,\" added the other member of the\ndomestic admiration society.\n\n\"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was\ngoing to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many\ntalented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real\nhardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some\nof them, working like heroes, poor and friendless, but so full of\ncourage, patience, and ambition, that I was ashamed of myself, and\nlonged to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a\nsatisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be\nallowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of\nfuel to keep the pot boiling; if they haven't, it's a pleasure to\ncomfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it\nout.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed; and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in\nsilence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a\nprincess of me, as the king does the beggar-maid in the old story.\nAmbitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth,\nhealth, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help\nat the right minute. People have been very kind to me; and whenever I\nsee girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand\nand help them, as I was helped.\"\n\n\"And so you shall, like an angel as you are!\" cried Laurie, resolving,\nwith a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for\nthe express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. \"Rich\npeople have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their\nmoney accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave\nlegacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and\nenjoy making one's fellow-creatures happy with it. We'll have a good\ntime ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving\nother people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about\nemptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?\"\n\n\"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping, as you\nride gallantly through the world, to share your cloak with the beggar.\"\n\n\"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!\"\n\nSo the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again,\nfeeling that their pleasant home was more home-like because they hoped\nto brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more\nuprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough\nways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely\nknit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest\nthan they.\n\n                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Laurie comes over to the March household and asks Marmee if he can borrow Amy to help him find something in their luggage. Laurie, Jo, and Marmee talk about the way that Amy keeps Laurie on the straight and narrow. As Jo helps Amy put her coat on, she asks what the newly-married Laurences are going to do with themselves. Neither of them needs to work, since Laurie is rich, but they do have plans. Laurie says that he's going to go into business, if only to give him something to do and to keep him from getting into trouble. Amy, as his wife, is going to entertain all the most important people in society at their mansion. Amy and Laurie go off together. Mr. and Mrs. March comment on how happy they seem and what a good couple they make. Jo sighs, but then smiles as Mr. Bhaer comes in! Later that evening, Amy and Laurie talk about the family and their plans. Laurie says to Amy that Mr. Bhaer seems interested in marrying Jo. Amy says that she hopes he will. Laurie wishes Mr. Bhaer was younger and richer. Amy scolds Laurie and starts talking about how women shouldn't marry for money, which makes them both laugh, since she used to claim she would do exactly that. In fact, Amy has married a rich man - but not for his money! She's comforted by his aristocratic appearance, too; he has the nose that she's always wanted. Amy asks Laurie if he will mind if Jo marries Mr. Bhaer. She seems a little bit worried that Laurie might still have romantic feelings for Jo. Laurie assures her that all his romance is directed at her, not at Jo. Amy's last bit of jealousy vanishes forever. Amy and Laurie speculate on how to use their fortune. They wish they could give money to Jo and Mr. Bhaer, but they know their help wouldn't be accepted. Laurie suggests that he and Amy focus on using their fortune to help \"poor gentle folks\" instead of \"out and out beggars.\" This is a common nineteenth-century idea - that there are \"deserving\" and \"undeserving\" poor people. We're not sure we agree, but Amy and Laurie might have something when they say that some kinds of poverty are more invisible to society. They want to help people who aren't necessarily asking for help, but still need it. Laurie describes the talented young men that he has met abroad who were trying to make their way in the world and needed just a little help. Amy describes girls like herself, who have respectable backgrounds but no money, and miss opportunities. Laurie and Amy agree that they will use their money to help people who are working hard and need just a little assistance to get ahead in the world. They're the nineteenth-century novel equivalent of something like small business loans from the government or scholarships - they're going to give small amounts of money here and there, in subtle ways, to fund projects that wouldn't happen otherwise, and help people succeed. Laurie and Amy's resolution to use their money well draws them closer together in their marriage."}, {"": "289", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\nA field near Windsor.\n\n[Enter CAIUS and RUGBY.]\n\nCAIUS.\nJack Rugby!\n\nRUGBY.\nSir?\n\nCAIUS.\nVat is de clock, Jack?\n\nRUGBY.\n'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his\nPible vell dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead\nalready, if he be come.\n\nRUGBY.\nHe is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your\nrapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.\n\nRUGBY.\nAlas, sir, I cannot fence!\n\nCAIUS.\nVillany, take your rapier.\n\nRUGBY.\nForbear; here's company.\n\n[Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE.]\n\nHOST.\nBless thee, bully doctor!\n\nSHALLOW.\nSave you, Master Doctor Caius!\n\nPAGE.\nNow, good Master Doctor!\n\nSLENDER.\nGive you good morrow, sir.\n\nCAIUS.\nVat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for?\n\nHOST.\nTo see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see\nthee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock,\nthy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian?\nIs he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius?\nmy Galen? my heart of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he\ndead?\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show\nhis face.\n\nHOST.\nThou art a Castalion King Urinal! Hector of Greece, my boy!\n\nCAIUS.\nI pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree\nhours for him, and he is no come.\n\nSHALLOW.\nHe is the wiser man, Master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you\na curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of\nyour professions. Is it not true, Master Page?\n\nPAGE.\nMaster Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now\na man of peace.\n\nSHALLOW.\nBodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if\nI see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are\njustices, and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we have some\nsalt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.\n\nPAGE.\n'Tis true, Master Shallow.\n\nSHALLOW.\nIt will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I come to\nfetch you home. I am sworn of the peace; you have showed yourself\na wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and\npatient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor.\n\nHOST.\nPardon, guest-justice.--A word, Monsieur Mockwater.\n\nCAIUS.\nMock-vater! Vat is dat?\n\nHOST.\nMockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman.--Scurvy\njack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears.\n\nHOST.\nHe will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.\n\nCAIUS.\nClapper-de-claw! Vat is dat?\n\nHOST.\nThat is, he will make thee amends.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me\nvill have it.\n\nHOST.\nAnd I will provoke him to't, or let him wag.\n\nCAIUS.\nMe tank you for dat.\n\nHOST.\nAnd, moreover, bully--but first: Master guest, and Master Page,\nand eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore.\n\n[Aside to them.]\n\nPAGE.\nSir Hugh is there, is he?\n\nHOST.\nHe is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the\ndoctor about by the fields. Will it do well?\n\nSHALLOW.\nWe will do it.\n\nPAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.\nAdieu, good Master Doctor.\n\n[Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape\nto Anne Page.\n\nHOST.\nLet him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler;\ngo about the fields with me through Frogmore; I will bring thee\nwhere Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou\nshalt woo her. Cried I aim? Said I well?\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall\nprocure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de\ngentlemen, my patients.\n\nHOST.\nFor the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page: said I well?\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, 'tis good; vell said.\n\nHOST.\nLet us wag, then.\n\nCAIUS.\nCome at my heels, Jack Rugby.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Remember that Caius challenged Evans to a duel? Well, they're getting ready to rumble in a field in Windsor Park. Caius is all dramatic. He slashes his sword around and declares that Evans is lucky he's a no-show--otherwise, the clergyman would be dog meat by now. Here comes someone--but it's not Evans. It's the Host of the Garter Inn, with Master Page, Slender, and Shallow, all there to see the big fight. The Host is all \"Gee, Caius, where's Evans? Did you kill him already?\" Caius waves around his sword and talks more trash about Evans in his super thick and super hilarious French accent. Shallow and Page point out that Doctor Caius is supposed to heal people, not kill them, but who asked them? The Host proceeds to insult Caius by using a bunch of English slang that the French doctor doesn't understand. At one point, he calls him \"Monsieur Mockwater\" . Caius asks \"Mockvater? Vat is that?\" Oh, you know, just a little English slang for \"brave.\" Caius declares that he's got just as much \"mockwater\" as an Englishman. The Host thinks this is absolutely hilarious, but he eventually stops laughing long enough to whisper to his friends that they should go over to Frogmore fields where Evans is waiting. He promises to bring Caius there later so they can have some more fun. Then, Page, Shallow, and Slender take off for Frogmore. The Host tells Caius that Anne Page is having dinner with friends at a farmhouse on the other side of Frogmore fields and that he'll lead the way for Caius to see her. Caius is totally psyched to have an opportunity to put the moves on her."}, {"": "290", "document": "\n\nNext morning I rose somewhat before the breakfast hour. As I descended\nthe stairs, Edith stepped into the hall from the room which had been\nthe scene of the morning interview between us described some chapters\nback.\n\n\"Ah!\" she exclaimed, with a charmingly arch expression, \"you thought\nto slip out unbeknown for another of those solitary morning rambles\nwhich have such nice effects on you. But you see I am up too early for\nyou this time. You are fairly caught.\"\n\n\"You discredit the efficacy of your own cure,\" I said, \"by supposing\nthat such a ramble would now be attended with bad consequences.\"\n\n\"I am very glad to hear that,\" she said. \"I was in here arranging some\nflowers for the breakfast table when I heard you come down, and\nfancied I detected something surreptitious in your step on the\nstairs.\"\n\n\"You did me injustice,\" I replied. \"I had no idea of going out at\nall.\"\n\nDespite her effort to convey an impression that my interception was\npurely accidental, I had at the time a dim suspicion of what I\nafterwards learned to be the fact, namely, that this sweet creature,\nin pursuance of her self-assumed guardianship over me, had risen for\nthe last two or three mornings at an unheard-of hour, to insure\nagainst the possibility of my wandering off alone in case I should be\naffected as on the former occasion. Receiving permission to assist her\nin making up the breakfast bouquet, I followed her into the room from\nwhich she had emerged.\n\n\"Are you sure,\" she asked, \"that you are quite done with those\nterrible sensations you had that morning?\"\n\n\"I can't say that I do not have times of feeling decidedly queer,\" I\nreplied, \"moments when my personal identity seems an open question. It\nwould be too much to expect after my experience that I should not have\nsuch sensations occasionally, but as for being carried entirely off my\nfeet, as I was on the point of being that morning, I think the danger\nis past.\"\n\n\"I shall never forget how you looked that morning,\" she said.\n\n\"If you had merely saved my life,\" I continued, \"I might, perhaps,\nfind words to express my gratitude, but it was my reason you saved,\nand there are no words that would not belittle my debt to you.\" I\nspoke with emotion, and her eyes grew suddenly moist.\n\n\"It is too much to believe all this,\" she said, \"but it is very\ndelightful to hear you say it. What I did was very little. I was very\nmuch distressed for you, I know. Father never thinks anything ought to\nastonish us when it can be explained scientifically, as I suppose this\nlong sleep of yours can be, but even to fancy myself in your place\nmakes my head swim. I know that I could not have borne it at all.\"\n\n\"That would depend,\" I replied, \"on whether an angel came to support\nyou with her sympathy in the crisis of your condition, as one came to\nme.\" If my face at all expressed the feelings I had a right to have\ntoward this sweet and lovely young girl, who had played so angelic a\nrole toward me, its expression must have been very worshipful just\nthen. The expression or the words, or both together, caused her now to\ndrop her eyes with a charming blush.\n\n\"For the matter of that,\" I said, \"if your experience has not been as\nstartling as mine, it must have been rather overwhelming to see a man\nbelonging to a strange century, and apparently a hundred years dead,\nraised to life.\"\n\n\"It seemed indeed strange beyond any describing at first,\" she said,\n\"but when we began to put ourselves in your place, and realize how\nmuch stranger it must seem to you, I fancy we forgot our own feelings\na good deal, at least I know I did. It seemed then not so much\nastounding as interesting and touching beyond anything ever heard of\nbefore.\"\n\n\"But does it not come over you as astounding to sit at table with me,\nseeing who I am?\"\n\n\"You must remember that you do not seem so strange to us as we must to\nyou,\" she answered. \"We belong to a future of which you could not form\nan idea, a generation of which you knew nothing until you saw us. But\nyou belong to a generation of which our forefathers were a part. We\nknow all about it; the names of many of its members are household\nwords with us. We have made a study of your ways of living and\nthinking; nothing you say or do surprises us, while we say and do\nnothing which does not seem strange to you. So you see, Mr. West, that\nif you feel that you can, in time, get accustomed to us, you must not\nbe surprised that from the first we have scarcely found you strange at\nall.\"\n\n\"I had not thought of it in that way,\" I replied. \"There is indeed\nmuch in what you say. One can look back a thousand years easier than\nforward fifty. A century is not so very long a retrospect. I might\nhave known your great-grand-parents. Possibly I did. Did they live in\nBoston?\"\n\n\"I believe so.\"\n\n\"You are not sure, then?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied. \"Now I think, they did.\"\n\n\"I had a very large circle of acquaintances in the city,\" I said. \"It\nis not unlikely that I knew or knew of some of them. Perhaps I may\nhave known them well. Wouldn't it be interesting if I should chance\nto be able to tell you all about your great-grandfather, for\ninstance?\"\n\n\"Very interesting.\"\n\n\"Do you know your genealogy well enough to tell me who your forbears\nwere in the Boston of my day?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, then, you will some time tell me what some of their names\nwere.\"\n\nShe was engrossed in arranging a troublesome spray of green, and did\nnot reply at once. Steps upon the stairway indicated that the other\nmembers of the family were descending.\n\n\"Perhaps, some time,\" she said.\n\nAfter breakfast, Dr. Leete suggested taking me to inspect the central\nwarehouse and observe actually in operation the machinery of\ndistribution, which Edith had described to me. As we walked away from\nthe house I said, \"It is now several days that I have been living in\nyour household on a most extraordinary footing, or rather on none at\nall. I have not spoken of this aspect of my position before because\nthere were so many other aspects yet more extraordinary. But now that\nI am beginning a little to feel my feet under me, and to realize that,\nhowever I came here, I am here, and must make the best of it, I must\nspeak to you on this point.\"\n\n\"As for your being a guest in my house,\" replied Dr. Leete, \"I pray\nyou not to begin to be uneasy on that point, for I mean to keep you a\nlong time yet. With all your modesty, you can but realize that such a\nguest as yourself is an acquisition not willingly to be parted with.\"\n\n\"Thanks, doctor,\" I said. \"It would be absurd, certainly, for me to\naffect any oversensitiveness about accepting the temporary hospitality\nof one to whom I owe it that I am not still awaiting the end of the\nworld in a living tomb. But if I am to be a permanent citizen of this\ncentury I must have some standing in it. Now, in my time a person more\nor less entering the world, however he got in, would not be noticed in\nthe unorganized throng of men, and might make a place for himself\nanywhere he chose if he were strong enough. But nowadays everybody is\na part of a system with a distinct place and function. I am outside\nthe system, and don't see how I can get in; there seems no way to get\nin, except to be born in or to come in as an emigrant from some other\nsystem.\"\n\nDr. Leete laughed heartily.\n\n\"I admit,\" he said, \"that our system is defective in lacking provision\nfor cases like yours, but you see nobody anticipated additions to the\nworld except by the usual process. You need, however, have no fear\nthat we shall be unable to provide both a place and occupation for you\nin due time. You have as yet been brought in contact only with the\nmembers of my family, but you must not suppose that I have kept your\nsecret. On the contrary, your case, even before your resuscitation,\nand vastly more since, has excited the profoundest interest in the\nnation. In view of your precarious nervous condition, it was thought\nbest that I should take exclusive charge of you at first, and that you\nshould, through me and my family, receive some general idea of the\nsort of world you had come back to before you began to make the\nacquaintance generally of its inhabitants. As to finding a function\nfor you in society, there was no hesitation as to what that would be.\nFew of us have it in our power to confer so great a service on the\nnation as you will be able to when you leave my roof, which, however,\nyou must not think of doing for a good time yet.\"\n\n\"What can I possibly do?\" I asked. \"Perhaps you imagine I have some\ntrade, or art, or special skill. I assure you I have none whatever. I\nnever earned a dollar in my life, or did an hour's work. I am strong,\nand might be a common laborer, but nothing more.\"\n\n\"If that were the most efficient service you were able to render the\nnation, you would find that avocation considered quite as respectable\nas any other,\" replied Dr. Leete; \"but you can do something else\nbetter. You are easily the master of all our historians on questions\nrelating to the social condition of the latter part of the nineteenth\ncentury, to us one of the most absorbingly interesting periods of\nhistory; and whenever in due time you have sufficiently familiarized\nyourself with our institutions, and are willing to teach us something\nconcerning those of your day, you will find an historical lectureship\nin one of our colleges awaiting you.\"\n\n\"Very good! very good indeed,\" I said, much relieved by so practical a\nsuggestion on a point which had begun to trouble me. \"If your people\nare really so much interested in the nineteenth century, there will\nindeed be an occupation ready-made for me. I don't think there is\nanything else that I could possibly earn my salt at, but I certainly\nmay claim without conceit to have some special qualifications for such\na post as you describe.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The next morning, when Julian West leaves his room, Edith Leete comes out of the dining room to check on him. He realizes she has been getting up very early every morning to make sure he does not leave the house because she fears that he will have another crisis. He is very touched by her concern and calls her an angel. He asks her if she knows who her nineteenth-century ancestors were. She says she does, but then she is too absorbed in arranging the flowers to tell him their names. Doctor Leete comes in, and Julian West takes up the question of what he should do to enter the system of this new society. Doctor Leete tells him that he is quite happy to have him as a guest for a long time since he is so interesting. He adds that when the time comes, Julian West might like to take up a lectureship at one of the universities teaching nineteenth-century history. Julian West is greatly relieved at this news."}, {"": "291", "document": "MEN'S SOCIAL WORK, LONDON\n\n\n\nTHE MIDDLESEX STREET SHELTER\n\nThe first of the London Institutions of the Salvation Army which I\nvisited was that known as the Middlesex Street Shelter and Working\nMen's Home, which is at present under the supervision of Commissioner\nSturgess. This building consists of six floors, and contains sleeping\naccommodation for 462 men. It has been at work since the year 1906,\nwhen it was acquired by the Army with the help of that well-known\nphilanthropist, the late Mr. George Herring.\n\nOf the 462 men accommodated daily, 311 pay 3d. for their night's\nlodging, and the remainder 5d. The threepenny charge entitles the\ntenant to the use of a bunk bedstead with sheets and an American cloth\ncover. If the extra 2d. is forthcoming the wanderer is provided with a\nproper bed, fitted with a wire spring hospital frame and provided with\na mattress, sheets, pillow, and blankets. I may state here that as in\nthe case of this Shelter the building, furniture and other equipment\nhave been provided by charity, the nightly fees collected almost\nsuffice to pay the running expenses of the establishment. Under less\nfavourable circumstances, however, where the building and equipment\nare a charge on the capital funds of the Salvation Army, the\nexperience is that these fees do not suffice to meet the cost of\ninterest and maintenance.\n\nThe object of this and similar Shelters is to afford to men upon the\nverge of destitution the choice between such accommodation as is here\nprovided and the common lodging-house, known as a 'kip house,' or the\ncasual ward of a workhouse. Those who avail themselves of these\nShelters belong, speaking generally, to the destitute or nearly\ndestitute classes. They are harbours of refuge for the unfortunates\nwho find themselves on the streets of London at nightfall with a few\ncoppers or some other small sum in their pockets. Many of these social\nwrecks have sunk through drink, but many others owe their sad position\nto lack or loss of employment, or to some other misfortune.\n\nFor an extra charge of 1d. the inmates are provided with a good\nsupper, consisting of a pint of soup and a large piece of bread, or of\nbread and jam and tea, or of potato-pie. A second penny supplies them\nwith breakfast on the following morning, consisting of bread and\nporridge or of bread and fish, with tea or coffee.\n\nThe dormitories, both of the fivepenny class on the ground floor and\nof the threepenny class upstairs, are kept scrupulously sweet and\nclean, and attached to them are lavatories and baths. These lavatories\ncontain a great number of brown earthenware basins fitted with taps.\nReceptacles are provided, also, where the inmates can wash their\nclothes and have them dried by means of an ingenious electrical\ncontrivance and hot air, capable of thoroughly drying any ordinary\ngarment in twenty minutes while its owner takes a bath.\n\nThe man in charge of this apparatus and of the baths was one who had\nbeen picked up on the Embankment during the past winter. In return for\nhis services he received food, lodging, clothes and pocket-money to\nthe amount of 3s. a week. He told me that he was formerly a commercial\ntraveller, and was trying to re-enter that profession or to become a\nship's steward. Sickness had been the cause of his fall in the world.\n\nAdjoining the downstairs dormitory is a dining and sitting-room for\nthe use of those who have taken bed tickets. In this room, when I\nvisited it, several men were engaged in various occupations. One of\nthem was painting flowers. Another, a watch repairer, was apparently\nmaking up his accounts, which, perhaps, were of an imaginary nature. A\nthird was eating a dinner which he had purchased at the food bar. A\nfourth smoked a cigarette and watched the flower artist at his work. A\nfifth was a Cingalese who had come from Ceylon to lay some grievance\nbefore the late King. The authorities at Whitehall having investigated\nhis case, he had been recommended to return to Ceylon and consult a\nlawyer there. Now he was waiting tor the arrival of remittances to\nenable him to pay his passage back to Ceylon. I wondered whether the\nremittances would ever be forthcoming. Meanwhile he lived here on\n7-1/2d. a day, 5d. for his bed and 2-1/2d. for his food. Of these and\nother men similarly situated I will give some account presently.\n\nHaving inspected the upper floors I descended to the basement, where\nwhat are called the 'Shelter men' are received at a separate entrance\nat 5.30 in the afternoon, and buying their penny or halfpennyworth of\nfood, seat themselves on benches to eat. Here, too, they can sit and\nsmoke or mend their clothes, or if they are wet, dry themselves in the\nannexe, until they retire to rest. During the past winter of 1909 400\nmen taken from the Embankment were sheltered here gratis every night,\nand were provided with soup and bread. When not otherwise occupied\nthis hall is often used for the purpose of religious services.\n\nI spoke at hazard with some of those who were sitting about in the\nShelter. A few specimen cases may be interesting. An old man told me\nthat he had travelled all over the world for fifty years, especially\nin the islands of the South Pacific, until sickness broke him down. He\ncame last from Shanghai, where he had been an overseer on railway\nwork, and before that from Manila. Being incapacitated by fever and\nrheumatism, and possessing 1,500 dollars, he travelled home,\napparently via India and Burma, stopping a while in each country.\nEventually he drifted to a lodging-house, and, falling ill there, was\nsent to the Highgate Infirmary, where, he said, he was so cold that he\ncould not stop. Ultimately he found himself upon the streets in\nwinter. For the past twelve months he had been living in this Shelter\nupon some help that a friend gave him, for all his own money was gone.\nNow he was trying to write books, one of which was in the hands of a\nwell-known firm. He remarked, pathetically, that they 'have had it a\nlong time.' He was also waiting 'every day' for a pension from\nAmerica, which he considered was due to him because he fought in the\nCivil War.\n\nMost of these poor people are waiting for something.\n\nThis man added that he could not find his relatives, and that he\nintended to stop in the Shelter until his book was published, or he\ncould 'help himself out.'\n\nThe next man I spoke to was the flower artist, whom I have already\nmentioned, whose work, by the way, if a little striking in colour, was\nby no means bad, especially as he had no real flowers to draw from. By\ntrade he was a lawyer's clerk; but he stated that, unfortunately for\nhim, the head partner of his firm went bankrupt six years before, and\nthe bad times, together with the competition of female labour in the\nclerical department, prevented him from obtaining another situation,\nso he had been obliged to fall back upon flower painting. He was a\nmarried man, but he said, 'While I could make a fair week's money,\nthings were comfortable, but when orders fell slack I was requested to\ngo, as my room was preferable to my company, and being a man of\nnervous temperament I could not stand it, and have been here ever\nsince'--that was for about ten weeks. He managed to make enough for\nhis board and lodging by the sale of his flower-pictures.\n\nA third man informed me that he had opened twenty-seven shops for a\nlarge firm of tobacconists, and then left to start in business for\nhimself; also he used to go out window-dressing, in which he was\nskilled. Then, about nine years ago, his wife began to drink, and\nwhile he was absent in hospital, neglected his business so that it\nbecame worthless. Finally she deserted him, and he had heard nothing\nof her since. After that he took to drink himself. He came to this\nShelter intermittently, and supported himself by an occasional job of\nwindow-dressing. The Salvation Army was trying to cure this man of his\ndrinking habits.\n\nA fourth man, a Eurasian, was a schoolmaster in India, who drifted to\nthis country, and had been for four years in the Colney Hatch Asylum.\nHe was sent to the Salvation Army by the After Care Society. He had\nbeen two years in the Shelter, and was engaged in saving up money to\ngo to America. He was employed in the Shelter as a scrubber, and also\nas a seller of food tickets, by which means he had saved some money.\nAlso he had a L5 note, which his sister sent to him. This note he was\nkeeping to return to her as a present on her birthday! His story was\nlong and miserable, and his case a sad one. Still, he was capable of\ndoing work of a sort.\n\nAnother very smart and useful man had been a nurse in the Army Medical\nCorps, which he left some years ago with a good character.\nOccasionally he found a job at nursing, and stayed at the Shelter,\nwhere he was given employment between engagements.\n\nYet another, quite a young person, was a carman who had been\ndischarged through slackness of work in the firm of which he was a\nservant. He had been ten weeks in the Institution, to which he came\nfrom the workhouse, and hoped to find employment at his trade.\n\nIn passing through this building, I observed a young man of foreign\nappearance seated in a window-place reading a book, and asked his\nhistory. I was told that he was a German of education, whose ambition\nit is to become a librarian in his native country. He had come to\nEngland in order to learn our language, and being practically without\nmeans, drifted into this place, where he was employed in cleaning the\nwindows and pursued his studies in the intervals of that humble work.\nLet us hope that in due course his painstaking industry will be\nrewarded, and his ambition fulfilled.\n\nAll these cases, and others that I have no space to mention, belonged\nto the class of what I may call the regular 'hangers-on' of this\nparticular Shelter. As I visited it in the middle of the day, I did\nnot see its multitude of normal nightly occupants. Of such men,\nhowever, I shall be able to speak elsewhere.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sassoon and Dr. Rivers meet for tea and discuss Sassoon's beliefs about war. Sassoon explains that he no longer dislikes the Germans, but rather, his anger is focused on British citizens and non-combatants who remain apathetic to the great suffering of soldiers in combat. He admits to exposing himself to excessive danger on the battlefield, understanding that this may signify a death wish, but insists that he took his most unnecessary risks while under orders from his superiors. Sassoon insists that he is not a pacifist, but rather, he is a critic of the cruelty involved in this particular war. Dr. Rivers enquires about Sassoon's dreams and hallucinations, learning that his new patient often sees apparitions of crawling corpses as he is waking up or falling asleep. Sassoon keeps pulling at the threads on his shirt that used to hold his ribbon for bravery in combat. Dr. Rivers learns that Sassoon regrets throwing his ribbon in a river; the lieutenant describes how the light ribbon didn't sink but \"bobbed around in the current, looking depressingly insignificant against a looming ship in the background\". The two part on good terms and Dr. Rivers warns Sassoon he is not neutral: as a military psychologist, it is his job to convince the lieutenant to return to war. At dinner in the cafeteria, Dr. Rivers tells Bryce he finds Sassoon surprisingly \"impressive\". Meanwhile, Sassoon imagines another scene from the war but manages to eat in peace. A patient named Anderson introduces himself to Sassoon and they chat about golf. Suddenly, a man across the room vomits and has to be dragged out; Dr. Rivers abandons his dinner to follow his heaving patient. After gently attending to the vomiting man, the psychologist reflects that his patient's suffering is \"without purpose or dignity\". The man, known as Burns, was thrown through the air by an exploding shell and landed with his face in the decomposing stomach of a German corpse. Now, every time he attempts to eat, Burns can only taste and smell rotting flesh. Dr. Rivers agrees with Burns that his plight is like a sick joke, with none of the honor or respect that a more orthodox wound might garner. Outside, Captain Graves finally arrives at Craiglockhart"}, {"": "292", "document": "\n\nDuring the eight months which were employed in the work of\nexcavation the preparatory works of the casting had been carried\non simultaneously with extreme rapidity.  A stranger arriving at\nStones Hill would have been surprised at the spectacle offered\nto his view.\n\nAt 600 yards from the well, and circularly arranged around it as\na central point, rose 1,200 reverberating ovens, each six feet\nin diameter, and separated from each other by an interval of\nthree feet.  The circumference occupied by these 1,200 ovens\npresented a length of two miles.  Being all constructed on the\nsame plan, each with its high quadrangular chimney, they\nproduced a most singular effect.\n\nIt will be remembered that on their third meeting the committee\nhad decided to use cast iron for the Columbiad, and in particular\nthe white description.  This metal, in fact, is the most\ntenacious, the most ductile, and the most malleable, and\nconsequently suitable for all moulding operations; and when\nsmelted with pit coal, is of superior quality for all\nengineering works requiring great resisting power, such as\ncannon, steam boilers, hydraulic presses, and the like.\n\nCast iron, however, if subjected to only one single fusion,\nis rarely sufficiently homogeneous; and it requires a second\nfusion completely to refine it by dispossessing it of its last\nearthly deposits.  So long before being forwarded to Tampa Town,\nthe iron ore, molten in the great furnaces of Coldspring, and\nbrought into contact with coal and silicium heated to a high\ntemperature, was carburized and transformed into cast iron.\nAfter this first operation, the metal was sent on to Stones Hill.\nThey had, however, to deal with 136,000,000 pounds of iron, a\nquantity far too costly to send by railway.  The cost of\ntransport would have been double that of material.  It appeared\npreferable to freight vessels at New York, and to load them with\nthe iron in bars.  This, however, required not less than sixty-\neight vessels of 1,000 tons, a veritable fleet, which, quitting\nNew York on the 3rd of May, on the 10th of the same month ascended\nthe Bay of Espiritu Santo, and discharged their cargoes, without\ndues, in the port at Tampa Town.  Thence the iron was transported\nby rail to Stones Hill, and about the middle of January this\nenormous mass of metal was delivered at its destination.\n\nIt will easily be understood that 1,200 furnaces were not too\nmany to melt simultaneously these 60,000 tons of iron.  Each of\nthese furnaces contained nearly 140,000 pounds weight of metal.\nThey were all built after the model of those which served for\nthe casting of the Rodman gun; they were trapezoidal in shape,\nwith a high elliptical arch.  These furnaces, constructed of\nfireproof brick, were especially adapted for burning pit coal,\nwith a flat bottom upon which the iron bars were laid.  This bottom,\ninclined at an angle of 25 degrees, allowed the metal to flow into\nthe receiving troughs; and the 1,200 converging trenches carried\nthe molten metal down to the central well.\n\nThe day following that on which the works of the masonry and\nboring had been completed, Barbicane set to work upon the\ncentral mould.  His object now was to raise within the center of\nthe well, and with a coincident axis, a cylinder 900 feet high,\nand nine feet in diameter, which should exactly fill up the\nspace reserved for the bore of the Columbiad.  This cylinder was\ncomposed of a mixture of clay and sand, with the addition of a\nlittle hay and straw.  The space left between the mould and the\nmasonry was intended to be filled up by the molten metal, which\nwould thus form the walls six feet in thickness.  This cylinder,\nin order to maintain its equilibrium, had to be bound by iron\nbands, and firmly fixed at certain intervals by cross-clamps\nfastened into the stone lining; after the castings these would\nbe buried in the block of metal, leaving no external projection.\n\nThis operation was completed on the 8th of July, and the run of\nthe metal was fixed for the following day.\n\n\"This _fete_ of the casting will be a grand ceremony,\" said J.\nT. Maston to his friend Barbicane.\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" said Barbicane; \"but it will not be a public _fete_\"\n\n\"What! will you not open the gates of the enclosure to all comers?\"\n\n\"I must be very careful, Maston.  The casting of the Columbiad\nis an extremely delicate, not to say a dangerous operation, and\nI should prefer its being done privately.  At the discharge of\nthe projectile, a _fete_ if you like-- till then, no!\"\n\nThe president was right.  The operation involved unforeseen\ndangers, which a great influx of spectators would have hindered\nhim from averting.  It was necessary to preserve complete\nfreedom of movement.  No one was admitted within the enclosure\nexcept a delegation of members of the Gun Club, who had made the\nvoyage to Tampa Town.  Among these was the brisk Bilsby, Tom\nHunter, Colonel Blomsberry, Major Elphinstone, General Morgan,\nand the rest of the lot to whom the casting of the Columbiad was\na matter of personal interest.  J. T. Maston became their cicerone.\nHe omitted no point of detail; he conducted them throughout the\nmagazines, workshops, through the midst of the engines, and\ncompelled them to visit the whole 1,200 furnaces one after\nthe other.  At the end of the twelve-hundredth visit they were\npretty well knocked up.\n\nThe casting was to take place at twelve o'clock precisely.\nThe previous evening each furnace had been charged with 114,000\npounds weight of metal in bars disposed cross-ways to each other,\nso as to allow the hot air to circulate freely between them.\nAt daybreak the 1,200 chimneys vomited their torrents of flame\ninto the air, and the ground was agitated with dull tremblings.\nAs many pounds of metal as there were to cast, so many pounds of\ncoal were there to burn.  Thus there were 68,000 tons of coal\nwhich projected in the face of the sun a thick curtain of smoke.\nThe heat soon became insupportable within the circle of furnaces,\nthe rumbling of which resembled the rolling of thunder.  The powerful\nventilators added their continuous blasts and saturated with\noxygen the glowing plates.  The operation, to be successful,\nrequired to be conducted with great rapidity.  On a signal given\nby a cannon-shot each furnace was to give vent to the molten\niron and completely to empty itself.  These arrangements made,\nforemen and workmen waited the preconcerted moment with an\nimpatience mingled with a certain amount of emotion.  Not a soul\nremained within the enclosure.  Each superintendent took his\npost by the aperture of the run.\n\nBarbicane and his colleagues, perched on a neighboring eminence,\nassisted at the operation.  In front of them was a piece of\nartillery ready to give fire on the signal from the engineer.\nSome minutes before midday the first driblets of metal began to\nflow; the reservoirs filled little by little; and, by the time\nthat the whole melting was completely accomplished, it was kept\nin abeyance for a few minutes in order to facilitate the\nseparation of foreign substances.\n\nTwelve o'clock struck!  A gunshot suddenly pealed forth and shot\nits flame into the air.  Twelve hundred melting-troughs were\nsimultaneously opened and twelve hundred fiery serpents crept\ntoward the central well, unrolling their incandescent curves.\nThere, down they plunged with a terrific noise into a depth of\n900 feet.  It was an exciting and a magnificent spectacle.\nThe ground trembled, while these molten waves, launching into the\nsky their wreaths of smoke, evaporated the moisture of the mould\nand hurled it upward through the vent-holes of the stone lining\nin the form of dense vapor-clouds.  These artificial clouds\nunrolled their thick spirals to a height of 1,000 yards into\nthe air.  A savage, wandering somewhere beyond the limits of the\nhorizon, might have believed that some new crater was forming in\nthe bosom of Florida, although there was neither any eruption,\nnor typhoon, nor storm, nor struggle of the elements, nor any of\nthose terrible phenomena which nature is capable of producing.\nNo, it was man alone who had produced these reddish vapors,\nthese gigantic flames worthy of a volcano itself, these\ntremendous vibrations resembling the shock of an earthquake,\nthese reverberations rivaling those of hurricanes and storms;\nand it was his hand which precipitated into an abyss, dug by\nhimself, a whole Niagara of molten metal!\n\n\n\n", "summary": "With the hole complete, it's now time to cast the cannon. Maston wants to hold a big public festival, but Barbicane shoots him down--he doesn't want to risk anything going wrong. When they finally start the massive furnaces required for casting, huge \"artificial clouds in thick spirals\" are released into the sky."}, {"": "293", "document": "THE TRAINING INSTITUTE FOR WOMEN SOCIAL WORKERS, CLAPTON\n\nColonel Lambert, the lady-Officer in charge of this Institution,\ninformed me that it can accommodate sixty young women. At the time of\nmy visit forty-seven pupils were being prepared for service in the\nWomen's Department of what is called 'Salvation Army Warfare.' These\nCadets come from all sources and in various ways. Most of them have\nfirst been members of the Army and made application to be trained,\nfeeling themselves attracted to this particular branch of its work.\n\nThe basis of their instruction is religious and theological. It\nincludes the study of the Bible, of the doctrine and discipline of the\nSalvation Army and the rules and regulations governing the labours of\nits Social Officers. In addition, these Cadets attend practical\nclasses where they learn needlework, the scientific cutting out of\ngarments, knitting, laundry work, first medical aid, nursing, and so\nforth. The course at this Institution takes ten months to complete,\nafter which those Cadets who have passed the examinations are\nappointed to various centres of the Army's Social activities.\n\nWhen these young women have passed out and enter on active Social work\nthey are allowed their board and lodging and a small salary to pay for\ntheir clothing. This salary at the commencement of a worker's career\namounts to the magnificent sum of 4s. a week, if she 'lives in' (about\nthe pay of a country kitchen maid); out of which she is expected to\ndefray the cost of her uniform and other clothes, postage stamps, etc.\nUltimately, after many years of service, it may rise to as much as\n10s. in the case of senior Officers, or, if the Officer finds her own\nboard and lodging, to a limit of L1 a week.\n\nOf these ladies who are trained in the Home few leave the Army. Should\nthey do so, however, I am informed that they can generally obtain from\nother Organizations double or treble the pay which the Army is able to\nafford.\n\nThis Training Institution is a building admirably suited to the\npurpose to which it is put. Originally it was a ladies' school, which\nwas purchased by the Salvation Army. The dining-room of the Cadets was\nvery well arranged and charmingly decorated with flowers, as was that\nof the Officers beyond. There was also a Cadets' retiring-room, where\nI saw some of them reading or otherwise amusing themselves on their\nSaturday half-holiday. The Army would be glad to find and train more\nof these self-sacrificing workers; but the conditions of the pay which\nthey can offer and the arduous nature of the lifelong service\ninvolved, are such that those of a satisfactory class are not too\nreadily forthcoming.\n\nAttached to this Training Institution is a Home for girls of doubtful\nor bad antecedents, which I also visited. This Rescue Home is linked\nup with the Training School, so that the Cadets may have the\nopportunity of acquiring a practical knowledge of the class of work\nupon which they are to be engaged in after-life. Most of the girls in\nthe Rescue Home have passed through the Police-courts, and been handed\nover to the care of the Army by magistrates. The object of the Army is\nto reform them and instruct them in useful work which will enable them\nto earn an honest living.\n\nMany of these girls have been in the habit of thieving from their\nmistresses or others, generally in order to enable them to make\npresents to their lovers. Indeed, it would seem that this mania for\nmaking presents is a frequent cause of the fall of young persons with\na natural leaning to dishonesty and a desire to appear rich and\nliberal. The Army succeeds in reclaiming a great number of them; but\nthe thieving instinct is one not easy to eradicate.\n\nAll these girls seemed fairly happy. A great deal of knitting is done\nby them, and I saw a room furnished with a number of knitting\nmachines, where work is turned out to the value of nearly L25 a week.\nAlso I was shown piles of women's and children's underclothing and\nother articles, the produce of the girls' needles, which are sold to\nhelp to defray the expenses of the Home. In the workroom on this\nSaturday afternoon a number of the young women were engaged in mending\ntheir own garments. After their period of probation many of these\ngirls are sent out to situations found for them by the Army.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Prior waits outside in the cold and the dark for a sign from Sarah's window. When he sees it, he climbs up the side of the wall and makes his way into her room. They cannot make too much noise because her landlady does not allow her to have men in her room. He looks at a photograph on her dresser and wonders about her family. Sarah assures him that her mother will like him, though she might like him more if she thought he was going back to the war. Prior considers telling Sarah about his war memories, but he decides against it. He needs her to remain ignorant so that he may be consoled, so that he may find, in her innocence, a place to hide. Prior tells Sarah he loves her, and she responds that she loves him too. Sassoon and Owen sit in the corner of a lounge at the Conservative Club drinking brandy. They laugh together over a book of very bad poetry given to Sassoon by the author, an admirer. Sassoon gives the book to Owen as a gift. They talk for a moment about how Rivers is leaving and how dreadful it will be for Owen at Craiglockhart without Sassoon or Rivers there. Owen would like to stay at the hospital another month, but he realizes that he too must soon give up his bed to another soldier who needs it more. Sassoon gives Owen a letter of introduction to Robert Ross, a Canadian authority on art and Oscar Wilde's literary executor. Sassoon pats Owen on the back and says goodbye. Owen is left with a tremendous sense of loss"}, {"": "294", "document": "Chapter LV. Porthos's Will.\n\n\nAt Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted--the\nstables closed--the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains,\nformerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along\nthe roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on\nmules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs of\nadjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed\ntheir horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps,\nconducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where\nMousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in\ntwo days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in\nwhich the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red\nand white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by two\nsilver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerly\nas they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival,\nMousqueton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press\nhis throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and\nlamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the\nreading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all the\ncovetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he had\nleft no relations behind him.\n\nThe visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room had\njust been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the\nreading of the important document. Porthos's procureur--and that\nwas naturally the successor of Master Coquenard--commenced by slowly\nunfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had\ntraced his sovereign will. The seal broken--the spectacles put on--the\npreliminary cough having sounded--every one pricked up his ears.\nMousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and the\nbetter to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which\nhad been shut, were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figure\nappeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun.\nThis was D'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody\nto hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to the knocker and announced\nhimself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of all\npresent, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drew\nMousqueton from his reverie; he raised his head, recognized the old\nfriend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees,\nwatering the floor with his tears. D'Artagnan raised the poor intendant,\nembraced him as if he had been a brother, and, having nobly saluted the\nassembly, who all bowed as they whispered to each other his name, he\nwent and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall,\nstill holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating with\nexcess of woe, and sank upon the steps. Then the procureur, who, like\nthe rest, was considerably agitated, commenced.\n\nPorthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character,\nasked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have done\nthem. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed from the\neyes of D'Artagnan.\n\nHe recalled to his mind the old soldier; all those enemies of Porthos\nbrought to earth by his valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbers\nof them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely, not to\nenumerate his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task would\nhave been too much for the reader. Then came the following schedule of\nhis extensive lands:\n\n\"I possess at this present time, by the grace of God--\n\n\"1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and\nforests, surrounded by good walls.\n\n\"2. The domain of Bracieux, chateaux, forests, plowed lands, forming\nthree farms.\n\n\"3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the valley.\"\n(Brave Porthos!)\n\n\"4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres.\n\n\"5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each.\n\n\"6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year.\n\n\"As to my personal or movable property, so called because it can be\nmoved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the bishop of\nVannes--\" (D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to\nthat name)--the procureur continued imperturbably--\"they consist--\"\n\n\"1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and which\nfurnish all my chateaux or houses, but of which the list is drawn up by\nmy intendant.\"\n\nEvery one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was still lost in\ngrief.\n\n\"2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly\nat my chateau of Pierrefonds, and which are called--Bayard, Roland,\nCharlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod,\nUrganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalilah, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette,\nGrisette, Lisette, and Musette.\n\n\"3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, for\nthe stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; the\nfourth, for the hare; and the two others, for setters and protection.\n\n\"4. In arms for war and the chase contained in my gallery of arms.\n\n\"5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them formerly;\nmy wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eight\ncellars and twelve vaults, in my various houses.\n\n\"6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value, and\nwhich are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight.\n\n\"7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, and have\nnever been opened.\n\n\"8. My silver plate, which is perhaps a little worn, but which ought to\nweigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble\nin lifting the coffer that contained it and could not carry it more than\nsix times round my chamber.\n\n\"9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are\ndivided in the residences I liked the best.\"\n\nHere the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, and\nredoubled his attention. The procureur resumed:\n\n\"I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I never\nshall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken,\nfor I have a son, in common with my other friends; that is, M. Raoul\nAuguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere.\n\n\"This young nobleman appears to me extremely worthy to succeed the\nvaliant gentleman of whom I am the friend and very humble servant.\"\n\nHere a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was D'Artagnan's sword,\nwhich, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring.\nEvery one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled\nfrom the thick lid of D'Artagnan, half-way down to his aquiline nose,\nthe luminous edge of which shone like a little crescent moon.\n\n\"This is why,\" continued the procureur, \"I have left all my property,\nmovable, or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to M. le\nVicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la\nFere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to\nadd more luster to his already glorious name.\"\n\nA vague murmur ran through the auditory. The procureur continued,\nseconded by the flashing eye of D'Artagnan, which, glancing over the\nassembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence:\n\n\"On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le\nChevalier d'Artagnan, captain of the king's musketeers, whatever the\nsaid Chevalier d'Artagnan may demand of my property. On condition that\nM. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalier\nd'Herblay, my friend, if he should need it in exile. I leave to my\nintendant Mousqueton all of my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to the\nnumber of forty-seven suits, in the assurance that he will wear them\ntill they are worn out, for the love of and in remembrance of his\nmaster. Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old\nservant and faithful friend Mousqueton, already named, providing that\nthe said vicomte shall so act that Mousqueton shall declare, when dying,\nhe has never ceased to be happy.\"\n\nOn hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and trembling; his\nshoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, compressed by a frightful\ngrief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him\nstagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did\nnot know the way.\n\n\"Mousqueton, my good friend,\" said D'Artagnan, \"go and make your\npreparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house, whither I shall\ngo on leaving Pierrefonds.\"\n\nMousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in that\nhall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door, and slowly\ndisappeared.\n\nThe procureur finished his reading, after which the greater part\nof those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by\ndegrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As\nfor D'Artagnan, thus left alone, after having received the formal\ncompliments of the procureur, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of\nthe testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most\nnecessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that neither nobleman\nnor courtier could have displayed more kindly. When Porthos enjoined\nRaoul de Bragelonne to give D'Artagnan all that he would ask, he knew\nwell, our worthy Porthos, that D'Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and\nin case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos\nleft a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much,\nwas checked by the example of D'Artagnan; and that word _exile_, thrown\nout by the testator, without apparent intention, was it not the mildest,\nmost exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had brought\nabout the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of Athos in the\ntestament of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that the\nson would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of\nPorthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades more\nclearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste.\n\n\"Porthos had indeed a heart,\" said D'Artagnan to himself with a sigh.\nAs he made this reflection, he fancied he hard a groan in the room above\nhim; and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it was\na pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the\nhall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. He\nascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in\nPorthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials,\nupon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all on\nthe floor together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. Those\nclothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand of\nMousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with\nhis lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D'Artagnan\napproached to console the poor fellow.\n\n\"My God!\" said he, \"he does not stir--he has fainted!\"\n\nBut D'Artagnan was mistaken. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog\nwho, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Pierrefonds has been prepared for his funeral. Mousqueton, , has lost plenty of weight in two days; his clothes hang on his frame. Various friends arrive to hear the reading of the will. D'Artagnan arrives right as the reading is about to begin. He hugs Mousqueton and nods to the guests. Porthos's will first details all of his worldly possessions, then leaves everything to Raoul de Bragelonne, who he considers his son. A tear slides down D'Artagnan's nose. Porthos includes a few stipulations to this bequest, however. He wants D'Artagnan to have whatever D'Artagnan might request, that Aramis receive a pension should he require one, and that Mousqueton receive all forty-seven of his suits of clothing, to be worn in Porthos's memory. Porthos also wills Mousqueton to Raoul, asking that he look out for the servant's happiness. Mousqueton sobs with grief and tries to leave the hall. D'Artagnan offers to take him to Athos's house. The reading of the will is finished and the guests leave. D'Artagnan is left alone to contemplate his friend's last will and testament, which he judges to be admirable. D'Artagnan hears a groan come from an upstairs room, and he is reminded that Mousqueton must be consoled. He goes upstairs to find, in Porthos's room, all his suits of clothes in a giant heap, and Mousqueton on top, kissing the suits. D'Artagnan moves forward into the room and realizes that Mousqueton is dead."}, {"": "295", "document": "\nTHE SEA-CHEST\n\n\nI lost no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and\nperhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once\nin a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man's money--if he\nhad any--was certainly due to us, but it was not likely that our\ncaptain's shipmates, above all the two specimens seen by me--Black Dog\nand the blind beggar--would be inclined to give up their booty in\npayment of the dead man's debts. The captain's order to mount at once\nand ride for Doctor Livesey would have left my mother alone and\nunprotected, which was not to be thought of. Indeed, it seemed\nimpossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall\nof coals in the kitchen grate, the very ticking of the clock, filled us\nwith alarm. The neighborhood, to our ears, seemed haunted by approaching\nfootsteps; and what between the dead body of the captain on the parlor\nfloor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar hovering near at\nhand and ready to return, there were moments when, as the saying goes, I\njumped in my skin for terror. Something must speedily be resolved upon,\nand it occurred to us at last to go forth together and seek help in the\nneighboring hamlet. No sooner said than done. Bareheaded as we were, we\nran out at once in the gathering evening and the frosty fog.\n\nThe hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though out of view, on the\nother side of the next cove; and what greatly encouraged me, it was in\nan opposite direction from that whence the blind man had made his\nappearance, and whither he had presumably returned. We were not many\nminutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay hold of each\nother and hearken. But there was no unusual sound--nothing but the low\nwash of the ripple and the croaking of the inmates of the wood.\n\nIt was already candle-light when we reached the hamlet, and I shall\nnever forget how much I was cheered to see the yellow shine in doors and\nwindows; but that, as it proved, was the best of the help we were likely\nto get in that quarter. For--you would have thought men would have been\nashamed of themselves--no soul would consent to return with us to the\n\"Admiral Benbow.\" The more we told of our troubles, the more--man,\nwoman, and child--they clung to the shelter of their houses. The name of\nCaptain Flint, though it was strange to me, was well enough known to\nsome there, and carried a great weight of terror. Some of the men who\nhad been to field-work on the far side of the \"Admiral Benbow\"\nremembered, besides, to have seen several strangers on the road, and,\ntaking them to be smugglers, to have bolted away; and one at least had\nseen a little lugger in what we called Kitt's Hole. For that matter,\nanyone who was a comrade of the captain's was enough to frighten them to\ndeath. And the short and the long of the matter was, that while we could\nget several who were willing enough to ride to Doctor Livesey's, which\nlay in another direction, not one would help us to defend the inn.\n\nThey say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, on the other\nhand, a great emboldener; and so when each had said his say, my mother\nmade them a speech. She would not, she declared, lose money that\nbelonged to her fatherless boy. \"If none of the rest of you dare,\" she\nsaid, \"Jim and I dare. Back we will go, the way we came, and small\nthanks to you big, hulking, chicken-hearted men! We'll have that chest\nopen, if we die for it. And I'll thank you for that bag, Mrs. Crossley,\nto bring back our lawful money in.\"\n\nOf course I said I would go with my mother; and of course they all cried\nout at our foolhardiness; but even then not a man would go along with\nus. All they would do was to give me a loaded pistol, lest we were\nattacked; and to promise to have horses ready saddled, in case we were\npursued on our return; while one lad was to ride forward to the doctor's\nin search of armed assistance.\n\nMy heart was beating fiercely when we two set forth in the cold night\nupon this dangerous venture. A full moon was beginning to rise and\npeered redly through the upper edges of the fog, and this increased our\nhaste, for it was plain, before we came forth again, that all would be\nbright as day, and our departure exposed to the eyes of any watchers. We\nslipped along the hedges, noiseless and swift, nor did we see or hear\nanything to increase our terrors till, to our huge relief, the door of\nthe \"Admiral Benbow\" had closed behind us.\n\nI slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a moment in the\ndark, alone in the house with the dead captain's body. Then my mother\ngot a candle in the bar, and, holding each other's hands, we advanced\ninto the parlor. He lay as we had left him, on his back, with his eyes\nopen, and one arm stretched out.\n\n\"Draw down the blind, Jim,\" whispered my mother; \"they might come and\nwatch outside. And now,\" said she, when I had done so, \"we have to get\nthe key off _that_; and who's to touch it, I should like to know!\" and\nshe gave a kind of sob as she said the words.\n\nI went down on my knees at once. On the floor close to his hand there\nwas a little round of paper, blackened on one side. I could not doubt\nthat this was the _black spot_; and, taking it up, I found written on\nthe other side, in a very good, clear hand, this short message, \"You\nhave till ten to-night.\"\n\n\"He had till ten, mother,\" said I; and, just as I said it, our old clock\nbegan striking. This sudden noise startled us shockingly; but the news\nwas good, for it was only six.\n\n\"Now, Jim,\" she said, \"that key!\"\n\nI felt in his pockets, one after another. A few small coins, a thimble,\nand some thread and big needles, a piece of pig-tail tobacco bitten away\nat the end, his gully with the crooked handle, a pocket compass, and a\ntinder-box, were all that they contained, and I began to despair.\n\n\"Perhaps it's round his neck,\" suggested my mother.\n\nOvercoming a strong repugnance, I tore open his shirt at the neck, and\nthere, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry string, which I cut with\nhis own gully, we found the key. At this triumph we were filled with\nhope, and hurried upstairs, without delay, to the little room where he\nhad slept so long, and where his box had stood since the day of his\narrival.\n\nIt was like any other seaman's chest on the outside, the initial \"B\"\nburned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners somewhat\nsmashed and broken as by long, rough usage.\n\n\"Give me the key,\" said my mother, and though the lock was very stiff,\nshe had turned it and thrown back the lid in a twinkling.\n\nA strong smell of tobacco and tar arose from the interior, but nothing\nwas to be seen on the top except a suit of very good clothes, carefully\nbrushed and folded. They had never been worn, my mother said. Under that\nthe miscellany began--a quadrant, a tin cannikin, several sticks of\ntobacco, two brace of very handsome pistols, a piece of bar silver, an\nold Spanish watch, and some other trinkets of little value and mostly of\nforeign make, a pair of compasses mounted with brass, and five or six\ncurious West Indian shells. I have often wondered since why he should\nhave carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and\nhunted life.\n\nIn the meantime we found nothing of any value but the silver and the\ntrinkets, and neither of these were in our way. Underneath there was an\nold boat-cloak, whitened with sea-salt on many a harbor-bar. My mother\npulled it up with impatience, and there lay before us, the last things\nin the chest, a bundle tied up in oilcloth, and looking like papers, and\na canvas bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.\n\n\"I'll show those rogues that I'm an honest woman,\" said my mother. \"I'll\nhave my dues and not a farthing over. Hold Mrs. Crossley's bag.\" And she\nbegan to count over the amount of the captain's score from the sailor's\nbag into the one that I was holding.\n\nIt was a long, difficult business, for the coins were of all countries\nand sizes--doubloons, and louis-d'ors, and guineas, and pieces of eight,\nand I know not what besides, all shaken together at random. The guineas,\ntoo, were about the scarcest, and it was with these only that my mother\nknew how to make her count.\n\nWhen we were about halfway through, I suddenly put my hand upon her arm,\nfor I had heard in the silent, frosty air, a sound that brought my heart\ninto my mouth--the tap-tapping of the blind man's stick upon the frozen\nroad. It drew nearer and nearer, while we sat holding our breath. Then\nit struck sharp on the inn door, and then we could hear the handle being\nturned, and the bolt rattling as the wretched being tried to enter; and\nthen there was a long time of silence both within and without. At last\nthe tapping recommenced, and to our indescribable joy and gratitude,\ndied slowly away again until it ceased to be heard.\n\n\"Mother,\" said I, \"take the whole and let's be going\"; for I was sure\nthe bolted door must have seemed suspicious, and would bring the whole\nhornet's nest about our ears; though how thankful I was that I had\nbolted it, none could tell who had never met that terrible blind man.\n\nBut my mother, frightened as she was, would not consent to take a\nfraction more than was due to her, and was obstinately unwilling to be\ncontent with less. It was not yet seven, she said, by a long way; she\nknew her rights and she would have them; and she was still arguing with\nme, when a little low whistle sounded a good way off upon the hill. That\nwas enough, and more than enough, for both of us.\n\n\"I'll take what I have,\" she said, jumping to her feet.\n\n\"And I'll take this to square the count,\" said I, picking up the oilskin\npacket.\n\nNext moment we were both groping downstairs, leaving the candle by the\nempty chest; and the next we had opened the door and were in full\nretreat. We had not started a moment too soon. The fog was rapidly\ndispersing; already the moon shone quite clear on the high ground on\neither side, and it was only in the exact bottom of the dell and round\nthe tavern door that a thin veil still hung unbroken to conceal the\nfirst steps of our escape. Far less than halfway to the hamlet, very\nlittle beyond the bottom of the hill, we must come forth into the\nmoonlight. Nor was this all; for the sound of several footsteps running\ncame already to our ears, and as we looked back in their direction, a\nlight, tossing to and fro, and still rapidly advancing, showed that one\nof the new-comers carried a lantern.\n\n\"My dear,\" said my mother, suddenly, \"take the money and run on. I am\ngoing to faint.\"\n\nThis was certainly the end for both of us, I thought. How I cursed the\ncowardice of the neighbors! how I blamed my poor mother for her honesty\nand her greed, for her past foolhardiness and present weakness! We were\njust at the little bridge, by good fortune, and I helped her, tottering\nas she was, to the edge of the bank, where, sure enough, she gave a sigh\nand fell on my shoulder. I do not know how I found the strength to do it\nall, and I am afraid it was roughly done, but I managed to drag her down\nthe bank and a little way under the arch. Farther I could not move her,\nfor the bridge was too low to let me do more than crawl below it. So\nthere we had to stay--my mother almost entirely exposed, and both of us\nwithin earshot of the inn.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jim tells his mother all he knows about the chest. With the Captain dead, the chances of recovering the money are dim though not impossible. They have to act fast before the Black Dog and the blind beggar return and grab it. The thought of staying alone in the inn, with a dead body and the danger of the place being ransacked by the Captains old mates terrify them both, but they are owed money for the Captain's stay in their Inn. Seeking help to protect them from these desperate men, Jim and his mom approach the people from the town to assist them. Much to their dismay, the village folk not only refuse but also discourage them. The mention of the pirate Captain Flint brings fear to those who have heard of him. They relate this within the presence of some strange men on the road. Jims mother jeers at the men of the village calling them chicken-hearted and decides that she will undertake the task herself as-Jim, a now fatherless boy-rightly deserves the money they presumed to be kept in the sea chest. A loaded pistol, a bag from Mrs. Crossley, and saddled horses is the only help offered. No one will assist them. They return to the Inn and are relieved to see the door still bolted, Jim and him mother enter the inn. He discovers the \"black spot\" when he finds a small piece of paper with a short message. The message, though unclear, gives them some kind of hope as it says that they have until ten that night. Jim finds the key to the chest hung around the Captains neck. Jims mother opens the chest and under a heap of miscellaneous things his mother finds a canvas bag which jingles with coins. Determined to collect only the amount due to them, Jims mother begins to count. Soon she realizes that this is a mammoth task as the coins are from different countries. Jim is terrified when he hears the tapping sound of the blind beggar's walking stick approaching and asks his mother to quickly grab the entire bag. Stubborn as she is, she refuses to take even a dime more than what she deserves. Jim rushes outside. They hear hurried footsteps approaching them. Sensing the approaching danger, Jims mother faints but he manages to drag her to safety in the thick fog as the men approach."}, {"": "296", "document": "\nTHE LAST OF THE BLIND MAN\n\n\nMy curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear; for I could not\nremain where I was, but crept back to the bank again, whence, sheltering\nmy head behind a bush of broom, I might command the road before our\ndoor. I was scarcely in position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven\nor eight of them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along the\nroad, and the man with the lantern some paces in front. Three men ran\ntogether, hand in hand; and I made out, even through the mist, that the\nmiddle man of this trio was the blind beggar. The next moment his voice\nshowed me that I was right.\n\n\"Down with the door!\" he cried.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir!\" answered two or three; and a rush was made upon the\n\"Admiral Benbow,\" the lantern-bearer following; and then I could see\nthem pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were\nsurprised to find the door open. But the pause was brief, for the blind\nman again issued his commands. His voice sounded louder and higher, as\nif he were afire with eagerness and rage.\n\n\"In, in, in!\" he shouted, and cursed them for their delay.\n\nFour or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the\nformidable beggar. There was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then\na voice shouting from the house:\n\n\"Bill's dead!\"\n\nBut the blind man swore at them again for their delay.\n\n\"Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and\nget the chest,\" he cried.\n\nI could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the house\nmust have shook with it. Promptly afterward fresh sounds of astonishment\narose; the window of the captain's room was thrown open with a slam and\na jingle of broken glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head\nand shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below him.\n\n[Illustration: _\"Pew!\" he cried, \"they've been before us\"_ (Page 34)]\n\n\"Pew!\" he cried, \"they've been before us. Someone's turned the chest out\nalow and aloft.\"\n\n\"Is it there?\" roared Pew.\n\n\"The money's there.\"\n\nThe blind man cursed the money.\n\n\"Flint's fist, I mean,\" he cried.\n\n\"We don't see it here, nohow,\" returned the man.\n\n\"Here, you below there, is it on Bill?\" cried the blind man again.\n\nAt that, another fellow, probably he who had remained below to search\nthe captain's body, came to the door of the inn. \"Bill's been overhauled\na'ready,\" said he, \"nothin' left.\"\n\n\"It's these people of the inn--it's that boy. I wish I had put his eyes\nout!\" cried the blind man, Pew. \"They were here no time ago--they had\nthe door bolted when I tried it. Scatter, lads, and find 'em.\"\n\n\"Sure enough, they left their glim here,\" said the fellow from the\nwindow.\n\n\"Scatter and find 'em! Rout the house out!\" reiterated Pew, striking\nwith his stick upon the road.\n\nThen there followed a great to-do through all our old inn, heavy feet\npounding to and fro, furniture all thrown over, doors kicked in, until\nthe very rocks re-echoed, and the men came out again, one after another,\non the road, and declared that we were nowhere to be found. And just\nthen the same whistle that had alarmed my mother and myself over the\ndead captain's money was once more clearly audible through the night,\nbut this time twice repeated. I had thought it to be the blind man's\ntrumpet, so to speak, summoning his crew to the assault; but I now found\nthat it was a signal from the hillside toward the hamlet, and, from its\neffect upon the buccaneers, a signal to warn them of approaching danger.\n\n\"There's Dirk again,\" said one. \"Twice! We'll have to budge, mates.\"\n\n\"Budge, you skulk!\" cried Pew. \"Dirk was a fool and a coward from the\nfirst--you wouldn't mind him. They must be close by; they can't be far;\nyou have your hands on it. Scatter and look for them, dogs. Oh, shiver\nmy soul,\" he cried, \"if I had eyes!\"\n\nThis appeal seemed to produce some effect, for two of the fellows began\nto look here and there among the lumber, but half-heartedly, I thought,\nand with half an eye to their own danger all the time, while the rest\nstood irresolute on the road.\n\n\"You have your hands on thousands, you fools, and you hang a leg! You'd\nbe as rich as kings if you could find it, and you know it's here, and\nyou stand there skulking. There wasn't one of you dared face Bill, and I\ndid it--a blind man! And I'm to lose my chance for you! I'm to be a\npoor, crawling beggar, sponging for rum, when I might be rolling in a\ncoach! If you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, you would catch\nthem still.\"\n\n\"Hang it, Pew, we've got the doubloons!\" grumbled one.\n\n\"They might have hid the blessed thing,\" said another. \"Take the\nGeorges, Pew, and don't stand here squalling.\"\n\nSqualling was the word for it; Pew's anger rose so high at these\nobjections; till at last, his passion completely taking the upper hand,\nhe struck at them right and left in his blindness, and his stick sounded\nheavily on more than one.\n\nThese, in their turn, cursed back at the blind miscreant, threatened him\nin horrid terms, and tried in vain to catch the stick and wrest it from\nhis grasp.\n\nThis quarrel was the saving of us; for while it was still raging,\nanother sound came from the top of the hill on the side of the\nhamlet--the tramp of horses galloping. Almost at the same time a\npistol-shot, flash, and report came from the hedge side. And that was\nplainly the last signal of danger, for the buccaneers turned at once and\nran, separating in every direction, one seaward along the cove, one\nslant across the hill, and so on, so that in half a minute not a sign of\nthem remained but Pew. Him they had deserted, whether in sheer panic or\nout of revenge for his ill words and blows, I know not; but there he\nremained behind, tapping up and down the road in a frenzy, and groping\nand calling for his comrades. Finally he took the wrong turn, and ran a\nfew steps past me, towards the hamlet, crying:\n\n\"Johnny, Black Dog, Dirk,\" and other names, \"you won't leave old Pew,\nmates--not old Pew?\"\n\nJust then the noise of horses topped the rise, and four or five riders\ncame in sight in the moonlight, and swept at full gallop down the slope.\n\nAt this Pew saw his error, turned with a scream, and ran straight for\nthe ditch, into which he rolled. But he was on his feet again in a\nsecond, and made another dash, now utterly bewildered, right under the\nnearest of the coming horses.\n\nThe rider tried to save him, but in vain. Down went Pew with a cry that\nrang high into the night, and the four hoofs trampled and spurned him\nand passed by. He fell on his side, then gently collapsed upon his face,\nand moved no more.\n\nI leaped to my feet and hailed the riders. They were pulling up, at any\nrate, horrified at the accident, and I soon saw what they were. One,\ntailing out behind the rest, was a lad that had gone from the hamlet to\nDoctor Livesey's; the rest were revenue officers, whom he had met by the\nway, and with whom he had had the intelligence to return at once. Some\nnews of the lugger in Kitt's Hole had found its way to Supervisor Dance,\nand set him forth that night in our direction, and to that circumstance\nmy mother and I owed our preservation from death.\n\nPew was dead, stone dead. As for my mother, when we had carried her up\nto the hamlet, a little cold water and salts very soon brought her back\nagain, and she was none the worse for her terror, though she still\ncontinued to deplore the balance of the money.\n\nIn the meantime the supervisor rode on, as fast as he could, to Kitt's\nHole; but his men had to dismount and grope down the dingle, leading,\nand sometimes supporting, their horses, and in continual fear of\nambushes; so it was no great matter for surprise that when they got\ndown to the Hole the lugger was already under way, though still close\nin. He hailed her. A voice replied, telling him to keep out of the\nmoonlight, or he would get some lead in him, and at the same time a\nbullet whistled close by his arm. Soon after, the lugger doubled the\npoint and disappeared. Mr. Dance stood there, as he said, \"like a fish\nout of water,\" and all he could do was to dispatch a man to B---- to\nwarn the cutter. \"And that,\" said he, \"is just about as good as nothing.\nThey've got off clean, and there's an end. Only,\" he added, \"I'm glad I\ntrod on Master Pew's corns\"; for by this time he had heard my story.\n\nI went back with him to the \"Admiral Benbow,\" and you cannot imagine a\nhouse in such a state of smash; the very clock had been thrown down by\nthese fellows in their furious hunt after my mother and myself; and\nthough nothing had actually been taken away except the captain's\nmoney-bag and a little silver from the till, I could see at once that we\nwere ruined. Mr. Dance could make nothing of the scene.\n\n\"They got the money, you say? Well, then, Hawkins, what in fortune were\nthey after? More money, I suppose?\"\n\n\"No, sir; not money, I think,\" replied I. \"In fact, sir, I believe I\nhave the thing in my breast-pocket; and, to tell you the truth, I should\nlike to get it put in safety.\"\n\n\"To be sure, boy; quite right,\" said he. \"I'll take it, if you like.\"\n\n\"I thought, perhaps, Doctor Livesey--\" I began.\n\n\"Perfectly right,\" he interrupted, very cheerily, \"perfectly right--a\ngentleman and a magistrate. And, now I come to think of it, I might as\nwell ride round there myself and report to him or squire. Master Pew's\ndead, when all's done; not that I regret it, but he's dead, you see, and\npeople will make it out against an officer of his Majesty's revenue, if\nmake it out they can. Now, I'll tell you, Hawkins, if you like, I'll\ntake you along.\"\n\nI thanked him heartily for the offer, and we walked back to the hamlet\nwhere the horses were. By the time I had told mother of my purpose they\nwere all in the saddle.\n\n\"Dogger,\" said Mr. Dance, \"you have a good horse; take up this lad\nbehind you.\"\n\nAs soon as I was mounted, holding on to Dogger's belt, the supervisor\ngave the word, and the party struck out at a bouncing trot on the road\nto Doctor Livesey's house.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The curiosity of Jim prevails even in these testing times. Hiding behind bushes, Jim sees seven or eight men running towards the Inn. Jim spots the blind beggar who orders the men to break down the door to get inside. When the marauders find Bill dead and the sea chest already opened and cleared of its treasure, the beggar concludes that Jim is responsible and must be nearby. He tells his men to find Jim and his mother and to destroy the Inn. A whistling sound is heard, like the one Jim and his mother had heard earlier, upon hearing it, the men stop their activity and quickly prepare to leave. Pew, the blind beggar, tries to entice them to stay with the treasure that is awaiting them. This doesnt work and much to the relief of Jim they start quarreling amongst themselves. The men hear the sound of four or five horse riders approaching, then coming into sight in full gallop. The men abandon Pew and run away. Even with his handicap, the blind man also tries his best to save himself, but he was trampled by the horses and drops dead. Jim and his mother are saved and are relieved to find Supervisor Dance and his revenue officers making their appearance just in time. With a hope of tracking some men who were stationed at Kitts hole, Mr. Dance goes back, only find that they have already left. Proud that he has captured Pew, Mr. Dance returns with Jim to the ruined inn. He asks Jim what the men were after, Jim tells him that the secret is safe in his pocket and that he would like to hand it over to Dr. Livesey. Accepting Jims decision, without any argument, Mr. Dance offers him a ride to Dr. Livesey. After telling his mother where he is going, Jim is taken to Dr. Livesay's house by one of Mr. Dance's men."}, {"": "297", "document": "\n\nOn the 5th of October, at eight p.m., a dense crowd pressed\ntoward the saloons of the Gun Club at No. 21 Union Square.\nAll the members of the association resident in Baltimore attended\nthe invitation of their president.  As regards the corresponding\nmembers, notices were delivered by hundreds throughout the streets\nof the city, and, large as was the great hall, it was quite\ninadequate to accommodate the crowd of _savants_.  They overflowed\ninto the adjoining rooms, down the narrow passages, into the\nouter courtyards.  There they ran against the vulgar herd who\npressed up to the doors, each struggling to reach the front ranks,\nall eager to learn the nature of the important communication of\nPresident Barbicane; all pushing, squeezing, crushing with that\nperfect freedom of action which is so peculiar to the masses when\neducated in ideas of \"self-government.\"\n\nOn that evening a stranger who might have chanced to be in\nBaltimore could not have gained admission for love or money into\nthe great hall.  That was reserved exclusively for resident or\ncorresponding members; no one else could possibly have obtained\na place; and the city magnates, municipal councilors, and\n\"select men\" were compelled to mingle with the mere townspeople\nin order to catch stray bits of news from the interior.\n\nNevertheless the vast hall presented a curious spectacle.\nIts immense area was singularly adapted to the purpose.\nLofty pillars formed of cannon, superposed upon huge mortars as a\nbase, supported the fine ironwork of the arches, a perfect piece\nof cast-iron lacework.  Trophies of blunderbuses, matchlocks,\narquebuses, carbines, all kinds of firearms, ancient and modern,\nwere picturesquely interlaced against the walls.  The gas lit\nup in full glare myriads of revolvers grouped in the form of\nlustres, while groups of pistols, and candelabra formed of\nmuskets bound together, completed this magnificent display\nof brilliance.  Models of cannon, bronze castings, sights covered\nwith dents, plates battered by the shots of the Gun Club,\nassortments of rammers and sponges, chaplets of shells, wreaths\nof projectiles, garlands of howitzers-- in short, all the\napparatus of the artillerist, enchanted the eye by this\nwonderful arrangement and induced a kind of belief that their\nreal purpose was ornamental rather than deadly.\n\nAt the further end of the saloon the president, assisted by four\nsecretaries, occupied a large platform.  His chair, supported by\na carved gun-carriage, was modeled upon the ponderous proportions\nof a 32-inch mortar.  It was pointed at an angle of ninety degrees,\nand suspended upon truncheons, so that the president could balance\nhimself upon it as upon a rocking-chair, a very agreeable fact in\nthe very hot weather.  Upon the table (a huge iron plate supported\nupon six carronades) stood an inkstand of exquisite elegance, made\nof a beautifully chased Spanish piece, and a sonnette, which, when\nrequired, could give forth a report equal to that of a revolver.\nDuring violent debates this novel kind of bell scarcely sufficed\nto drown the clamor of these excitable artillerists.\n\nIn front of the table benches arranged in zigzag form, like the\ncircumvallations of a retrenchment, formed a succession of\nbastions and curtains set apart for the use of the members of\nthe club; and on this especial evening one might say, \"All the\nworld was on the ramparts.\"  The president was sufficiently well\nknown, however, for all to be assured that he would not put his\ncolleagues to discomfort without some very strong motive.\n\nImpey Barbicane was a man of forty years of age, calm, cold,\naustere; of a singularly serious and self-contained demeanor,\npunctual as a chronometer, of imperturbable temper and immovable\ncharacter; by no means chivalrous, yet adventurous withal, and\nalways bringing practical ideas to bear upon the very rashest\nenterprises; an essentially New Englander, a Northern colonist,\na descendant of the old anti-Stuart Roundheads, and the\nimplacable enemy of the gentlemen of the South, those ancient\ncavaliers of the mother country.  In a word, he was a Yankee to\nthe backbone.\n\nBarbicane had made a large fortune as a timber merchant.\nBeing nominated director of artillery during the war, he proved\nhimself fertile in invention.  Bold in his conceptions, he\ncontributed powerfully to the progress of that arm and gave an\nimmense impetus to experimental researches.\n\nHe was personage of the middle height, having, by a rare\nexception in the Gun Club, all his limbs complete.  His strongly\nmarked features seemed drawn by square and rule; and if it be\ntrue that, in order to judge a man's character one must look at\nhis profile, Barbicane, so examined, exhibited the most certain\nindications of energy, audacity, and _sang-froid_.\n\nAt this moment he was sitting in his armchair, silent, absorbed,\nlost in reflection, sheltered under his high-crowned hat-- a\nkind of black cylinder which always seems firmly screwed upon\nthe head of an American.\n\nJust when the deep-toned clock in the great hall struck eight,\nBarbicane, as if he had been set in motion by a spring, raised\nhimself up.  A profound silence ensued, and the speaker, in a\nsomewhat emphatic tone of voice, commenced as follows:\n\n\"My brave, colleagues, too long already a paralyzing peace has\nplunged the members of the Gun Club in deplorable inactivity.\nAfter a period of years full of incidents we have been compelled\nto abandon our labors, and to stop short on the road of progress.\nI do not hesitate to state, baldly, that any war which would\nrecall us to arms would be welcome!\"  (Tremendous applause!)\n\"But war, gentlemen, is impossible under existing circumstances;\nand, however we may desire it, many years may elapse before our\ncannon shall again thunder in the field of battle.  We must make\nup our minds, then, to seek in another train of ideas some field\nfor the activity which we all pine for.\"\n\nThe meeting felt that the president was now approaching the\ncritical point, and redoubled their attention accordingly.\n\n\"For some months past, my brave colleagues,\" continued\nBarbicane, \"I have been asking myself whether, while confining\nourselves to our own particular objects, we could not enter upon\nsome grand experiment worthy of the nineteenth century; and\nwhether the progress of artillery science would not enable us to\ncarry it out to a successful issue.  I have been considering,\nworking, calculating; and the result of my studies is the conviction\nthat we are safe to succeed in an enterprise which to any other\ncountry would appear wholly impracticable.  This project, the result\nof long elaboration, is the object of my present communication.\nIt is worthy of yourselves, worthy of the antecedents of the Gun\nClub; and it cannot fail to make some noise in the world.\"\n\nA thrill of excitement ran through the meeting.\n\nBarbicane, having by a rapid movement firmly fixed his hat upon\nhis head, calmly continued his harangue:\n\n\"There is no one among you, my brave colleagues, who has not\nseen the Moon, or, at least, heard speak of it.  Don't be\nsurprised if I am about to discourse to you regarding the Queen\nof the Night.  It is perhaps reserved for us to become the\nColumbuses of this unknown world.  Only enter into my plans, and\nsecond me with all your power, and I will lead you to its\nconquest, and its name shall be added to those of the thirty-six\nstates which compose this Great Union.\"\n\n\"Three cheers for the Moon!\" roared the Gun Club, with one voice.\n\n\"The moon, gentlemen, has been carefully studied,\" continued\nBarbicane; \"her mass, density, and weight; her constitution,\nmotions, distance, as well as her place in the solar system,\nhave all been exactly determined.  Selenographic charts have\nbeen constructed with a perfection which equals, if it does not\neven surpass, that of our terrestrial maps.  Photography has\ngiven us proofs of the incomparable beauty of our satellite; all\nis known regarding the moon which mathematical science,\nastronomy, geology, and optics can learn about her.  But up to\nthe present moment no direct communication has been established\nwith her.\"\n\nA violent movement of interest and surprise here greeted this\nremark of the speaker.\n\n\"Permit me,\" he continued, \"to recount to you briefly how\ncertain ardent spirits, starting on imaginary journeys, have\npenetrated the secrets of our satellite.  In the seventeenth\ncentury a certain David Fabricius boasted of having seen with\nhis own eyes the inhabitants of the moon.  In 1649 a Frenchman,\none Jean Baudoin, published a `Journey performed from the Earth\nto the Moon by Domingo Gonzalez,' a Spanish adventurer.  At the\nsame period Cyrano de Bergerac published that celebrated\n`Journeys in the Moon' which met with such success in France.\nSomewhat later another Frenchman, named Fontenelle, wrote `The\nPlurality of Worlds,' a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of its time.  About 1835\na small treatise, translated from the New York _American_, related\nhow Sir John Herschel, having been despatched to the Cape of\nGood Hope for the purpose of making there some astronomical\ncalculations, had, by means of a telescope brought to perfection\nby means of internal lighting, reduced the apparent distance of\nthe moon to eighty yards!  He then distinctly perceived caverns\nfrequented by hippopotami, green mountains bordered by golden\nlace-work, sheep with horns of ivory, a white species of deer\nand inhabitants with membranous wings, like bats.  This _brochure_,\nthe work of an American named Locke, had a great sale.  But, to\nbring this rapid sketch to a close, I will only add that a\ncertain Hans Pfaal, of Rotterdam, launching himself in a balloon\nfilled with a gas extracted from nitrogen, thirty-seven times\nlighter than hydrogen, reached the moon after a passage of\nnineteen hours.  This journey, like all previous ones, was purely\nimaginary; still, it was the work of a popular American author--\nI mean Edgar Poe!\"\n\n\"Cheers for Edgar Poe!\" roared the assemblage, electrified by\ntheir president's words.\n\n\"I have now enumerated,\" said Barbicane, \"the experiments which\nI call purely paper ones, and wholly insufficient to establish\nserious relations with the Queen of the Night.  Nevertheless, I\nam bound to add that some practical geniuses have attempted to\nestablish actual communication with her.  Thus, a few days ago,\na German geometrician proposed to send a scientific expedition\nto the steppes of Siberia.  There, on those vast plains, they\nwere to describe enormous geometric figures, drawn in characters\nof reflecting luminosity, among which was the proposition\nregarding the `square of the hypothenuse,' commonly called the\n`Ass's Bridge' by the French.  `Every intelligent being,' said\nthe geometrician, `must understand the scientific meaning of\nthat figure.  The Selenites, do they exist, will respond by a\nsimilar figure; and, a communication being thus once\nestablished, it will be easy to form an alphabet which shall\nenable us to converse with the inhabitants of the moon.'  So\nspoke the German geometrician; but his project was never put\ninto practice, and up to the present day there is no bond\nin existence between the Earth and her satellite.  It is\nreserved for the practical genius of Americans to establish a\ncommunication with the sidereal world.  The means of arriving\nthither are simple, easy, certain, infallible-- and that is the\npurpose of my present proposal.\"\n\nA storm of acclamations greeted these words.  There was not a\nsingle person in the whole audience who was not overcome,\ncarried away, lifted out of himself by the speaker's words!\n\nLong-continued applause resounded from all sides.\n\nAs soon as the excitement had partially subsided, Barbicane\nresumed his speech in a somewhat graver voice.\n\n\"You know,\" said he, \"what progress artillery science has made\nduring the last few years, and what a degree of perfection\nfirearms of every kind have reached.  Moreover, you are well\naware that, in general terms, the resisting power of cannon and\nthe expansive force of gunpowder are practically unlimited.\nWell! starting from this principle, I ask myself whether,\nsupposing sufficient apparatus could be obtained constructed\nupon the conditions of ascertained resistance, it might not be\npossible to project a shot up to the moon?\"\n\nAt these words a murmur of amazement escaped from a thousand\npanting chests; then succeeded a moment of perfect silence,\nresembling that profound stillness which precedes the bursting\nof a thunderstorm.  In point of fact, a thunderstorm did peal\nforth, but it was the thunder of applause, or cries, and of\nuproar which made the very hall tremble.  The president\nattempted to speak, but could not.  It was fully ten minutes\nbefore he could make himself heard.\n\n\"Suffer me to finish,\" he calmly continued.  \"I have looked at\nthe question in all its bearings, I have resolutely attacked it,\nand by incontrovertible calculations I find that a projectile\nendowed with an initial velocity of 12,000 yards per second, and\naimed at the moon, must necessarily reach it.  I have the honor,\nmy brave colleagues, to propose a trial of this little experiment.\"\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The public is swept up into the frenzy over news of this announcement. In fact, Gun Club HQ is filled to the brim with spectators. Barbicane sits at the head of the hall. He's a solid dude--calm, hardworking, and adventurous--and after the room quiets, he begins his speech. He starts by agreeing with his compatriots that it stinks that the war ended. Yeah, what a bummer... Instead of whining, however, he suggests performing a \"little experiment\" --he wants to design a cannon that can reach the moon. This makes the crowd freak out so much that you'd think One Direction just flew down from the rafters."}, {"": "298", "document": "CHAPTER XVI. OF PERSONS, AUTHORS, AND THINGS PERSONATED\n\n\n\n\nA Person What\n\nA PERSON, is he \"whose words or actions are considered, either as his\nown, or as representing the words or actions of an other man, or of any\nother thing to whom they are attributed, whether Truly or by Fiction.\"\n\n\n\n\nPerson Naturall, And Artificiall\n\nWhen they are considered as his owne, then is he called a Naturall\nPerson: And when they are considered as representing the words and\nactions of an other, then is he a Feigned or Artificiall person.\n\n\n\n\nThe Word Person, Whence\n\nThe word Person is latine: instead whereof the Greeks have Prosopon,\nwhich signifies the Face, as Persona in latine signifies the Disguise,\nor Outward Appearance of a man, counterfeited on the Stage; and somtimes\nmore particularly that part of it, which disguiseth the face, as a Mask\nor Visard: And from the Stage, hath been translated to any Representer\nof speech and action, as well in Tribunalls, as Theaters. So that a\nPerson, is the same that an Actor is, both on the Stage and in common\nConversation; and to Personate, is to Act, or Represent himselfe, or an\nother; and he that acteth another, is said to beare his Person, or\nact in his name; (in which sence Cicero useth it where he saies, \"Unus\nSustineo Tres Personas; Mei, Adversarii, & Judicis, I beare three\nPersons; my own, my Adversaries, and the Judges;\") and is called in\ndiverse occasions, diversly; as a Representer, or Representative, a\nLieutenant, a Vicar, an Attorney, a Deputy, a Procurator, an Actor, and\nthe like.\n\n\n\n\nActor, Author; Authority\n\nOf Persons Artificiall, some have their words and actions Owned by\nthose whom they represent. And then the Person is the Actor; and he that\nowneth his words and actions, is the AUTHOR: In which case the\nActor acteth by Authority. For that which in speaking of goods and\npossessions, is called an Owner, and in latine Dominus, in Greeke\nKurios; speaking of Actions, is called Author. And as the Right of\npossession, is called Dominion; so the Right of doing any Action, is\ncalled AUTHORITY. So that by Authority, is alwayes understood a Right\nof doing any act: and Done By Authority, done by Commission, or Licence\nfrom him whose right it is.\n\n\n\n\nCovenants By Authority, Bind The Author\n\nFrom hence it followeth, that when the Actor maketh a Covenant by\nAuthority, he bindeth thereby the Author, no lesse than if he had made\nit himselfe; and no lesse subjecteth him to all the consequences of the\nsame. And therfore all that hath been said formerly, (Chap. 14) of the\nnature of Covenants between man and man in their naturall capacity,\nis true also when they are made by their Actors, Representers, or\nProcurators, that have authority from them, so far-forth as is in their\nCommission, but no farther.\n\nAnd therefore he that maketh a Covenant with the Actor, or Representer,\nnot knowing the Authority he hath, doth it at his own perill. For no man\nis obliged by a Covenant, whereof he is not Author; nor consequently by\na Covenant made against, or beside the Authority he gave.\n\n\n\n\nBut Not The Actor\n\nWhen the Actor doth any thing against the Law of Nature by command of\nthe Author, if he be obliged by former Covenant to obey him, not he, but\nthe Author breaketh the Law of Nature: for though the Action be against\nthe Law of Nature; yet it is not his: but contrarily; to refuse to do\nit, is against the Law of Nature, that forbiddeth breach of Covenant.\n\n\n\n\nThe Authority Is To Be Shewne\n\nAnd he that maketh a Covenant with the Author, by mediation of the\nActor, not knowing what Authority he hath, but onely takes his word;\nin case such Authority be not made manifest unto him upon demand, is\nno longer obliged: For the Covenant made with the Author, is not valid,\nwithout his Counter-assurance. But if he that so Covenanteth, knew\nbefore hand he was to expect no other assurance, than the Actors word;\nthen is the Covenant valid; because the Actor in this case maketh\nhimselfe the Author. And therefore, as when the Authority is evident,\nthe Covenant obligeth the Author, not the Actor; so when the Authority\nis feigned, it obligeth the Actor onely; there being no Author but\nhimselfe.\n\n\n\n\nThings Personated, Inanimate\n\nThere are few things, that are uncapable of being represented by\nFiction. Inanimate things, as a Church, an Hospital, a Bridge, may\nbe Personated by a Rector, Master, or Overseer. But things Inanimate,\ncannot be Authors, nor therefore give Authority to their Actors: Yet the\nActors may have Authority to procure their maintenance, given them by\nthose that are Owners, or Governours of those things. And therefore,\nsuch things cannot be Personated, before there be some state of Civill\nGovernment.\n\n\n\n\nIrrational\n\nLikewise Children, Fooles, and Mad-men that have no use of Reason, may\nbe Personated by Guardians, or Curators; but can be no Authors (during\nthat time) of any action done by them, longer then (when they shall\nrecover the use of Reason) they shall judge the same reasonable.\nYet during the Folly, he that hath right of governing them, may give\nAuthority to the Guardian. But this again has no place but in a State\nCivill, because before such estate, there is no Dominion of Persons.\n\n\n\n\nFalse Gods\n\nAn Idol, or meer Figment of the brain, my be Personated; as were the\nGods of the Heathen; which by such Officers as the State appointed, were\nPersonated, and held Possessions, and other Goods, and Rights, which men\nfrom time to time dedicated, and consecrated unto them. But idols cannot\nbe Authors: for a Idol is nothing. The Authority proceeded from the\nState: and therefore before introduction of Civill Government, the Gods\nof the Heathen could not be Personated.\n\n\n\n\nThe True God\n\nThe true God may be Personated. As he was; first, by Moses; who governed\nthe Israelites, (that were not his, but Gods people,) not in his own\nname, with Hoc Dicit Moses; but in Gods Name, with Hoc Dicit Dominus.\nSecondly, by the son of man, his own Son our Blessed Saviour Jesus\nChrist, that came to reduce the Jewes, and induce all Nations into the\nKingdome of his Father; not as of himselfe, but as sent from his Father.\nAnd thirdly, by the Holy Ghost, or Comforter, speaking, and working\nin the Apostles: which Holy Ghost, was a Comforter that came not of\nhimselfe; but was sent, and proceeded from them both.\n\n\n\n\nA Multitude Of Men, How One Person\n\nA Multitude of men, are made One Person, when they are by one man, or\none Person, Represented; so that it be done with the consent of\nevery one of that Multitude in particular. For it is the Unity of the\nRepresenter, not the Unity of the Represented, that maketh the Person\nOne. And it is the Representer that beareth the Person, and but one\nPerson: And Unity, cannot otherwise be understood in Multitude.\n\n\n\n\nEvery One Is Author\n\nAnd because the Multitude naturally is not One, but Many; they cannot\nbe understood for one; but many Authors, of every thing their\nRepresentative faith, or doth in their name; Every man giving their\ncommon Representer, Authority from himselfe in particular; and owning\nall the actions the Representer doth, in case they give him Authority\nwithout stint: Otherwise, when they limit him in what, and how farre\nhe shall represent them, none of them owneth more, than they gave him\ncommission to Act.\n\n\n\n\nAn Actor May Be Many Men Made One By Plurality Of Voyces\n\nAnd if the Representative consist of many men, the voyce of the greater\nnumber, must be considered as the voyce of them all. For if the lesser\nnumber pronounce (for example) in the Affirmative, and the greater in\nthe Negative, there will be Negatives more than enough to destroy\nthe Affirmatives; and thereby the excesse of Negatives, standing\nuncontradicted, are the onely voyce the Representative hath.\n\n\n\n\nRepresentatives, When The Number Is Even, Unprofitable\n\nAnd a Representative of even number, especially when the number is\nnot great, whereby the contradictory voyces are oftentimes equall, is\ntherefore oftentimes mute, and uncapable of Action. Yet in some cases\ncontradictory voyces equall in number, may determine a question; as in\ncondemning, or absolving, equality of votes, even in that they condemne\nnot, do absolve; but not on the contrary condemne, in that they absolve\nnot. For when a Cause is heard; not to condemne, is to absolve; but on\nthe contrary, to say that not absolving, is condemning, is not true. The\nlike it is in a deliberation of executing presently, or deferring\ntill another time; For when the voyces are equall, the not decreeing\nExecution, is a decree of Dilation.\n\n\n\n\nNegative Voyce\n\nOr if the number be odde, as three, or more, (men, or assemblies;)\nwhereof every one has by a Negative Voice, authority to take away the\neffect of all the Affirmative Voices of the rest, This number is no\nRepresentative; because by the diversity of Opinions, and Interests of\nmen, it becomes oftentimes, and in cases of the greatest consequence, a\nmute Person, and unapt, as for may things else, so for the government of\na Multitude, especially in time of Warre.\n\nOf Authors there be two sorts. The first simply so called; which I have\nbefore defined to be him, that owneth the Action of another simply.\nThe second is he, that owneth an Action, or Covenant of another\nconditionally; that is to say, he undertaketh to do it, if the\nother doth it not, at, or before a certain time. And these Authors\nconditionall, are generally called SURETYES, in Latine Fidejussores, and\nSponsores; and particularly for Debt, Praedes; and for Appearance before\na Judge, or Magistrate, Vades.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Deryn runs through the front of the London Zoo, where all the animals are upset because of the Leviathan's presence. A woman stops her and asks if Deryn is an airman. Deryn realizes that the scientist is a woman. It's kind of funny that Deryn is so shocked, right? The woman introduces herself as Dr. Barlow. Deryn sees two younger scientists carrying a carefully packed crate between them: mysterious cargo. Dr. Barlow brings out a dogesque beast, whom she introduces as Tazza, her pet. He's a Tasmanian tiger, and is a natural animal, not fabricated. Deryn leads Dr. Barlow, the two younger scientists, and Tazza to the Leviathan, which Dr. Barlow says doesn't look happy--Deryn can see that the Leviathan is upset, but she assures Dr. Barlow it's just because it's so near the ground. Deryn begins to explain the Leviathan to Dr. Barlow. As it turns out though, Dr. Barlow fabricated this species of airship, so Deryn feels pretty dumb. Deryn notices that many of the ground men seem untrained, which is a big problem that could get a lot of people killed--so Dr. Barlow uses her message parrot to send a message from Deryn to the captain about this. Deryn and Dr. Barlow observe the tactics the captain uses to get the untrained men to let go. When Dr. Barlow compliments her, Deryn asks the scientist to put in a good word with the captain due to the weight issue. This goes a bit south when Dr. Barlow says she and Tazza would love a cabin boy of their very own--Deryn's not excited at this prospect. She's also not excited by the prospect of another woman on board--another woman who might notice things men wouldn't."}, {"": "299", "document": "\nMaggie's Second Visit\n\n\nThis last breach between the two lads was not readily mended, and for\nsome time they spoke to each other no more than was necessary. Their\nnatural antipathy of temperament made resentment an easy passage to\nhatred, and in Philip the transition seemed to have begun; there was\nno malignity in his disposition, but there was a susceptibility that\nmade him peculiarly liable to a strong sense of repulsion. The ox--we\nmay venture to assert it on the authority of a great classic--is not\ngiven to use his teeth as an instrument of attack, and Tom was an\nexcellent bovine lad, who ran at questionable objects in a truly\ningenious bovine manner; but he had blundered on Philip's tenderest\npoint, and had caused him as much acute pain as if he had studied the\nmeans with the nicest precision and the most envenomed spite. Tom saw\nno reason why they should not make up this quarrel as they had done\nmany others, by behaving as if nothing had happened; for though he had\nnever before said to Philip that his father was a rogue, this idea had\nso habitually made part of his feeling as to the relation between\nhimself and his dubious schoolfellow, who he could neither like nor\ndislike, that the mere utterance did not make such an epoch to him as\nit did to Philip. And he had a right to say so when Philip hectored\nover _him_, and called him names. But perceiving that his first\nadvances toward amity were not met, he relapsed into his least\nfavorable disposition toward Philip, and resolved never to appeal to\nhim either about drawing or exercise again. They were only so far\ncivil to each other as was necessary to prevent their state of feud\nfrom being observed by Mr. Stelling, who would have \"put down\" such\nnonsense with great vigor.\n\nWhen Maggie came, however, she could not help looking with growing\ninterest at the new schoolfellow, although he was the son of that\nwicked Lawyer Wakem, who made her father so angry. She had arrived in\nthe middle of school-hours, and had sat by while Philip went through\nhis lessons with Mr. Stelling. Tom, some weeks ago, had sent her word\nthat Philip knew no end of stories,--not stupid stories like hers; and\nshe was convinced now from her own observation that he must be very\nclever; she hoped he would think _her_ rather clever too, when she\ncame to talk to him. Maggie, moreover, had rather a tenderness for\ndeformed things; she preferred the wry-necked lambs, because it seemed\nto her that the lambs which were quite strong and well made wouldn't\nmind so much about being petted; and she was especially fond of\npetting objects that would think it very delightful to be petted by\nher. She loved Tom very dearly, but she often wished that he _cared_\nmore about her loving him.\n\n\"I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom,\" she said, when they went\nout of the study together into the garden, to pass the interval before\ndinner. \"He couldn't choose his father, you know; and I've read of\nvery bad men who had good sons, as well as good parents who had bad\nchildren. And if Philip is good, I think we ought to be the more sorry\nfor him because his father is not a good man. _You_ like him, don't\nyou?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's a queer fellow,\" said Tom, curtly, \"and he's as sulky as can\nbe with me, because I told him his father was a rogue. And I'd a right\nto tell him so, for it was true; and _he_ began it, with calling me\nnames. But you stop here by yourself a bit, Maggie, will you? I've got\nsomething I want to do upstairs.\"\n\n\"Can't I go too?\" said Maggie, who in this first day of meeting again\nloved Tom's shadow.\n\n\"No, it's something I'll tell you about by-and-by, not yet,\" said Tom,\nskipping away.\n\nIn the afternoon the boys were at their books in the study, preparing\nthe morrow's lesson's that they might have a holiday in the evening in\nhonor of Maggie's arrival. Tom was hanging over his Latin grammar,\nmoving his lips inaudibly like a strict but impatient Catholic\nrepeating his tale of paternosters; and Philip, at the other end of\nthe room, was busy with two volumes, with a look of contented\ndiligence that excited Maggie's curiosity; he did not look at all as\nif he were learning a lesson. She sat on a low stool at nearly a right\nangle with the two boys, watching first one and then the other; and\nPhilip, looking off his book once toward the fire-place, caught the\npair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon him. He thought this sister\nof Tulliver's seemed a nice little thing, quite unlike her brother; he\nwished _he_ had a little sister. What was it, he wondered, that made\nMaggie's dark eyes remind him of the stories about princesses being\nturned into animals? I think it was that her eyes were full of\nunsatisfied intelligence, and unsatisfied beseeching affection.\n\n\"I say, Magsie,\" said Tom at last, shutting his books and putting them\naway with the energy and decision of a perfect master in the art of\nleaving off, \"I've done my lessons now. Come upstairs with me.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" said Maggie, when they were outside the door, a slight\nsuspicion crossing her mind as she remembered Tom's preliminary visit\nupstairs. \"It isn't a trick you're going to play me, now?\"\n\n\"No, no, Maggie,\" said Tom, in his most coaxing tone; \"It's something\nyou'll like _ever so_.\"\n\nHe put his arm round her neck, and she put hers round his waist, and\ntwined together in this way, they went upstairs.\n\n\"I say, Magsie, you must not tell anybody, you know,\" said Tom, \"else\nI shall get fifty lines.\"\n\n\"Is it alive?\" said Maggie, whose imagination had settled for the\nmoment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret clandestinely.\n\n\"Oh, I sha'n't tell you,\" said he. \"Now you go into that corner and\nhide your face, while I reach it out,\" he added, as he locked the\nbedroom door behind them. \"I'll tell you when to turn round. You\nmustn't squeal out, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall,\" said Maggie, beginning to look\nrather serious.\n\n\"You won't be frightened, you silly thing,\" said Tom. \"Go and hide\nyour face, and mind you don't peep.\"\n\n\"Of course I sha'n't peep,\" said Maggie, disdainfully; and she buried\nher face in the pillow like a person of strict honor.\n\nBut Tom looked round warily as he walked to the closet; then he\nstepped into the narrow space, and almost closed the door. Maggie kept\nher face buried without the aid of principle, for in that\ndream-suggestive attitude she had soon forgotten where she was, and\nher thoughts were busy with the poor deformed boy, who was so clever,\nwhen Tom called out, \"Now then, Magsie!\"\n\nNothing but long meditation and preconcerted arrangement of effects\nwould have enabled Tom to present so striking a figure as he did to\nMaggie when she looked up. Dissatisfied with the pacific aspect of a\nface which had no more than the faintest hint of flaxen eyebrow,\ntogether with a pair of amiable blue-gray eyes and round pink cheeks\nthat refused to look formidable, let him frown as he would before the\nlooking-glass (Philip had once told him of a man who had a horseshoe\nfrown, and Tom had tried with all his frowning might to make a\nhorseshoe on his forehead), he had had recourse to that unfailing\nsource of the terrible, burnt cork, and had made himself a pair of\nblack eyebrows that met in a satisfactory manner over his nose, and\nwere matched by a less carefully adjusted blackness about the chin. He\nhad wound a red handkerchief round his cloth cap to give it the air of\na turban, and his red comforter across his breast as a scarf,--an\namount of red which, with the tremendous frown on his brow, and the\ndecision with which he grasped the sword, as he held it with its point\nresting on the ground, would suffice to convey an approximate idea of\nhis fierce and bloodthirsty disposition.\n\nMaggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom enjoyed that moment\nkeenly; but in the next she laughed, clapped her hands together, and\nsaid, \"Oh, Tom, you've made yourself like Bluebeard at the show.\"\n\nIt was clear she had not been struck with the presence of the\nsword,--it was not unsheathed. Her frivolous mind required a more\ndirect appeal to its sense of the terrible, and Tom prepared for his\nmaster-stroke. Frowning with a double amount of intention, if not of\ncorrugation, he (carefully) drew the sword from its sheath, and\npointed it at Maggie.\n\n\"Oh, Tom, please don't!\" exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of suppressed\ndread, shrinking away from him into the opposite corner. \"I _shall_\nscream--I'm sure I shall! Oh, don't I wish I'd never come upstairs!\"\n\nThe corners of Tom's mouth showed an inclination to a smile of\ncomplacency that was immediately checked as inconsistent with the\nseverity of a great warrior. Slowly he let down the scabbard on the\nfloor, lest it should make too much noise, and then said sternly,--\n\n\"I'm the Duke of Wellington! March!\" stamping forward with the right\nleg a little bent, and the sword still pointing toward Maggie, who,\ntrembling, and with tear-filled eyes, got upon the bed, as the only\nmeans of widening the space between them.\n\nTom, happy in this spectator of his military performances, even though\nthe spectator was only Maggie, proceeded, with the utmost exertion of\nhis force, to such an exhibition of the cut and thrust as would\nnecessarily be expected of the Duke of Wellington.\n\n\"Tom, I _will not_ bear it, I _will_ scream,\" said Maggie, at the\nfirst movement of the sword. \"You'll hurt yourself; you'll cut your\nhead off!\"\n\n\"One--two,\" said Tom, resolutely, though at \"two\" his wrist trembled a\nlittle. \"Three\" came more slowly, and with it the sword swung\ndownward, and Maggie gave a loud shriek. The sword had fallen, with\nits edge on Tom's foot, and in a moment after he had fallen too.\nMaggie leaped from the bed, still shrieking, and immediately there was\na rush of footsteps toward the room. Mr. Stelling, from his upstairs\nstudy, was the first to enter. He found both the children on the\nfloor. Tom had fainted, and Maggie was shaking him by the collar of\nhis jacket, screaming, with wild eyes. She thought he was dead, poor\nchild! and yet she shook him, as if that would bring him back to life.\nIn another minute she was sobbing with joy because Tom opened his\neyes. She couldn't sorrow yet that he had hurt his foot; it seemed as\nif all happiness lay in his being alive.\n\n\n", "summary": "Tom and Philip are no longer speaking and only talk to one another when Mr. Stelling is around. Maggie shows up and Tom is glad. Maggie instantly likes Philip since she pities him. Tom runs upstairs, telling Maggie that he has a surprise for her and that he'll show it to her later that day. The boys and Maggie gather in the school room to do homework. Philip is instantly charmed by Maggie and wishes that he had a nice sister like her. Tom then drags Maggie upstairs for his big surprise. He makes Maggie close her eyes and, when she opens them, she sees Tom, dressed up with a fake mustache, holding a real sword. Tom starts swinging the sword around and Maggie freaks out and says he'll hurt himself. Maggie was right, since Tom quickly drops the swords and stabs himself in the foot. Maggie starts screaming and the whole household is in turmoil."}, {"": "300", "document": "\nConfidential Moments\n\n\nWhen Maggie went up to her bedroom that night, it appeared that she\nwas not at all inclined to undress. She set down her candle on the\nfirst table that presented itself, and began to walk up and down her\nroom, which was a large one, with a firm, regular, and rather rapid\nstep, which showed that the exercise was the instinctive vent of\nstrong excitement. Her eyes and cheeks had an almost feverish\nbrilliancy; her head was thrown backward, and her hands were clasped\nwith the palms outward, and with that tension of the arms which is apt\nto accompany mental absorption.\n\nHad anything remarkable happened?\n\nNothing that you are not likely to consider in the highest degree\nunimportant. She had been hearing some fine music sung by a fine bass\nvoice,--but then it was sung in a provincial, amateur fashion, such as\nwould have left a critical ear much to desire. And she was conscious\nof having been looked at a great deal, in rather a furtive manner,\nfrom beneath a pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glance\nthat seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of the\nvoice. Such things could have had no perceptible effect on a\nthoroughly well-educated young lady, with a perfectly balanced mind,\nwho had had all the advantages of fortune, training, and refined\nsociety. But if Maggie had been that young lady, you would probably\nhave known nothing about her: her life would have had so few\nvicissitudes that it could hardly have been written; for the happiest\nwomen, like the happiest nations, have no history.\n\nIn poor Maggie's highly-strung, hungry nature,--just come away from a\nthird-rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds and petty round of\ntasks,--these apparently trivial causes had the effect of rousing and\nexalting her imagination in a way that was mysterious to herself. It\nwas not that she thought distinctly of Mr. Stephen Guest, or dwelt on\nthe indications that he looked at her with admiration; it was rather\nthat she felt the half-remote presence of a world of love and beauty\nand delight, made up of vague, mingled images from all the poetry and\nromance she had ever read, or had ever woven in her dreamy reveries.\nHer mind glanced back once or twice to the time when she had courted\nprivation, when she had thought all longing, all impatience was\nsubdued; but that condition seemed irrecoverably gone, and she\nrecoiled from the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now, would\nbring back that negative peace; the battle of her life, it seemed, was\nnot to be decided in that short and easy way,--by perfect renunciation\nat the very threshold of her youth.\n\nThe music was vibrating in her still,--Purcell's music, with its wild\npassion and fancy,--and she could not stay in the recollection of that\nbare, lonely past. She was in her brighter aerial world again, when a\nlittle tap came at the door; of course it was her cousin, who entered\nin ample white dressing-gown.\n\n\"Why, Maggie, you naughty child, haven't you begun to undress?\" said\nLucy, in astonishment. \"I promised not to come and talk to you,\nbecause I thought you must be tired. But here you are, looking as if\nyou were ready to dress for a ball. Come, come, get on your\ndressing-gown and unplait your hair.\"\n\n\"Well, _you_ are not very forward,\" retorted Maggie, hastily reaching\nher own pink cotton gown, and looking at Lucy's light-brown hair\nbrushed back in curly disorder.\n\n\"Oh, I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to you till I\nsee you are really on the way to bed.\"\n\nWhile Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her pink\ndrapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette-table, watching her with\naffectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty spaniel. If\nit appears to you at all incredible that young ladies should be led on\nto talk confidentially in a situation of this kind, I will beg you to\nremember that human life furnishes many exceptional cases.\n\n\"You really _have_ enjoyed the music to-night, haven't you Maggie?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, that is what prevented me from feeling sleepy. I think I\nshould have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of\nmusic. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs, and ideas into my\nbrain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with\nmusic. At other times one is conscious of carrying a weight.\"\n\n\"And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasn't he?\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that,\" said Maggie,\nlaughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair back. \"You\nare not impartial, and _I_ think any barrel-organ splendid.\"\n\n\"But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly; good and bad\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should not be\nso much at ease, and so self-confident. He ought to tremble more.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me! You think he is\nconceited, I see that. But you don't dislike him, do you?\"\n\n\"Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming people,\nthat I should be very difficult to please? Besides, how could I\ndislike any one that promised to make you happy, my dear thing!\"\nMaggie pinched Lucy's dimpled chin.\n\n\"We shall have more music to-morrow evening,\" said Lucy, looking happy\nalready, \"for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him.\"\n\n\"Oh, Lucy, I can't see him,\" said Maggie, turning pale. \"At least, I\ncould not see him without Tom's leave.\"\n\n\"Is Tom such a tyrant as that?\" said Lucy, surprised. \"I'll take the\nresponsibility, then,--tell him it was my fault.\"\n\n\"But, dear,\" said Maggie, falteringly, \"I promised Tom very solemnly,\nbefore my father's death,--I promised him I would not speak to Philip\nwithout his knowledge and consent. And I have a great dread of opening\nthe subject with Tom,--of getting into a quarrel with him again.\"\n\n\"But I never heard of anything so strange and unreasonable. What harm\ncan poor Philip have done? May I speak to Tom about it?\"\n\n\"Oh no, pray don't, dear,\" said Maggie. \"I'll go to him myself\nto-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come. I've thought\nbefore of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but I've not had\nthe courage to determine on it.\"\n\nThey were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy said,--\n\n\"Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from you.\"\n\nMaggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she turned to her and\nsaid, \"I _should_ like to tell you about Philip. But, Lucy, you must\nnot betray that you know it to any one--least of all to Philip\nhimself, or to Mr. Stephen Guest.\"\n\nThe narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before known the\nrelief of such an outpouring; she had never before told Lucy anything\nof her inmost life; and the sweet face bent toward her with\nsympathetic interest, and the little hand pressing hers, encouraged\nher to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She did not\nbetray fully what still rankled in her mind as Tom's great\noffence,--the insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as the\nremembrance still made her, she could not bear that any one else\nshould know it at all, both for Tom's sake and Philip's. And she could\nnot bear to tell Lucy of the last scene between her father and Wakem,\nthough it was this scene which she had ever since felt to be a new\nbarrier between herself and Philip. She merely said, she saw now that\nTom was, on the whole, right in regarding any prospect of love and\nmarriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by the\nrelation of the two families. Of course Philip's father would never\nconsent.\n\n\"There, Lucy, you have had my story,\" said Maggie, smiling, with the\ntears in her eyes. \"You see I am like Sir Andrew Aguecheek. _I_ was\nadored once.\"\n\n\"Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and everything, and have\nlearned so much since you left school; which always seemed to me\nwitchcraft before,--part of your general uncanniness,\" said Lucy.\n\nShe mused a little with her eyes downward, and then added, looking at\nMaggie, \"It is very beautiful that you should love Philip; I never\nthought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, you\nought not to give him up. There are obstacles now; but they may be\ndone away with in time.\"\n\nMaggie shook her head.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" persisted Lucy; \"I can't help being hopeful about it.\nThere is something romantic in it,--out of the common way,--just what\neverything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore you\nlike a husband in a fairy tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my small brain to\ncontrive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind, so\nthat you may marry Philip when I marry--somebody else. Wouldn't that\nbe a pretty ending to all my poor, poor Maggie's troubles?\"\n\nMaggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden chill.\n\n\"Ah, dear, you are cold,\" said Lucy. \"You must go to bed; and so must\nI. I dare not think what time it is.\"\n\nThey kissed each other, and Lucy went away, possessed of a confidence\nwhich had a strong influence over her subsequent impressions. Maggie\nhad been thoroughly sincere; her nature had never found it easy to be\notherwise. But confidences are sometimes blinding, even when they are\nsincere.\n\n\n", "summary": "That night Maggie is having trouble getting ready for bed. She is too excited to sleep. She heard some great music that night and her encounters with Stephen are leaving her on edge. The narrator explains how important music is for Maggie and how she hasn't had much of it in her life for the past two years. She's basically like a starving person who has gotten dropped off at an all-you-can-eat buffet now. Lucy comes in and they girls talk a bit. They discuss music and Lucy asks for Maggie's opinion of Stephen. Maggie says that she likes Stephen find and encourages Lucy to tease him more often since he is a bit full of it. Maggie then explains the story with Philip to Lucy. She feels unburdened. Lucy finds the whole story really tragic and romantic - she's convinced that Philip and Maggie are star-crossed lovers now and tells Maggie that she'll help her out. Lucy wants Maggie to marry Philip and spend all her time with Lucy and Stephen. They can all double date and play the piano together and sing songs. Maggie shivers suddenly. Lucy assumes she's cold and leaves her to go to sleep. The narrator hints that Lucy is going to be guided by her assumptions regarding Maggie and Philip as soulmates in the future. This is also one of many hints we've gotten that Maggie isn't quite sure about her relationship with Philip."}, {"": "301", "document": "\n\nMy young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter\nrequesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a\nreply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order\nrightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind\nthat the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had\nno idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search\nof me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred\ndollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the\nsteamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy's\ndeath and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept\nthe letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:--\n\n   Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from\n   it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among\n   your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the\n   contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any\n   members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards\n   you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your\n   unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to\n   make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return\n   home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother,\n   it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although\n   it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be\n   allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from\n   her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect.\n   From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and\n   uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be\n   reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms\n   and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as\n   we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you.\n   Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my\n   sister was always attached to you, and that you were never\n   treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed\n   to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house,\n   and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least,\n   felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away.\n   Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced\n   me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see\n   you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to\n   have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age\n   she needs the consolation of having her children round her.\n   Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a\n   faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church.\n   In her Christian life she taught us how to live--and, O, too high\n   the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have\n   seen us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our\n   tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same\n   heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as\n   between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful\n   to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are\n   contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and\n   the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never\n   trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come\n   home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not\n   wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our\n   persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person\n   you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as\n   soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends\n   much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend\n   and well wisher.\n\nThis letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I\nknew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and\nthough the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in\nformer years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the\nhypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go\ninto such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on \"the stupidity of the\nAfrican race.\" I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their\ncordial invitation--a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with\nbase ingratitude.\n\nNot long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the\nsouth, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter\nhad been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce\ndid not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me\nto Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a\nfriend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my\njourney immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother\nthat if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting\nfor a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal\npower to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and\nwhen my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of\nsale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money,\nbut it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored\nchildren without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with\nthe view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to\ntheir \"peculiar institution,\" and he becomes unpopular.\n\nThere was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to\nNew York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested\nto see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my\ndoor, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. \"O mother!\" he exclaimed,\n\"here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d'you do?\"\n\nO reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a\nslave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go.\n\"Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see\nher, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, 'O Ben, I wish\nI was going too.' I thought she'd know ever so much; but she don't know so\nmuch as I do; for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my\nclothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I 'spose free boys can get\nalong here at the north as well as white boys.\"\n\nI did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was\nmistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The\nrest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with\nthe wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and\nfrequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to\ntell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston.\n\nDr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon\nme, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where\nI was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate\nfamily, who were waiting for me with \"open arms,\" were doomed to\ndisappointment.\n\nAs soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of\nmy brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through\nthe winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and\nfinding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the\nconsiderate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews\nwith my darling daughter.\n\nBut when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was\nnecessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air,\nand the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize\nme. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of\nthe venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is,\nto be free to _say_ so!\n\n\n", "summary": "Linda receives a letter urging her to come \"home,\" purportedly written by Emily Flint's brother. She recognizes the letter as being from Dr. Flint. She does not respond, and soon thereafter receives another letter from a friend, informing her of Dr. Flint's plans to visit the North. Determined to avoid him, Linda tells Mrs. Bruce she needs two weeks off to attend to urgent business in Boston. Upon arriving in Boston, she writes to her grandmother and asks her to send her son, Ben, to Boston instead of New York. Several days later, she reunites with her son. Meanwhile, Linda learns that Dr. Flint is in New York looking for her. As soon as she hears that he has gone, she leaves Ben with her brother William and returns to New York."}, {"": "302", "document": "A hall in TIMON'S house\n\nEnter two Of VARRO'S MEN, meeting LUCIUS' SERVANT, and others,\nall being servants of TIMON's creditors, to wait for his coming\nout.\nThen enter TITUS and HORTENSIUS\n\n  FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. Well met; good morrow, Titus and\nHortensius.\n  TITUS. The like to you, kind Varro.\n  HORTENSIUS. Lucius! What, do we meet together?\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ay, and I think one business does command us\nall;\n    for mine is money.\n  TITUS. So is theirs and ours.\n\n                          Enter PHILOTUS\n\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. And Sir Philotus too!\n  PHILOTUS. Good day at once.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. welcome, good brother, what do you think the\nhour?\n  PHILOTUS. Labouring for nine.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. So much?\n  PHILOTUS. Is not my lord seen yet?\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Not yet.\n  PHILOTUS. I wonder on't; he was wont to shine at seven.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ay, but the days are wax'd shorter with him;\n    You must consider that a prodigal course\n    Is like the sun's, but not like his recoverable.\n    I fear\n    'Tis deepest winter in Lord Timon's purse;\n    That is, one may reach deep enough and yet\n    Find little.\n  PHILOTUS. I am of your fear for that.\n  TITUS. I'll show you how t' observe a strange event.\n    Your lord sends now for money.\n  HORTENSIUS. Most true, he does.\n  TITUS. And he wears jewels now of Timon's gift,\n    For which I wait for money.\n  HORTENSIUS. It is against my heart.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Mark how strange it shows\n    Timon in this should pay more than he owes;\n    And e'en as if your lord should wear rich jewels\n    And send for money for 'em.\n  HORTENSIUS. I'm weary of this charge, the gods can witness;\n    I know my lord hath spent of Timon's wealth,\n    And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth.\n  FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. Yes, mine's three thousand crowns;\nwhat's\n    yours?\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Five thousand mine.\n  FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. 'Tis much deep; and it should seem by\nth'\n      sum\n    Your master's confidence was above mine,\n    Else surely his had equall'd.\n\n                           Enter FLAMINIUS\n\n  TITUS. One of Lord Timon's men.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Flaminius! Sir, a word. Pray, is my lord ready\nto\n    come forth?\n  FLAMINIUS. No, indeed, he is not.\n  TITUS. We attend his lordship; pray signify so much.\n  FLAMINIUS. I need not tell him that; he knows you are to\ndiligent.\n Exit\n\n                 Enter FLAVIUS, in a cloak, muffled\n\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ha! Is not that his steward muffled so?\n    He goes away in a cloud. Call him, call him.\n  TITUS. Do you hear, sir?\n  SECOND VARRO'S SERVANT. By your leave, sir.\n  FLAVIUS. What do ye ask of me, my friend?\n  TITUS. We wait for certain money here, sir.\n  FLAVIUS. Ay,\n    If money were as certain as your waiting,\n    'Twere sure enough.\n    Why then preferr'd you not your sums and bills\n    When your false masters eat of my lord's meat?\n    Then they could smile, and fawn upon his debts,\n    And take down th' int'rest into their glutt'nous maws.\n    You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up;\n    Let me pass quietly.\n    Believe't, my lord and I have made an end:\n    I have no more to reckon, he to spend.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ay, but this answer will not serve.\n  FLAVIUS. If 'twill not serve, 'tis not so base as you,\n    For you serve knaves.                                   Exit\n  FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. How! What does his cashier'd worship\nmutter?\n  SECOND VARRO'S SERVANT. No matter what; he's poor, and that's\n    revenge enough. Who can speak broader than he that has no\nhouse\n    to put his head in? Such may rail against great buildings.\n\n                          Enter SERVILIUS\n\n  TITUS. O, here's Servilius; now we shall know some answer.\n  SERVILIUS. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some\nother\n    hour, I should derive much from't; for take't of my soul, my\nlord\n    leans wondrously to discontent. His comfortable temper has\n    forsook him; he's much out of health and keeps his chamber.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Many do keep their chambers are not sick;\n    And if it be so far beyond his health,\n    Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts,\n    And make a clear way to the gods.\n  SERVILIUS. Good gods!\n  TITUS. We cannot take this for answer, sir.\n  FLAMINIUS. [Within] Servilius, help! My lord! my lord!\n\n           Enter TIMON, in a rage, FLAMINIUS following\n\n  TIMON. What, are my doors oppos'd against my passage?\n    Have I been ever free, and must my house\n    Be my retentive enemy, my gaol?\n    The place which I have feasted, does it now,\n    Like all mankind, show me an iron heart?\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Put in now, Titus.\n  TITUS. My lord, here is my bill.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Here's mine.\n  HORTENSIUS. And mine, my lord.\n  BOTH VARRO'S SERVANTS. And ours, my lord.\n  PHILOTUS. All our bills.\n  TIMON. Knock me down with 'em; cleave me to the girdle.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Alas, my lord-\n  TIMON. Cut my heart in sums.\n  TITUS. Mine, fifty talents.\n  TIMON. Tell out my blood.\n  LUCIUS' SERVANT. Five thousand crowns, my lord.\n  TIMON. Five thousand drops pays that. What yours? and yours?\n  FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. My lord-\n  SECOND VARRO'S SERVANT. My lord-\n  TIMON. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you!      Exit\n  HORTENSIUS. Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their caps\nat\n    their money. These debts may well be call'd desperate ones,\nfor a\n    madman owes 'em.                                      Exeunt\n\n                    Re-enter TIMON and FLAVIUS\n\n  TIMON. They have e'en put my breath from me, the slaves.\n    Creditors? Devils!\n  FLAVIUS. My dear lord-\n  TIMON. What if it should be so?\n  FLAMINIUS. My lord-\n  TIMON. I'll have it so. My steward!\n  FLAVIUS. Here, my lord.\n  TIMON. So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again:\n    Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius- all.\n    I'll once more feast the rascals.\n  FLAVIUS. O my lord,\n    You only speak from your distracted soul;\n    There is not so much left to furnish out\n    A moderate table.\n  TIMON. Be it not in thy care.\n    Go, I charge thee, invite them all; let in the tide\n    Of knaves once more; my cook and I'll provide.        Exeunt\n\n", "summary": "Back at Timon's house, the creditors' servants are getting a little annoyed. They don't know why Timon hasn't paid them yet, and they decide the prognosis isn't good. Titus, one of the servants, declares it's pretty sad that his master is currently wearing a jewel from Timon, yet his master still sent him to collect more moolah from Timon, anyway. Hortensius joins in the bagging-on-your-master game. He knows his master has spent Timon's money and is ungrateful for all his gifts. It's clear that even the servants of these men think their masters are being unfair to Timon. Just then, Flavius tries to skirt by the creditors' servants by walking past in a brilliant disguise--a big old cloak. The servants stop him and demand their money. Flavius tells them there is nothing left. He has no money left to add up, so he is leaving. The servants get rowdier. Eventually, Timon shows up in a red-hot rage. Timon can't believe no one will help him out. After all he's done for them? How could they? Since he has no money and evidently no friends left, Timon decides to throw a huge banquet. Wait, what? We're not really sure how he can host a dinner party, and neither is Flavius, who hastily tells his master they don't even have enough food for that. But Timon doesn't care. Send out the invites. Summon his cook. There'll be a dinner party whether people like it or not. We think Timon's hatched a plan of some kind, but it's not clear what it is."}, {"": "303", "document": "\n\"Astonished and delighted to hear my native language, and no less\nsurprised at what this man said, I made answer that there were much\ngreater misfortunes than that of which he complained. I told him in a\nfew words of the horrors which I had endured, and fainted a second time.\nHe carried me to a neighbouring house, put me to bed, gave me food,\nwaited upon me, consoled me, flattered me; he told me that he had never\nseen any one so beautiful as I, and that he never so much regretted the\nloss of what it was impossible to recover.\n\n\"'I was born at Naples,' said he, 'there they geld two or three thousand\nchildren every year; some die of the operation, others acquire a voice\nmore beautiful than that of women, and others are raised to offices of\nstate.[13] This operation was performed on me with great success and I\nwas chapel musician to madam, the Princess of Palestrina.'\n\n\"'To my mother!' cried I.\n\n\"'Your mother!' cried he, weeping. 'What! can you be that young\nprincess whom I brought up until the age of six years, and who promised\nso early to be as beautiful as you?'\n\n\"'It is I, indeed; but my mother lies four hundred yards hence, torn in\nquarters, under a heap of dead bodies.'\n\n\"I told him all my adventures, and he made me acquainted with his;\ntelling me that he had been sent to the Emperor of Morocco by a\nChristian power, to conclude a treaty with that prince, in consequence\nof which he was to be furnished with military stores and ships to help\nto demolish the commerce of other Christian Governments.\n\n\"'My mission is done,' said this honest eunuch; 'I go to embark for\nCeuta, and will take you to Italy. _Ma che sciagura d'essere senza\ncoglioni!_'\n\n\"I thanked him with tears of commiseration; and instead of taking me to\nItaly he conducted me to Algiers, where he sold me to the Dey. Scarcely\nwas I sold, than the plague which had made the tour of Africa, Asia, and\nEurope, broke out with great malignancy in Algiers. You have seen\nearthquakes; but pray, miss, have you ever had the plague?\"\n\n\"Never,\" answered Cunegonde.\n\n\"If you had,\" said the old woman, \"you would acknowledge that it is far\nmore terrible than an earthquake. It is common in Africa, and I caught\nit. Imagine to yourself the distressed situation of the daughter of a\nPope, only fifteen years old, who, in less than three months, had felt\nthe miseries of poverty and slavery, had been ravished almost every day,\nhad beheld her mother drawn in quarters, had experienced famine and war,\nand was dying of the plague in Algiers. I did not die, however, but my\neunuch, and the Dey, and almost the whole seraglio of Algiers perished.\n\n\"As soon as the first fury of this terrible pestilence was over, a sale\nwas made of the Dey's slaves; I was purchased by a merchant, and carried\nto Tunis; this man sold me to another merchant, who sold me again to\nanother at Tripoli; from Tripoli I was sold to Alexandria, from\nAlexandria to Smyrna, and from Smyrna to Constantinople. At length I\nbecame the property of an Aga of the Janissaries, who was soon ordered\naway to the defence of Azof, then besieged by the Russians.\n\n\"The Aga, who was a very gallant man, took his whole seraglio with him,\nand lodged us in a small fort on the Palus Meotides, guarded by two\nblack eunuchs and twenty soldiers. The Turks killed prodigious numbers\nof the Russians, but the latter had their revenge. Azof was destroyed by\nfire, the inhabitants put to the sword, neither sex nor age was spared;\nuntil there remained only our little fort, and the enemy wanted to\nstarve us out. The twenty Janissaries had sworn they would never\nsurrender. The extremities of famine to which they were reduced, obliged\nthem to eat our two eunuchs, for fear of violating their oath. And at\nthe end of a few days they resolved also to devour the women.\n\n\"We had a very pious and humane Iman, who preached an excellent sermon,\nexhorting them not to kill us all at once.\n\n\"'Only cut off a buttock of each of those ladies,' said he, 'and you'll\nfare extremely well; if you must go to it again, there will be the same\nentertainment a few days hence; heaven will accept of so charitable an\naction, and send you relief.'\n\n\"He had great eloquence; he persuaded them; we underwent this terrible\noperation. The Iman applied the same balsam to us, as he does to\nchildren after circumcision; and we all nearly died.\n\n\"Scarcely had the Janissaries finished the repast with which we had\nfurnished them, than the Russians came in flat-bottomed boats; not a\nJanissary escaped. The Russians paid no attention to the condition we\nwere in. There are French surgeons in all parts of the world; one of\nthem who was very clever took us under his care--he cured us; and as\nlong as I live I shall remember that as soon as my wounds were healed he\nmade proposals to me. He bid us all be of good cheer, telling us that\nthe like had happened in many sieges, and that it was according to the\nlaws of war.\n\n\"As soon as my companions could walk, they were obliged to set out for\nMoscow. I fell to the share of a Boyard who made me his gardener, and\ngave me twenty lashes a day. But this nobleman having in two years' time\nbeen broke upon the wheel along with thirty more Boyards for some broils\nat court, I profited by that event; I fled. I traversed all Russia; I\nwas a long time an inn-holder's servant at Riga, the same at Rostock, at\nVismar, at Leipzig, at Cassel, at Utrecht, at Leyden, at the Hague, at\nRotterdam. I waxed old in misery and disgrace, having only one-half of\nmy posteriors, and always remembering I was a Pope's daughter. A hundred\ntimes I was upon the point of killing myself; but still I loved life.\nThis ridiculous foible is perhaps one of our most fatal characteristics;\nfor is there anything more absurd than to wish to carry continually a\nburden which one can always throw down? to detest existence and yet to\ncling to one's existence? in brief, to caress the serpent which devours\nus, till he has eaten our very heart?\n\n\"In the different countries which it has been my lot to traverse, and\nthe numerous inns where I have been servant, I have taken notice of a\nvast number of people who held their own existence in abhorrence, and\nyet I never knew of more than eight who voluntarily put an end to their\nmisery; three negroes, four Englishmen, and a German professor named\nRobek.[14] I ended by being servant to the Jew, Don Issachar, who placed\nme near your presence, my fair lady. I am determined to share your fate,\nand have been much more affected with your misfortunes than with my own.\nI would never even have spoken to you of my misfortunes, had you not\npiqued me a little, and if it were not customary to tell stories on\nboard a ship in order to pass away the time. In short, Miss Cunegonde, I\nhave had experience, I know the world; therefore I advise you to divert\nyourself, and prevail upon each passenger to tell his story; and if\nthere be one of them all, that has not cursed his life many a time, that\nhas not frequently looked upon himself as the unhappiest of mortals, I\ngive you leave to throw me headforemost into the sea.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "A hundred times I wanted to kill myself, but always I loved life more. The old woman continues her story. Despite the eunuch's attempt to rape her, she was delighted to encounter a countryman, and the eunuch carried her to a nearby cottage to care for her. They discovered that he had once served in her mother's palace. The eunuch promised to take the old woman back to Italy, but then took her to Algiers and sold her to the prince as a concubine. The plague swept through Algiers, killing the prince and the eunuch. The old woman was subsequently sold several times and ended up in the hands of a Muslim military commander. He took his seraglio with him when ordered to defend the city of Azov against the Russians. The Russians leveled the city, and only the commander's fort was left standing. Desperate for food, the officers killed and ate two eunuchs. They planned to do the same with the women, but a \"pious and sympathetic\" religious leader persuaded them to merely cut one buttock from each woman for food. Eventually, the Russians killed all the officers. The women were taken to Moscow. A nobleman took the old woman as his slave and beat her daily for two years. He was executed for \"court intrigue,\" and the old woman escaped. She worked as a servant in inns across Russia. She came close to suicide many times in her life, but never carried it out because she \"loved life\" too much. The old woman wonders why human nature makes people want to live even though life itself is so often a curse. She tells Candide and Cunegonde to ask each passenger on the ship to tell his story. She wagers that every single one has been upset to be alive"}, {"": "304", "document": "Scoena Secunda.\n\nEnter Yorke, and his Duchesse.\n\n  Duch. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,\nWhen weeping made you breake the story off,\nOf our two Cousins comming into London\n\n   Yorke. Where did I leaue?\n  Duch. At that sad stoppe, my Lord,\nWhere rude mis-gouern'd hands, from Windowes tops,\nThrew dust and rubbish on King Richards head\n\n   Yorke. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bullingbrooke,\nMounted vpon a hot and fierie Steed,\nWhich his aspiring Rider seem'd to know,\nWith slow, but stately pace, kept on his course:\nWhile all tongues cride, God saue thee Bullingbrooke.\nYou would haue thought the very windowes spake,\nSo many greedy lookes of yong and old,\nThrough Casements darted their desiring eyes\nVpon his visage: and that all the walles,\nWith painted Imagery had said at once,\nIesu preserue thee, welcom Bullingbrooke.\nWhil'st he, from one side to the other turning,\nBare-headed, lower then his proud Steeds necke,\nBespake them thus: I thanke you Countrimen:\nAnd thus still doing, thus he past along\n\n   Dutch. Alas poore Richard, where rides he the whilst?\n  Yorke. As in a Theater, the eyes of men\nAfter a well grac'd Actor leaues the Stage,\nAre idlely bent on him that enters next,\nThinking his prattle to be tedious:\nEuen so, or with much more contempt, mens eyes\nDid scowle on Richard: no man cride, God saue him:\nNo ioyfull tongue gaue him his welcome home,\nBut dust was throwne vpon his Sacred head,\nWhich with such gentle sorrow he shooke off,\nHis face still combating with teares and smiles\n(The badges of his greefe and patience)\nThat had not God (for some strong purpose) steel'd\nThe hearts of men, they must perforce haue melted,\nAnd Barbarisme it selfe haue pittied him.\nBut heauen hath a hand in these euents,\nTo whose high will we bound our calme contents.\nTo Bullingbrooke, are we sworne Subiects now,\nWhose State, and Honor, I for aye allow.\nEnter Aumerle\n\n   Dut. Heere comes my sonne Aumerle\n\n   Yor. Aumerle that was,\nBut that is lost, for being Richards Friend.\nAnd Madam, you must call him Rutland now:\nI am in Parliament pledge for his truth,\nAnd lasting fealtie to the new-made King\n\n   Dut. Welcome my sonne: who are the Violets now,\nThat strew the greene lap of the new-come Spring?\n  Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not,\nGod knowes, I had as liefe be none, as one\n\n   Yorke. Well, beare you well in this new-spring of time\nLeast you be cropt before you come to prime.\nWhat newes from Oxford? Hold those Iusts & Triumphs?\n  Aum. For ought I know my Lord, they do\n\n   Yorke. You will be there I know\n\n   Aum. If God preuent not, I purpose so\n\n   Yor. What Seale is that that hangs without thy bosom?\nYea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the Writing\n\n   Aum. My Lord, 'tis nothing\n\n   Yorke. No matter then who sees it,\nI will be satisfied, let me see the Writing\n\n   Aum. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,\nIt is a matter of small consequence,\nWhich for some reasons I would not haue seene\n\n   Yorke. Which for some reasons sir, I meane to see:\nI feare, I feare\n\n   Dut. What should you feare?\n'Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter'd into\nFor gay apparrell, against the Triumph\n\n   Yorke. Bound to himselfe? What doth he with a Bond\nThat he is bound to? Wife, thou art a foole.\nBoy, let me see the Writing\n\n   Aum. I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it\n\n   Yor. I will be satisfied: let me see it I say.\n\nSnatches it\n\nTreason, foule Treason, Villaine, Traitor, Slaue\n\n   Dut. What's the matter, my Lord?\n  Yorke. Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse.\nHeauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere?\n  Dut. Why, what is't my Lord?\n  Yorke. Giue me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse:\nNow by my Honor, my life, my troth,\nI will appeach the Villaine\n\n   Dut. What is the matter?\n  Yorke. Peace foolish Woman\n\n   Dut. I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne?\n  Aum. Good Mother be content, it is no more\nThen my poore life must answer\n\n   Dut. Thy life answer?\nEnter Seruant with Boots.\n\n  Yor. Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King\n\n   Dut. Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, y art amaz'd,\nHence Villaine, neuer more come in my sight\n\n   Yor. Giue me my Boots, I say\n\n   Dut. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do?\nWilt thou not hide the Trespasse of thine owne?\nHaue we more Sonnes? Or are we like to haue?\nIs not my teeming date drunke vp with time?\nAnd wilt thou plucke my faire Sonne from mine Age,\nAnd rob me of a happy Mothers name?\nIs he not like thee? Is he not thine owne?\n  Yor. Thou fond mad woman:\nWilt thou conceale this darke Conspiracy?\nA dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament,\nAnd interchangeably set downe their hands\nTo kill the King at Oxford\n\n   Dut. He shall be none:\nWee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him?\n  Yor. Away fond woman: were hee twenty times my\nSon, I would appeach him\n\n   Dut. Hadst thou groan'd for him as I haue done,\nThou wouldest be more pittifull:\nBut now I know thy minde; thou do'st suspect\nThat I haue bene disloyall to thy bed,\nAnd that he is a Bastard, not thy Sonne:\nSweet Yorke, sweet husband, be not of that minde:\nHe is as like thee, as a man may bee,\nNot like to me, nor any of my Kin,\nAnd yet I loue him\n\n   Yorke. Make way, vnruly Woman.\n\nExit\n\n  Dut. After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horse,\nSpurre post, and get before him to the King,\nAnd begge thy pardon, ere he do accuse thee,\nIle not be long behind: though I be old,\nI doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke:\nAnd neuer will I rise vp from the ground,\nTill Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone.\n\nExit\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At the Duke of York's house, York tells his wife of the scene he witnessed in London. As Richard was led through the streets, people tossed rubbish at him from windows. But Bolingbroke was hailed with enthusiasm by everyone. . Their son Aumerle enters. The duke notices he is carrying a document with a seal on it. Aumerle pretends it is nothing important, but the duke wrests it from him. As soon as he has read the contents he denounces his own son as a traitor. He immediately calls for his horse to be saddled, and announces that he is going straight to the king. His wife rebukes him, saying that he should protect his own; Aumerle is their only son. York replies angrily that the letter tells of a conspiracy by twelve men to kill the king at Oxford. The duchess suggests that Aumerle stay at home, then he can have no part in it. When the duke still refuses to listen, the duchess thinks he must doubt that Aumerle is really his own son. She swears that he is, but when she cannot stop her husband going to the king, she orders Aumerle to ride to the king as well. She urges him to get there before his father does, so he can confess and plead for a pardon before his crime is disclosed. ."}, {"": "305", "document": "\n    I would not creep along the coast but steer\n    Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars.\n\n\nWhen Dorothea, walking round the laurel-planted plots of the New\nHospital with Lydgate, had learned from him that there were no signs of\nchange in Mr. Casaubon's bodily condition beyond the mental sign of\nanxiety to know the truth about his illness, she was silent for a few\nmoments, wondering whether she had said or done anything to rouse this\nnew anxiety.  Lydgate, not willing to let slip an opportunity of\nfurthering a favorite purpose, ventured to say--\n\n\"I don't know whether your or Mr.--Casaubon's attention has been drawn\nto the needs of our New Hospital.  Circumstances have made it seem\nrather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not my fault:\nit is because there is a fight being made against it by the other\nmedical men.  I think you are generally interested in such things, for\nI remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeing you at Tipton\nGrange before your marriage, you were asking me some questions about\nthe way in which the health of the poor was affected by their miserable\nhousing.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said Dorothea, brightening.  \"I shall be quite grateful\nto you if you will tell me how I can help to make things a little\nbetter.  Everything of that sort has slipped away from me since I have\nbeen married.  I mean,\" she said, after a moment's hesitation, \"that\nthe people in our village are tolerably comfortable, and my mind has\nbeen too much taken up for me to inquire further.  But here--in such a\nplace as Middlemarch--there must be a great deal to be done.\"\n\n\"There is everything to be done,\" said Lydgate, with abrupt energy.\n\"And this Hospital is a capital piece of work, due entirely to Mr.\nBulstrode's exertions, and in a great degree to his money.  But one man\ncan't do everything in a scheme of this sort.  Of course he looked\nforward to help.  And now there's a mean, petty feud set up against the\nthing in the town, by certain persons who want to make it a failure.\"\n\n\"What can be their reasons?\" said Dorothea, with naive surprise.\n\n\"Chiefly Mr. Bulstrode's unpopularity, to begin with.  Half the town\nwould almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him.  In this\nstupid world most people never consider that a thing is good to be done\nunless it is done by their own set.  I had no connection with Bulstrode\nbefore I came here.  I look at him quite impartially, and I see that he\nhas some notions--that he has set things on foot--which I can turn to\ngood public purpose.  If a fair number of the better educated men went\nto work with the belief that their observations might contribute to the\nreform of medical doctrine and practice, we should soon see a change\nfor the better.  That's my point of view.  I hold that by refusing to\nwork with Mr. Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity\nof making my profession more generally serviceable.\"\n\n\"I quite agree with you,\" said Dorothea, at once fascinated by the\nsituation sketched in Lydgate's words.  \"But what is there against Mr.\nBulstrode?  I know that my uncle is friendly with him.\"\n\n\"People don't like his religious tone,\" said Lydgate, breaking off\nthere.\n\n\"That is all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition,\"\nsaid Dorothea, looking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light of\nthe great persecutions.\n\n\"To put the matter quite fairly, they have other objections to him:--he\nis masterful and rather unsociable, and he is concerned with trade,\nwhich has complaints of its own that I know nothing about.  But what\nhas that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thing\nto establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in the\ncounty?  The immediate motive to the opposition, however, is the fact\nthat Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands.  Of course\nI am glad of that.  It gives me an opportunity of doing some good\nwork,--and I am aware that I have to justify his choice of me.  But the\nconsequence is, that the whole profession in Middlemarch have set\nthemselves tooth and nail against the Hospital, and not only refuse to\ncooperate themselves, but try to blacken the whole affair and hinder\nsubscriptions.\"\n\n\"How very petty!\" exclaimed Dorothea, indignantly.\n\n\"I suppose one must expect to fight one's way: there is hardly anything\nto be done without it.  And the ignorance of people about here is\nstupendous.  I don't lay claim to anything else than having used some\nopportunities which have not come within everybody's reach; but there\nis no stifling the offence of being young, and a new-comer, and\nhappening to know something more than the old inhabitants.  Still, if I\nbelieve that I can set going a better method of treatment--if I\nbelieve that I can pursue certain observations and inquiries which may\nbe a lasting benefit to medical practice, I should be a base truckler\nif I allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me.  And\nthe course is all the clearer from there being no salary in question to\nput my persistence in an equivocal light.\"\n\n\"I am glad you have told me this, Mr. Lydgate,\" said Dorothea,\ncordially.  \"I feel sure I can help a little.  I have some money, and\ndon't know what to do with it--that is often an uncomfortable thought\nto me.  I am sure I can spare two hundred a-year for a grand purpose\nlike this.  How happy you must be, to know things that you feel sure\nwill do great good!  I wish I could awake with that knowledge every\nmorning.  There seems to be so much trouble taken that one can hardly\nsee the good of!\"\n\nThere was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as she spoke these\nlast words.  But she presently added, more cheerfully, \"Pray come to\nLowick and tell us more of this.  I will mention the subject to Mr.\nCasaubon.  I must hasten home now.\"\n\nShe did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to\nsubscribe two hundred a-year--she had seven hundred a-year as the\nequivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage.  Mr.\nCasaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might\nbe disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when\nDorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced.  He\ndid not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to\ngive it.  If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through\nthe medium of another passion than the love of material property.\n\nDorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of\nher conversation with him about the Hospital.  Mr. Casaubon did not\nquestion her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what\nhad passed between Lydgate and himself \"She knows that I know,\" said\nthe ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge\nonly thrust further off any confidence between them.  He distrusted her\naffection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?\n\n\n", "summary": "Dorothea finally talks to Lydgate, and Lydgate tells her that Casaubon now knows about his condition, and he is probably upset by it. Lydgate turns her attention to the new hospital; Bulstrode has been one of the few supporting it, and so many are against the hospital because they do not like Bulstrode. Dorothea says that she would like to do something for such a good cause, and pledges money from her yearly allowance; she is happier that she is able to make a significant contribution, but still her husband's illness and behavior bother her."}, {"": "306", "document": "ACT IV   SCENE I\n\n  CLEANTE, TARTUFFE\n\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Yes, it's become the talk of all the town,\n  And make a stir that's scarcely to your credit;\n  And I have met you, sir, most opportunely,\n  To tell you in a word my frank opinion.\n  Not to sift out this scandal to the bottom,\n  Suppose the worst for us--suppose Damis\n  Acted the traitor, and accused you falsely;\n  Should not a Christian pardon this offence,\n  And stifle in his heart all wish for vengeance?\n  Should you permit that, for your petty quarrel,\n  A son be driven from his father's house?\n  I tell you yet again, and tell you frankly,\n  Everyone, high or low, is scandalised;\n  If you'll take my advice, you'll make it up,\n  And not push matters to extremities.\n  Make sacrifice to God of your resentment;\n  Restore the son to favour with his father.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Alas! So far as I'm concerned, how gladly\n  Would I do so! I bear him no ill will;\n  I pardon all, lay nothing to his charge,\n  And wish with all my heart that I might serve him;\n  But Heaven's interests cannot allow it;\n  If he returns, then I must leave the house.\n  After his conduct, quite unparalleled,\n  All intercourse between us would bring scandal;\n  God knows what everyone's first thought would be!\n  They would attribute it to merest scheming\n  On my part--say that conscious of my guilt\n  I feigned a Christian love for my accuser,\n  But feared him in my heart, and hoped to win him\n  And underhandedly secure his silence.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  You try to put us off with specious phrases;\n  But all your arguments are too far-fetched.\n  Why take upon yourself the cause of Heaven?\n  Does Heaven need our help to punish sinners?\n  Leave to itself the care of its own vengeance,\n  And keep in mind the pardon it commands us;\n  Besides, think somewhat less of men's opinions,\n  When you are following the will of Heaven.\n  Shall petty fear of what the world may think\n  Prevent the doing of a noble deed?\n  No!--let us always do as Heaven commands,\n  And not perplex our brains with further questions.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Already I have told you I forgive him;\n  And that is doing, sir, as Heaven commands.\n  But after this day's scandal and affront\n  Heaven does not order me to live with him.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  And does it order you to lend your ear\n  To what mere whim suggested to his father,\n  And to accept gift of his estates,\n  On which, in justice, you can make no claim?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  No one who knows me, sir, can have the thought\n  That I am acting from a selfish motive.\n  The goods of this world have no charms for me;\n  I am not dazzled by their treacherous glamour;\n  And if I bring myself to take the gift\n  Which he insists on giving me, I do so,\n  To tell the truth, only because I fear\n  This whole estate may fall into bad hands,\n  And those to whom it comes may use it ill\n  And not employ it, as is my design,\n  For Heaven's glory and my neighbours' good.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Eh, sir, give up these conscientious scruples\n  That well may cause a rightful heir's complaints.\n  Don't take so much upon yourself, but let him\n  Possess what's his, at his own risk and peril;\n  Consider, it were better he misused it,\n  Than you should be accused of robbing him.\n  I am astounded that unblushingly\n  You could allow such offers to be made!\n  Tell me--has true religion any maxim\n  That teaches us to rob the lawful heir?\n  If Heaven has made it quite impossible\n  Damis and you should live together here,\n  Were it not better you should quietly\n  And honourably withdraw, than let the son\n  Be driven out for your sake, dead against\n  All reason? 'Twould be giving, sir, believe me,\n  Such an example of your probity ...\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Sir, it is half-past three; certain devotions\n  Recall me to my closet; you'll forgive me\n  For leaving you so soon.\n\n  CLEANTE (alone)\n  Ah!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "We find Cleante and Tartuffe having a conversation concerning the recent ruckus between Damis and Orgon. Cleante tells Tartuffe that the town's abuzz with rumors about the conflict, then lays down a hypothetical: Assuming that Damis's to blame, shouldn't Tartuffe, being a good Christian and all, forgive him and let him reclaim his inheritance? Tartuffe tells Cleante that he would love to patch things up with Damis, but at this point it really isn't possible; it's just not in the divine cards. If he were to start acting nice now, he says, things would just look suspicious, like he were just trying to stop Damis from defaming him. Cleante doesn't buy Tartuffe's reasoning and he tells him so. You should do the right thing, he says, no matter what other people will think. Tartuffe tells him that he has already forgiven Damis, but even so he doesn't have to live with the jerk who defamed him. But, Cleante asks, surely you didn't have to accept Damis's inheritance. Tartuffe insists he doesn't really care for earthly things; he just wants to, you know, make sure bad guys don't get their hands on it. Just like he watches over Elmire to make sure bad guys don't get their hands on her. Cleante counters; as far as he can see, Damis should at least be given the chance to use the wealth. He sums up his old arguments again but - surprise, surprise - Tartuffe doesn't listen. Tartuffe takes his leave. All Cleante can say is \"damn\" . Damn, indeed."}, {"": "307", "document": "THE SPA ROAD ELEVATOR\n\n\n\nBERMONDSEY\n\nThe next Institution that I inspected was that of a paper-sorting\nworks at Spa Road, Bermondsey, where all sorts of waste paper are\ndealt with in enormous quantities. Of this stuff some is given and\nsome is bought. Upon delivery it goes to the sorters, who separate it\nout according to the different classes of the material, after which it\nis pressed into bales by hydraulic machinery and sold to merchants to\nbe re-made.\n\nThese works stand upon two acres of land. Parts of the existing\nbuildings were once a preserve factory, but some of them have been\nerected by the Army. There remain upon the site certain\ndwelling-houses, which are still let to tenants. These are destined to\nbe pulled down whenever money is forthcoming to extend the factory.\n\nThe object of the Institution is to find work for distressed or fallen\npersons, and restore them to society. The Manager of this 'Elevator,'\nas it is called, informed me that it employs about 480 men, all of\nwhom are picked up upon the streets. As a rule, these men are given\ntheir board and lodging in return for work during the first week, but\nno money, as their labour is worth little. In the second week, 6d. is\npaid to them in cash; and, subsequently, this remuneration is added to\nin proportion to the value of the labour, till in the end some of them\nearn 8s. or 9s. a week in addition to their board and lodging.\n\nI asked the Officer in charge what he had to say as to the charges of\nsweating and underselling which have been brought against the\nSalvation Army in connexion with this and its other productive\nInstitutions.\n\nHe replied that they neither sweated nor undersold. The men whom they\npicked up had no value in the labour market, and could get nothing to\ndo because no one would employ them, many of them being the victims of\ndrink or entirely unskilled. Such people they overlooked, housed, fed,\nand instructed, whether they did or did not earn their food and\nlodging, and after the first week paid them upon a rising scale. The\nresults were eminently satisfactory, as even allowing for the\ndrunkards they found that but few cases, not more than 10 per cent,\nwere hopeless. Did they not rescue these men most of them would sink\nutterly; indeed, according to their own testimony many of such\nwastrels were snatched from suicide. As a matter of fact, also, they\nemployed more men per ton of paper than any other dealers in the\ntrade.\n\nWith reference to the commercial results, after allowing for interest\non the capital invested, the place did not pay its way. He said that a\nsum of L15,000 was urgently required for the erection of a new\nbuilding on this site, some of those that exist being of a\nrough-and-ready character. They were trying to raise subscriptions\ntowards this object, but found the response very slow.\n\nHe added that they collected their raw material from warehouses, most\nof it being given to them, but some they bought, as it was necessary\nto keep the works supplied, which could not be done with the gratis\nstuff alone. Also they found that the paper they purchased was the\nmost profitable.\n\nThese works presented a busy spectacle of useful industry. There was\nthe sorting-room, where great masses of waste-paper of every kind was\nbeing picked over by about 100 men and separated into its various\nclasses. The resulting heaps are thrown through hoppers into bins.\nFrom the bins this sorted stuff passes into hydraulic presses which\ncrush it into bales that, after being wired, are ready for sale.\n\nIt occurred to me that the dealing with this mass of refuse paper must\nbe an unhealthy occupation; but I was informed that this is not the\ncase, and certainly the appearance of the workers bore out the\nstatement.\n\nAfter completing a tour of the works I visited one of the bedrooms\ncontaining seventy beds, where everything seemed very tidy and fresh.\nClean sheets are provided every week, as are baths for the inmates. In\nthe kitchen were great cooking boilers, ovens, etc., all of which are\nworked by steam produced by the burning of the refuse of the sorted\npaper. Then I saw the household salvage store, which contained\nenormous quantities of old clothes and boots; also a great collection\nof furniture, including a Turkish bath cabinet, all of which articles\nhad been given to the Army by charitable folk. These are either given\naway or sold to the employes of the factory or to the poor of the\nneighbourhood at a very cheap rate.\n\nThe man in charge of this store was an extremely good-looking and\ngentlemanly young follow of University education, who had been a\nwriter of fiction, and once acted as secretary to a gentleman who\ntravelled on the Continent and in the East. Losing his employment, he\ntook to a life of dissipation, became ill, and sank to the very\nbottom. He informed me that his ideals and outlook on life were now\ntotally changed. I have every hope that he will do well in the future,\nas his abilities are evidently considerable, and Nature has favoured\nhim in many ways.\n\nI interviewed a number of the men employed in these works, most of\nwhom had come down through drink, some of them from very good\nsituations. One had been the superintendent of a sewing-machine\ncompany. He took to liquor, left his wife, and found himself upon the\nstreets. Now he was a traveller for the Salvation Army, in the\ninterests of the Waste-Paper Department, had regained his position in\nlife, and was living with his wife and family in a comfortable house.\n\nAnother was a grocer by profession, all of whose savings were stolen,\nafter which he took to drink. He had been three months in the works,\nand at the time of my visit was earning 6s. a week with food and\nlodging.\n\nAnother had been a Barnardo boy, who came from Canada as a ship's\nsteward, and could find nothing to do in England. Another was a\ngentleman's servant, who was dismissed because the family left London.\n\nAnother was an auctioneer, who failed from want of capital, took to\ndrink, and emigrated to Canada. Two years later he fell ill with\npleurisy, and was sent home because the authorities were afraid that\nhis ailment might turn to consumption. He stated that at this time he\nhad given up drink, but could obtain no employment, so came upon the\nstreets. As he was starving and without hope, not having slept in a\nbed for ten nights, he was about to commit suicide when the Salvation\nArmy picked him up. He had seen his wife for the first time in four\nyears on the previous Whit Monday, and they proposed to live together\nagain so soon as he secured permanent employment.\n\nAnother had been a soldier in the Seaforth Highlanders, and served in\nthe Egyptian Campaign of 1881, and also in the American Army.\nSubsequently he was employed as a porter at a lodging-house at a \nsalary of 25s. a week, but left because of trouble about a woman. He\ncame upon the streets, and, being unable to find employment, was\ncontemplating suicide, when he fell under the influence of the Army at\nthe Blackfriars Shelter.\n\nAll these men, and others whom I spoke to at random but have no space\nto write of, assured me that they were quite satisfied with their\ntreatment at the works, and repudiated--some of them with\nindignation--the suggestion that I put to them tentatively that they\nsuffered from a system of sweating. For the most part, indeed, their\ngratitude for the help they were receiving in the hour of need was\nvery evident and touching.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Graves arrives at Craiglockhart. Sassoon warmly welcomes him and sends him to speak to Rivers. Graves tells Rivers some background about Sassoon and how he got Sassoon to agree to enter the war hospital. While Graves was recovering from a war wound in a hospital on the Island of Wight, he received Sassoon's protest of the war in letter form. Graves decided that he needed to help his friend get out of the mess he was in. Graves thought that Sassoon had made a big mistake: \"I could see at once it wouldn't do any good, nobody would follow his example. He'd just destroy himself for no reason. So Graves decided to help his friend, if not his cause. He convinced Sassoon that there was no way that the army would ever court-martial him , and encouraged him to go to Craiglockhart. Graves pointed out to the Board how advantageous it would be to simply say that Sassoon was mad. He told them what a brave platoon commander Sassoon was, how the men worshipped him, and how he loved the men. Graves pointed out all the courageous acts Sassoon committed as a soldier, and in the end, he convinced the Board to commit Sassoon to a mental hospital. Although Graves admits that he lied to Sassoon, he feels justified in his actions. He believes that, as a soldier, a man should do his duty and be faithful to his \"contract\" even if he has changed his mind about the reasons or the justifications for the war. Graves feels that Sassoon did not go about changing peoples' minds in the right way. Furthermore, Graves feels that well- known intellectual pacifists like Bertrand Russell and Ottoline Morrell were simply using Sassoon for their own ends. Graves is happy to have Sassoon out of their influence. After Graves leaves his office, Rivers reads three of Sassoon's poems. He reflects that Sassoon, in writing war poetry, acts in a way opposite to most patients. Whereas most war veterans try as hard as they can to forget their war experiences, Sassoon is intent on remembering and communicating his war memories. By attempting to further his cause, Sassoon may have aided his own mental health"}, {"": "308", "document": "THE WOMEN'S SOCIAL WORK IN LONDON\n\n\n\nAt the commencement of my investigation of this branch of the\nSalvation Army activities in England, I discussed its general aspects\nwith Mrs. Bramwell Booth, who has it in her charge. She pointed out to\nme that this Women's Social Work is a much larger business than it was\nbelieved to be even by those who had some acquaintance with the\nSalvation Army, and that it deals with many matters of great\nimportance in their bearing on the complex problems of our\ncivilization.\n\nAmong them, to take some that she mentioned, which recur to my mind,\nare the questions of illegitimacy and prostitution, of maternity homes\nfor poor girls who have fallen into trouble, of women thieves, of what\nis known as the White Slave traffic, of female children who have been\nexposed to awful treatment, of women who are drunkards or drug-takers,\nof aged and destitute women, of intractable or vicious-minded girls,\nand, lastly, of the training of young persons to enable them to deal\nscientifically with all these evils, or under the name of Slum\nSisters, to wait upon the poor in their homes, and nurse them through\nthe trials of maternity.\n\nHow practical and efficient this training is, no one can know who has\nnot, like myself, visited and inquired into the various Institutions\nand Refuges of the Army in different cities of the land. It is a\nwonderful thing, as has happened to me again and again, to see some\nquiet, middle-aged lady, often so shy that it is difficult to extract\nfrom her the information required, ruling with the most perfect\nsuccess a number of young women, who, a few weeks or months before,\nwere the vilest of the vile, and what is stranger still, reforming as\nshe rules. These ladies exercise no severity; the punishment, which,\nperhaps necessarily, is a leading feature in some of our Government\nInstitutions, is unknown to their system. I am told that no one is\never struck, no one is imprisoned, no one is restricted in diet for\nany offence. As an Officer said to me:--\n\n'If we cannot manage a girl by love, we recognize that the case is\nbeyond us, and ask her to go away. This, however, very seldom\nhappens.'\n\nAs a matter of fact, that case which is beyond the regenerating powers\nof the Army must be very bad indeed, at any rate where young people\nare concerned. In the vast majority of instances a cure is effected,\nand apparently a permanent cure. In every one of these Homes there is\na room reserved for the accommodation of those who have passed through\nit and gone out into the world again, should they care to return there\nin their holidays or other intervals of leisure. That room is always\nin great demand, and I can imagine no more eloquent testimony to the\nmanner of the treatment of its occupants while they dwelt in these\nHomes as 'cases.'\n\nIn truth, a study of the female Officers of the Salvation Army is\ncalculated to convert the observer not only to a belief in the right\nof women to the suffrage, but also to that of their fitness to rule\namong, or even over men. Only I never heard that any of these ladies\never sought such privileges; moreover, few of the sex would care to\nwin them at the price of the training, self-denial, and stern\nexperience which it is their lot to undergo.\n\nMrs. Bramwell Booth pointed out to me that although the actual work of\nthe Army on these women's questions is 'more than just a little,' it\nhad, as it were, only touched their fringe. Yet even this 'fringe' has\nmany threads, seeing that over 44,000 of these women's cases have been\nhelped in one way or another since this branch of the home work began\nabout twenty years ago.\n\nShe added that scarcely a month goes by in which the Army does not\nbreak out in a new direction, open a new Institution, or attempt to\nattack a new problem; and this, be it remembered, not only in these\nislands but over the face of half the earth. At present its sphere of\ninfluence is limited by the lack of funds. Give it enough money, she\nsaid, and there is little that it would not dare to try. Everywhere\nthe harvest is plentiful, and if the workers remain comparatively few,\nit is because material means are lacking for their support. Given the\nmoney and the workers would be found. Nor will they ask much for\nmaintenance or salary, enough to provide the necessary buildings, and\nto keep body and soul together, that is all.[4]\n\nWhat are these women doing? In London they run more than a score of\nHomes and Agencies, including a Maternity Hospital, which I will\ndescribe later, where hundreds of poor deceived girls are taken in\nduring their trouble. I believe it is almost the only one of the sort,\nat any rate on the same scale, in that great city.\n\nAlso they manage various Homes for drunken women. It has always been\nsupposed to be a practical impossibility to effect a cure in such\ncases, but the lady Officers of the Salvation Army succeed in turning\nabout 50 per cent of their patients into perfectly sober persons. At\nleast they remain sober for three years from the date of their\ndischarge, after which they are often followed no further.\n\nAnother of their objects is to find out the fathers of illegitimate\nchildren, and persuade them to sign a form of agreement which has been\ncarefully drawn by Counsel, binding themselves to contribute towards\nthe cost of the maintenance of the child. Or failing this, should the\nevidence be sufficient, they try to obtain affiliation orders against\nsuch fathers in a Magistrates' Court. Here I may state that the amount\nof affiliation money collected in England by the Army in 1909 was\nL1,217, of which L208 was for new cases. Further, L671 was collected\nand paid over for maintenance to deserted wives. Little or none of\nthis money would have been forthcoming but for its exertions.\n\nMrs. Bramwell Booth informed me that there exists a class of young\nmen, most of them in the employ of tradesfolk, who habitually amuse\nthemselves by getting servant girls into trouble, often under a\npromise of marriage. Then, if the usual results follow, it is common\nfor these men to move away to another town, taking their references\nwith them and, sometimes under a new name, to repeat the process\nthere. She was of opinion that the age of consent ought to be raised\nto eighteen at least, a course for which there is much to be said.\nAlso she thought, and this is more controversial, that when any young\ngirl has been seduced under promise of marriage, the seducer should be\nliable to punishment under the criminal law. Of course, one of the\ndifficulties here would be to prove the promise of marriage beyond all\nreasonable doubt.\n\nAlso to bring such matters within the cognizance of the criminal law\nwould be a new and, indeed, a dangerous departure not altogether easy\nto justify, especially as old magistrates like myself, who have\nconsiderable experience of such cases must know, it is not always the\nman who is to blame. Personally, I incline to the view that if the age\nof consent were raised, and the contribution exacted from the putative\nfather of an illegitimate child made proportionate to his means, and\nnot limited, as it is now, to a maximum of 5s. a week, the criminal\nlaw might well be left out of the question. It must be remembered\nfurther, as Mrs. Booth pointed out herself, that there is another\nremedy, namely, that of a better home-training of girls who should be\nprepared by their mothers or friends to face the dangers of the world,\na duty which these too often neglect. The result is that many young\nwomen who feel lonely and desire to get married, overstep the limits\nof prudence on receipt of a promise that thus they may attain their\nend, with the result that generally they find themselves ruined and\ndeserted.\n\nMrs. Bramwell Booth said that the Army is doing its utmost to mitigate\nthe horrors of what is known as the White Slave traffic, both here and\nin many other countries. With this object it has a Bill before\nParliament at the present time, of which one of the aims is to prevent\nchildren from being sent out of this country to France under\ncircumstances that practically ensure their moral destruction. It\nseems that the state of things in Paris in this connexion is, in her\nown words, 'most abominable, too horrible for words.' Children are\nprocured from certain theatre dancing schools, and their birth\ncertificates sometimes falsified to make it appear that they are over\nfourteen, although often they may be as young as twelve or even ten.\nThen they are conveyed to vile places in Paris where their doom is\nsure.\n\nLet us hope that in due course this Bill will become law, for if girls\nare protected up to sixteen in this country, surely they should not be\nsent out of it in doubtful circumstances under that age.\n\nNeedless to say abominations of this nature are not unknown in London.\nThus a while ago the Army received a telegram from a German girl\nasking, 'Can you help?' Two of its people went at once to the address\ngiven, and, contriving to get into the house, discovered there a young\nwoman who, imagining that she had been engaged in Germany as a servant\nin an English family, found herself in a London brothel. Fortunately,\nbeing a girl of some character and resource, she held her own, and,\nhaving heard of the Salvation Army in her own land, persuaded a\nmilkman to take the telegram that brought about her delivery from this\nden of wickedness.\n\nUnfortunately it proved impossible to discover the woman who had hired\nher abroad, as the victim of the plot really knew nothing about that\nprocuress. This girl was restored to her home in Germany none the\nworse for her terrific adventure, and a few weeks later refunded her\ntravelling expenses. But how many must there be who have never heard\nof the Salvation Army, and can find no milkman to help them out of\ntheir vile prisons, for such places are no less.\n\nAnother branch of the Army women's work is that of the rescue of\nprostitutes from the streets, which is known as the 'Midnight Work.'\nFor the purpose of this endeavour it hires a flat in Great Titchfield\nStreet, of which, and of the mission that centres round it, I will\nspeak later in this book.\n\nThe Women's Social Work of the Salvation Army began in London, in the\nyear 1884, at the cottage of a woman-soldier of the Army who lived in\nWhitechapel. This lady, who was interested in girls without character,\ntook some of them into her home. Eventually she left the place which\ncame into the hands of the Army, whereon Mrs. Bramwell Booth was sent\nto take charge of the twelve inmates whom it would accommodate. The\nseed that was thus sown in 1884 has now multiplied itself into\nfifty-nine Homes and Agencies for women in Great Britain alone, to say\nnothing of others abroad and in the Colonies. But this is only a\nbeginning.\n\n'We look forward,' said Mrs. Bramwell Booth to me, 'to a great\nincrease of this side of our work at home. No year has passed without\nthe opening of a new Women's Home of some kind, and we hope that this\nwill continue. Thus I want to build a very big Maternity Hospital if I\ncan get the money. We have about L20,000 in hand for this purpose; but\nthe lesser of the two schemes before us will cost L35,000.'\n\nWill not some rich and charitable person provide the L15,000 that are\nlacking?\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Prior is finally allowed off the hospital grounds and he goes to visit Sarah. Once he explains why he did not show up for their last appointment, she softens and agrees to travel to the coast with him. As they are walking along the beach, Prior becomes enraged with the civilians who are able to live their lives without constant reminders of war. His experiences have alienated him from all of them, including Sarah. Prior is seized by the feeling that he is owed something and that Sarah is the one who \"should pay\". They continue walking and are caught in a sudden thunderstorm. Seeking shelter under a thick buckthorn bush, they press together. Billy feels his hostility towards Sarah wash away and they have sex as the storm continues to rage around them. As they return to town, the intimacy between them begins to grow. They arrive at a restaurant and Prior begins talking about the war, thus killing the romantic mood. He reveals that officers censor soldiers' letters but are themselves allowed to write uncensored letters, relying on their own sense of honor to limit what they include. Sarah is offended by the classism inherent in the system, arguing that honor is not limited to officers. Prior is satisfied with the sullen mood; he thinks to himself that it will dissuade Sarah from the belief that their tryst on the beach meant anything"}, {"": "309", "document": "\n    Full souls are double mirrors, making still\n    An endless vista of fair things before,\n    Repeating things behind.\n\n\nDorothea's impetuous generosity, which would have leaped at once to the\nvindication of Lydgate from the suspicion of having accepted money as a\nbribe, underwent a melancholy check when she came to consider all the\ncircumstances of the case by the light of Mr. Farebrother's experience.\n\n\"It is a delicate matter to touch,\" he said.  \"How can we begin to\ninquire into it?  It must be either publicly by setting the magistrate\nand coroner to work, or privately by questioning Lydgate.  As to the\nfirst proceeding there is no solid ground to go upon, else Hawley would\nhave adopted it; and as to opening the subject with Lydgate, I confess\nI should shrink from it.  He would probably take it as a deadly insult.\nI have more than once experienced the difficulty of speaking to him on\npersonal matters.  And--one should know the truth about his conduct\nbeforehand, to feel very confident of a good result.\"\n\n\"I feel convinced that his conduct has not been guilty: I believe that\npeople are almost always better than their neighbors think they are,\"\nsaid Dorothea.  Some of her intensest experience in the last two years\nhad set her mind strongly in opposition to any unfavorable construction\nof others; and for the first time she felt rather discontented with Mr.\nFarebrother.  She disliked this cautious weighing of consequences,\ninstead of an ardent faith in efforts of justice and mercy, which would\nconquer by their emotional force.  Two days afterwards, he was dining\nat the Manor with her uncle and the Chettams, and when the dessert was\nstanding uneaten, the servants were out of the room, and Mr. Brooke was\nnodding in a nap, she returned to the subject with renewed vivacity.\n\n\"Mr. Lydgate would understand that if his friends hear a calumny about\nhim their first wish must be to justify him.  What do we live for, if\nit is not to make life less difficult to each other?  I cannot be\nindifferent to the troubles of a man who advised me in _my_ trouble,\nand attended me in my illness.\"\n\nDorothea's tone and manner were not more energetic than they had been\nwhen she was at the head of her uncle's table nearly three years\nbefore, and her experience since had given her more right to express a\ndecided opinion.  But Sir James Chettam was no longer the diffident and\nacquiescent suitor: he was the anxious brother-in-law, with a devout\nadmiration for his sister, but with a constant alarm lest she should\nfall under some new illusion almost as bad as marrying Casaubon.  He\nsmiled much less; when he said \"Exactly\" it was more often an\nintroduction to a dissentient opinion than in those submissive bachelor\ndays; and Dorothea found to her surprise that she had to resolve not to\nbe afraid of him--all the more because he was really her best friend.\nHe disagreed with her now.\n\n\"But, Dorothea,\" he said, remonstrantly, \"you can't undertake to manage\na man's life for him in that way.  Lydgate must know--at least he will\nsoon come to know how he stands.  If he can clear himself, he will.  He\nmust act for himself.\"\n\n\"I think his friends must wait till they find an opportunity,\" added\nMr. Farebrother.  \"It is possible--I have often felt so much weakness\nin myself that I can conceive even a man of honorable disposition, such\nas I have always believed Lydgate to be, succumbing to such a\ntemptation as that of accepting money which was offered more or less\nindirectly as a bribe to insure his silence about scandalous facts long\ngone by.  I say, I can conceive this, if he were under the pressure of\nhard circumstances--if he had been harassed as I feel sure Lydgate has\nbeen.  I would not believe anything worse of him except under stringent\nproof.  But there is the terrible Nemesis following on some errors,\nthat it is always possible for those who like it to interpret them into\na crime: there is no proof in favor of the man outside his own\nconsciousness and assertion.\"\n\n\"Oh, how cruel!\" said Dorothea, clasping her hands.  \"And would you not\nlike to be the one person who believed in that man's innocence, if the\nrest of the world belied him?  Besides, there is a man's character\nbeforehand to speak for him.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Mrs. Casaubon,\" said Mr. Farebrother, smiling gently at\nher ardor, \"character is not cut in marble--it is not something solid\nand unalterable.  It is something living and changing, and may become\ndiseased as our bodies do.\"\n\n\"Then it may be rescued and healed,\" said Dorothea \"I should not be\nafraid of asking Mr. Lydgate to tell me the truth, that I might help\nhim.  Why should I be afraid?  Now that I am not to have the land,\nJames, I might do as Mr. Bulstrode proposed, and take his place in\nproviding for the Hospital; and I have to consult Mr. Lydgate, to know\nthoroughly what are the prospects of doing good by keeping up the\npresent plans.  There is the best opportunity in the world for me to\nask for his confidence; and he would be able to tell me things which\nmight make all the circumstances clear.  Then we would all stand by him\nand bring him out of his trouble.  People glorify all sorts of bravery\nexcept the bravery they might show on behalf of their nearest\nneighbors.\"  Dorothea's eyes had a moist brightness in them, and the\nchanged tones of her voice roused her uncle, who began to listen.\n\n\"It is true that a woman may venture on some efforts of sympathy which\nwould hardly succeed if we men undertook them,\" said Mr. Farebrother,\nalmost converted by Dorothea's ardor.\n\n\"Surely, a woman is bound to be cautious and listen to those who know\nthe world better than she does.\"  said Sir James, with his little\nfrown.  \"Whatever you do in the end, Dorothea, you should really keep\nback at present, and not volunteer any meddling with this Bulstrode\nbusiness.  We don't know yet what may turn up.  You must agree with\nme?\" he ended, looking at Mr. Farebrother.\n\n\"I do think it would be better to wait,\" said the latter.\n\n\"Yes, yes, my dear,\" said Mr. Brooke, not quite knowing at what point\nthe discussion had arrived, but coming up to it with a contribution\nwhich was generally appropriate.  \"It is easy to go too far, you know.\nYou must not let your ideas run away with you.  And as to being in a\nhurry to put money into schemes--it won't do, you know.  Garth has\ndrawn me in uncommonly with repairs, draining, that sort of thing: I'm\nuncommonly out of pocket with one thing or another.  I must pull up.\nAs for you, Chettam, you are spending a fortune on those oak fences\nround your demesne.\"\n\nDorothea, submitting uneasily to this discouragement, went with Celia\ninto the library, which was her usual drawing-room.\n\n\"Now, Dodo, do listen to what James says,\" said Celia, \"else you will\nbe getting into a scrape.  You always did, and you always will, when\nyou set about doing as you please.  And I think it is a mercy now after\nall that you have got James to think for you.  He lets you have your\nplans, only he hinders you from being taken in.  And that is the good\nof having a brother instead of a husband.  A husband would not let you\nhave your plans.\"\n\n\"As if I wanted a husband!\" said Dorothea.  \"I only want not to have my\nfeelings checked at every turn.\"  Mrs. Casaubon was still undisciplined\nenough to burst into angry tears.\n\n\"Now, really, Dodo,\" said Celia, with rather a deeper guttural than\nusual, \"you _are_ contradictory: first one thing and then another.  You\nused to submit to Mr. Casaubon quite shamefully: I think you would have\ngiven up ever coming to see me if he had asked you.\"\n\n\"Of course I submitted to him, because it was my duty; it was my\nfeeling for him,\" said Dorothea, looking through the prism of her tears.\n\n\"Then why can't you think it your duty to submit a little to what James\nwishes?\" said Celia, with a sense of stringency in her argument.\n\"Because he only wishes what is for your own good.  And, of course, men\nknow best about everything, except what women know better.\" Dorothea\nlaughed and forgot her tears.\n\n\"Well, I mean about babies and those things,\" explained Celia.  \"I\nshould not give up to James when I knew he was wrong, as you used to do\nto Mr. Casaubon.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Dorothea is set on proving Lydgate innocent, though this may prove difficult. Farebrother would certainly like to help, but he knows from the alteration and desperation in Lydgate's character of late, that is it completely likely that Lydgate did take the bribe, to save himself. Farebrother does not blame Lydgate, but at the same time knows how good people may be tempted, and fail. Sir James is definitely against Dorothea having anything to do with this issue; but Dorothea is still determined to do a good turn for Lydgate, especially after he helped her so much when her husband died. Dorothea is not the sort of person to allow a friend to be wronged, unless he is really guilty of what he is accused of."}, {"": "310", "document": "\n\nHe was different from his brothers and sisters.  Their hair already\nbetrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf; while\nhe alone, in this particular, took after his father.  He was the one\nlittle grey cub of the litter.  He had bred true to the straight wolf-\nstock--in fact, he had bred true to old One Eye himself, physically, with\nbut a single exception, and that was he had two eyes to his father's one.\n\nThe grey cub's eyes had not been open long, yet already he could see with\nsteady clearness.  And while his eyes were still closed, he had felt,\ntasted, and smelled.  He knew his two brothers and his two sisters very\nwell.  He had begun to romp with them in a feeble, awkward way, and even\nto squabble, his little throat vibrating with a queer rasping noise (the\nforerunner of the growl), as he worked himself into a passion.  And long\nbefore his eyes had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to\nknow his mother--a fount of warmth and liquid food and tenderness.  She\npossessed a gentle, caressing tongue that soothed him when it passed over\nhis soft little body, and that impelled him to snuggle close against her\nand to doze off to sleep.\n\nMost of the first month of his life had been passed thus in sleeping; but\nnow he could see quite well, and he stayed awake for longer periods of\ntime, and he was coming to learn his world quite well.  His world was\ngloomy; but he did not know that, for he knew no other world.  It was dim-\nlighted; but his eyes had never had to adjust themselves to any other\nlight.  His world was very small.  Its limits were the walls of the lair;\nbut as he had no knowledge of the wide world outside, he was never\noppressed by the narrow confines of his existence.\n\nBut he had early discovered that one wall of his world was different from\nthe rest.  This was the mouth of the cave and the source of light.  He\nhad discovered that it was different from the other walls long before he\nhad any thoughts of his own, any conscious volitions.  It had been an\nirresistible attraction before ever his eyes opened and looked upon it.\nThe light from it had beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the\noptic nerves had pulsated to little, sparklike flashes, warm-coloured and\nstrangely pleasing.  The life of his body, and of every fibre of his\nbody, the life that was the very substance of his body and that was apart\nfrom his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged his\nbody toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a plant\nurges it toward the sun.\n\nAlways, in the beginning, before his conscious life dawned, he had\ncrawled toward the mouth of the cave.  And in this his brothers and\nsisters were one with him.  Never, in that period, did any of them crawl\ntoward the dark corners of the back-wall.  The light drew them as if they\nwere plants; the chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the\nlight as a necessity of being; and their little puppet-bodies crawled\nblindly and chemically, like the tendrils of a vine.  Later on, when each\ndeveloped individuality and became personally conscious of impulsions and\ndesires, the attraction of the light increased.  They were always\ncrawling and sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their\nmother.\n\nIt was in this way that the grey cub learned other attributes of his\nmother than the soft, soothing tongue.  In his insistent crawling toward\nthe light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge\nadministered rebuke, and later, a paw, that crushed him down and rolled\nhim over and over with swift, calculating stroke.  Thus he learned hurt;\nand on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not incurring the\nrisk of it; and second, when he had incurred the risk, by dodging and by\nretreating.  These were conscious actions, and were the results of his\nfirst generalisations upon the world.  Before that he had recoiled\nautomatically from hurt, as he had crawled automatically toward the\nlight.  After that he recoiled from hurt because he _knew_ that it was\nhurt.\n\nHe was a fierce little cub.  So were his brothers and sisters.  It was to\nbe expected.  He was a carnivorous animal.  He came of a breed of meat-\nkillers and meat-eaters.  His father and mother lived wholly upon meat.\nThe milk he had sucked with his first flickering life, was milk\ntransformed directly from meat, and now, at a month old, when his eyes\nhad been open for but a week, he was beginning himself to eat meat--meat\nhalf-digested by the she-wolf and disgorged for the five growing cubs\nthat already made too great demand upon her breast.\n\nBut he was, further, the fiercest of the litter.  He could make a louder\nrasping growl than any of them.  His tiny rages were much more terrible\nthan theirs.  It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow-\ncub over with a cunning paw-stroke.  And it was he that first gripped\nanother cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and growled through jaws\ntight-clenched.  And certainly it was he that caused the mother the most\ntrouble in keeping her litter from the mouth of the cave.\n\nThe fascination of the light for the grey cub increased from day to day.\nHe was perpetually departing on yard-long adventures toward the cave's\nentrance, and as perpetually being driven back.  Only he did not know it\nfor an entrance.  He did not know anything about entrances--passages\nwhereby one goes from one place to another place.  He did not know any\nother place, much less of a way to get there.  So to him the entrance of\nthe cave was a wall--a wall of light.  As the sun was to the outside\ndweller, this wall was to him the sun of his world.  It attracted him as\na candle attracts a moth.  He was always striving to attain it.  The life\nthat was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward\nthe wall of light.  The life that was within him knew that it was the one\nway out, the way he was predestined to tread.  But he himself did not\nknow anything about it.  He did not know there was any outside at all.\n\nThere was one strange thing about this wall of light.  His father (he had\nalready come to recognise his father as the one other dweller in the\nworld, a creature like his mother, who slept near the light and was a\nbringer of meat)--his father had a way of walking right into the white\nfar wall and disappearing.  The grey cub could not understand this.\nThough never permitted by his mother to approach that wall, he had\napproached the other walls, and encountered hard obstruction on the end\nof his tender nose.  This hurt.  And after several such adventures, he\nleft the walls alone.  Without thinking about it, he accepted this\ndisappearing into the wall as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and\nhalf-digested meat were peculiarities of his mother.\n\nIn fact, the grey cub was not given to thinking--at least, to the kind of\nthinking customary of men.  His brain worked in dim ways.  Yet his\nconclusions were as sharp and distinct as those achieved by men.  He had\na method of accepting things, without questioning the why and wherefore.\nIn reality, this was the act of classification.  He was never disturbed\nover why a thing happened.  How it happened was sufficient for him.  Thus,\nwhen he had bumped his nose on the back-wall a few times, he accepted\nthat he would not disappear into walls.  In the same way he accepted that\nhis father could disappear into walls.  But he was not in the least\ndisturbed by desire to find out the reason for the difference between his\nfather and himself.  Logic and physics were no part of his mental make-\nup.\n\nLike most creatures of the Wild, he early experienced famine.  There came\na time when not only did the meat-supply cease, but the milk no longer\ncame from his mother's breast.  At first, the cubs whimpered and cried,\nbut for the most part they slept.  It was not long before they were\nreduced to a coma of hunger.  There were no more spats and squabbles, no\nmore tiny rages nor attempts at growling; while the adventures toward the\nfar white wall ceased altogether.  The cubs slept, while the life that\nwas in them flickered and died down.\n\nOne Eye was desperate.  He ranged far and wide, and slept but little in\nthe lair that had now become cheerless and miserable.  The she-wolf, too,\nleft her litter and went out in search of meat.  In the first days after\nthe birth of the cubs, One Eye had journeyed several times back to the\nIndian camp and robbed the rabbit snares; but, with the melting of the\nsnow and the opening of the streams, the Indian camp had moved away, and\nthat source of supply was closed to him.\n\nWhen the grey cub came back to life and again took interest in the far\nwhite wall, he found that the population of his world had been reduced.\nOnly one sister remained to him.  The rest were gone.  As he grew\nstronger, he found himself compelled to play alone, for the sister no\nlonger lifted her head nor moved about.  His little body rounded out with\nthe meat he now ate; but the food had come too late for her.  She slept\ncontinuously, a tiny skeleton flung round with skin in which the flame\nflickered lower and lower and at last went out.\n\nThen there came a time when the grey cub no longer saw his father\nappearing and disappearing in the wall nor lying down asleep in the\nentrance.  This had happened at the end of a second and less severe\nfamine.  The she-wolf knew why One Eye never came back, but there was no\nway by which she could tell what she had seen to the grey cub.  Hunting\nherself for meat, up the left fork of the stream where lived the lynx,\nshe had followed a day-old trail of One Eye.  And she had found him, or\nwhat remained of him, at the end of the trail.  There were many signs of\nthe battle that had been fought, and of the lynx's withdrawal to her lair\nafter having won the victory.  Before she went away, the she-wolf had\nfound this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was inside, and she\nhad not dared to venture in.\n\nAfter that, the she-wolf in her hunting avoided the left fork.  For she\nknew that in the lynx's lair was a litter of kittens, and she knew the\nlynx for a fierce, bad-tempered creature and a terrible fighter.  It was\nall very well for half a dozen wolves to drive a lynx, spitting and\nbristling, up a tree; but it was quite a different matter for a lone wolf\nto encounter a lynx--especially when the lynx was known to have a litter\nof hungry kittens at her back.\n\nBut the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times\nfiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it; and the time was to\ncome when the she-wolf, for her grey cub's sake, would venture the left\nfork, and the lair in the rocks, and the lynx's wrath.\n\n\n", "summary": "Aptly titled The Gray Cub, the chapter is devoted to describing one of the litter of five, comprised of two females and three males. The gray, male cub is the most striking of the new wolves. His coat is gray, like that of a true wolf, whereas his siblings have inherited their mothers red hue. This cub is also a smart creature, more inquisitive than the others. All five want to explore the wall of light, towards which they crawl, only to be pushed back by their mother. The gray cub soon learns to distinguish between nudges that are rebukes and crushing paws that serve to hurt. He also learns how to inflict hurt and how to avoid being hurt. During his cubhood, he watches his parents take careful care of him. He also watches as all his siblings are lost to starvation. When his father stops visiting them, the she-wolf knows he has been killed by the lynx in a fight. In turn, she carefully avoids the territory where the lynx is taking care of her litter of kittens, for the she-wolf is powerless to fight her and win by herself."}, {"": "311", "document": "\"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour?  The\nluggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery,\ntrying to find some things I want,\" said Laurie, coming in the next day\nto find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made\n'the baby' again.\n\n\"Certainly.  Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this,\" and\nMrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if\nasking pardon for her maternal covetousness.\n\n\"I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it, but I can't get\non without my little woman any more than a...\"\n\n\"Weathercock can without the wind,\" suggested Jo, as he paused for a\nsimile.  Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came\nhome.\n\n\"Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with\nonly an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an\neasterly spell since I was married.  Don't know anything about the\nnorth, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?\"\n\n\"Lovely weather so far.  I don't know how long it will last, but I'm\nnot afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship.  Come home,\ndear, and I'll find your bootjack.  I suppose that's what you are\nrummaging after among my things.  Men are so helpless, Mother,\" said\nAmy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.\n\n\"What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?\" asked\nJo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.\n\n\"We have our plans.  We don't mean to say much about them yet, because\nwe are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle.  I'm going\ninto business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove\nto him that I'm not spoiled.  I need something of the sort to keep me\nsteady.  I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man.\"\n\n\"And Amy, what is she going to do?\" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at\nLaurie's decision and the energy with which he spoke.\n\n\"After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall\nastonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant\nsociety we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall\nexert over the world at large.  That's about it, isn't it, Madame\nRecamier?\" asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy.\n\n\"Time will show.  Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by\ncalling me names before their faces,\" answered Amy, resolving that\nthere should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon\nas a queen of society.\n\n\"How happy those children seem together!\" observed Mr. March, finding\nit difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple\nhad gone.\n\n\"Yes, and I think it will last,\" added Mrs. March, with the restful\nexpression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.\n\n\"I know it will.  Happy Amy!\" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as\nProfessor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.\n\nLater in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the\nbootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, \"Mrs. Laurence.\"\n\n\"My Lord!\"\n\n\"That man intends to marry our Jo!\"\n\n\"I hope so, don't you, dear?\"\n\n\"Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that\nexpressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal\nricher.\"\n\n\"Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love\none another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.\nWomen never should marry for money...\" Amy caught herself up short as\nthe words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with\nmalicious gravity...\n\n\"Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend\nto do it sometimes.  If my memory serves me, you once thought it your\nduty to make a rich match.  That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a\ngood-for-nothing like me.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that!  I forgot you were rich\nwhen I said 'Yes'.  I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I\nsometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you.\"\nAnd Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private,\ngave convincing proofs of the truth of her words.\n\n\"You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be\nonce, do you?  It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd\ngladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your\nliving by rowing on the lake.\"\n\n\"Am I an idiot and a brute?  How could I think so, when you refused a\nricher man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I\nhave the right?  Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to\nthink it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and\nthough I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the\ndaughter was true to the mother's teaching.  I told Mamma so yesterday,\nand she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a\nmillion, to be spent in charity.  You are not listening to my moral\nremarks, Mrs. Laurence,\" and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an\nabsent look, though fixed upon his face.\n\n\"Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time.  I\ndon't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my\nhandsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is\nsuch a comfort to me,\" and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature\nwith artistic satisfaction.\n\nLaurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that\nsuited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his\nwife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, \"May I ask you a\nquestion, dear?\"\n\n\"Of course, you may.\"\n\n\"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?\"\n\n\"Oh, that's the trouble is it?  I thought there was something in the\ndimple that didn't quite suit you.  Not being a dog in the manger, but\nthe happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding\nwith a heart as light as my heels.  Do you doubt it, my darling?\"\n\nAmy looked up at him, and was satisfied.  Her little jealous fear\nvanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and\nconfidence.\n\n\"I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't\nwe invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in\nGermany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?\" said Laurie, when they\nbegan to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they\nwere fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.\n\n\"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all.  She is very proud of him,\njust as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a\nbeautiful thing.\"\n\n\"Bless her dear heart!  She won't think so when she has a literary\nhusband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support.  We\nwon't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in\nspite of themselves.  I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she\nbelieves in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her\nin that way.\"\n\n\"How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was\nalways one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks\nto you, the dream has come true.\"\n\n\"Ah, we'll do quantities of good, won't we?  There's one sort of\npoverty that I particularly like to help.  Out-and-out beggars get\ntaken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won't\nask, and people don't dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand\nways of helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that\nit does not offend.  I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman\nbetter than a blarnerying beggar.  I suppose it's wrong, but I do,\nthough it is harder.\"\n\n\"Because it takes a gentleman to do it,\" added the other member of the\ndomestic admiration society.\n\n\"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I\nwas going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good\nmany talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and\nenduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid\nfellows, some of them, working like heros,  poor and friendless, but so\nfull of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself,\nand longed to give them a right good lift.  Those are people whom it's\na satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be\nallowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of\nfuel to keep the pot boiling.  If they haven't, it's a pleasure to\ncomfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it\nout.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer\nin silence.  I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you\nmade a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old\nstory.  Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see\nyouth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a\nlittle help at the right minute.  People have been very kind to me, and\nwhenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put\nout my hand and help them, as I was helped.\"\n\n\"And so you shall, like an angel as you are!\" cried Laurie, resolving,\nwith a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution\nfor the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies.  \"Rich\npeople have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their\nmoney accumulate for others to waste.  It's not half so sensible to\nleave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while\nalive, and enjoy making one's fellow creatures happy with it.  We'll\nhave a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure\nby giving other people a generous taste.  Will you be a little Dorcas,\ngoing about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with\ngood deeds?\"\n\n\"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St.  Martin, stopping as you\nride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar.\"\n\n\"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!\"\n\nSo the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again,\nfeeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped\nto brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more\nuprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough\nways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely\nknit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest\nthan they.\n\n\n", "summary": "We get a brief inside look an Amy and Laurie in their home in the Laurence mansion. They discuss the possibility of Mr. Bhaer marrying Jo. Laurie isn't jealous of the professor, but both are concerned about his lack of means. They long for a way to share their own wealth, but know that both the professor and Jo are too proud to accept obvious charity. They agree to watch for an opportunity and find a way to help Jo without her knowing."}, {"": "312", "document": "\nJimmie had an idea it wasn't common courtesy for a friend to come to\none's home and ruin one's sister.  But he was not sure how much Pete\nknew about the rules of politeness.\n\nThe following night he returned home from work at rather a late hour in\nthe evening.  In passing through the halls he came upon the gnarled and\nleathery old woman who possessed the music box.  She was grinning in\nthe dim light that drifted through dust-stained panes.  She beckoned to\nhim with a smudged forefinger.\n\n\"Ah, Jimmie, what do yehs t'ink I got onto las' night.  It was deh\nfunnies' t'ing I ever saw,\" she cried, coming close to him and leering.\nShe was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale.  \"I was by me door\nlas' night when yer sister and her jude feller came in late, oh, very\nlate.  An' she, the dear, she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break,\nshe was.  It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw.  An' right out here by\nme door she asked him did he love her, did he.  An' she was a-cryin' as\nif her heart would break, poor t'ing.  An' him, I could see by deh way\nwhat he said it dat she had been askin' orften, he says: 'Oh, hell,\nyes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'\"\n\nStorm-clouds swept over Jimmie's face, but he turned from the leathery\nold woman and plodded on up-stairs.\n\n\"Oh, hell, yes,\" called she after him.  She laughed a laugh that was\nlike a prophetic croak.  \"'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell,\nyes.'\"\n\nThere was no one in at home.  The rooms showed that attempts had been\nmade at tidying them.  Parts of the wreckage of the day before had been\nrepaired by an unskilful hand.  A chair or two and the table, stood\nuncertainly upon legs.  The floor had been newly swept.  Too, the blue\nribbons had been restored to the curtains, and the lambrequin, with its\nimmense sheaves of yellow wheat and red roses of equal size, had been\nreturned, in a worn and sorry state, to its position at the mantel.\nMaggie's jacket and hat were gone from the nail behind the door.\n\nJimmie walked to the window and began to look through the blurred\nglass.  It occurred to him to vaguely wonder, for an instant, if some\nof the women of his acquaintance had brothers.\n\nSuddenly, however, he began to swear.\n\n\"But he was me frien'!  I brought 'im here!  Dat's deh hell of it!\"\n\nHe fumed about the room, his anger gradually rising to the furious\npitch.\n\n\"I'll kill deh jay!  Dat's what I'll do!  I'll kill deh jay!\"\n\nHe clutched his hat and sprang toward the door.  But it opened and his\nmother's great form blocked the passage.\n\n\"What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?\" exclaimed she, coming into the\nrooms.\n\nJimmie gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily.\n\n\"Well, Maggie's gone teh deh devil!  Dat's what!  See?\"\n\n\"Eh?\" said his mother.\n\n\"Maggie's gone teh deh devil!  Are yehs deaf?\" roared Jimmie,\nimpatiently.\n\n\"Deh hell she has,\" murmured the mother, astounded.\n\nJimmie grunted, and then began to stare out at the window.  His mother\nsat down in a chair, but a moment later sprang erect and delivered a\nmaddened whirl of oaths.  Her son turned to look at her as she reeled\nand swayed in the middle of the room, her fierce face convulsed with\npassion, her blotched arms raised high in imprecation.\n\n\"May Gawd curse her forever,\" she shrieked.  \"May she eat nothin' but\nstones and deh dirt in deh street.  May she sleep in deh gutter an'\nnever see deh sun shine agin.  Deh damn--\"\n\n\"Here, now,\" said her son.  \"Take a drop on yourself.\"\n\nThe mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling.\n\n\"She's deh devil's own chil', Jimmie,\" she whispered.  \"Ah, who would\nt'ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly, Jimmie, me son.\nMany deh hour I've spent in talk wid dat girl an' tol' her if she ever\nwent on deh streets I'd see her damned.  An' after all her bringin' up\nan' what I tol' her and talked wid her, she goes teh deh bad, like a\nduck teh water.\"\n\nThe tears rolled down her furrowed face.  Her hands trembled.\n\n\"An' den when dat Sadie MacMallister next door to us was sent teh deh\ndevil by dat feller what worked in deh soap-factory, didn't I tell our\nMag dat if she--\"\n\n\"Ah, dat's annuder story,\" interrupted the brother.  \"Of course, dat\nSadie was nice an' all dat--but--see--it ain't dessame as if--well,\nMaggie was diff'ent--see--she was diff'ent.\"\n\nHe was trying to formulate a theory that he had always unconsciously\nheld, that all sisters, excepting his own, could advisedly be ruined.\n\nHe suddenly broke out again.  \"I'll go t'ump hell outa deh mug what did\nher deh harm.  I'll kill 'im!  He t'inks he kin scrap, but when he gits\nme a-chasin' 'im he'll fin' out where he's wrong, deh damned duffer.\nI'll wipe up deh street wid 'im.\"\n\nIn a fury he plunged out of the doorway.  As he vanished the mother\nraised her head and lifted both hands, entreating.\n\n\"May Gawd curse her forever,\" she cried.\n\nIn the darkness of the hallway Jimmie discerned a knot of women talking\nvolubly.  When he strode by they paid no attention to him.\n\n\"She allus was a bold thing,\" he heard one of them cry in an eager\nvoice.  \"Dere wasn't a feller come teh deh house but she'd try teh mash\n'im.  My Annie says deh shameless t'ing tried teh ketch her feller, her\nown feller, what we useter know his fader.\"\n\n\"I could a' tol' yehs dis two years ago,\" said a woman, in a key of\ntriumph.  \"Yessir, it was over two years ago dat I says teh my ol' man,\nI says, 'Dat Johnson girl ain't straight,' I says.  'Oh, hell,' he\nsays.  'Oh, hell.'  'Dat's all right,' I says, 'but I know what I\nknows,' I says, 'an' it 'ill come out later.  You wait an' see,' I\nsays, 'you see.'\"\n\n\"Anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin' wrong wid dat\ngirl.  I didn't like her actions.\"\n\nOn the street Jimmie met a friend.  \"What deh hell?\" asked the latter.\n\nJimmie explained.  \"An' I'll t'ump 'im till he can't stand.\"\n\n\"Oh, what deh hell,\" said the friend.  \"What's deh use!  Yeh'll git\npulled in!  Everybody 'ill be onto it!  An' ten plunks!  Gee!\"\n\nJimmie was determined.  \"He t'inks he kin scrap, but he'll fin' out\ndiff'ent.\"\n\n\"Gee,\" remonstrated the friend.  \"What deh hell?\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Jimmie realizes that Pete has betrayed his trust. He brought Pete into his home and Pete has now ruined his sister. He gets home from work late the next evening and the old beggar woman catches him in the hallway. She tells him the night before she overheard Maggie talking to Pete. It was very late when they arrived home and Maggie was asking Pete if he loved her. Pete had reluctantly said \"Oh, hell, yes.\" The old woman laughs at this exchange. Jimmie leaves her and goes to his apartment. He finds it has been cleaned up and the blue ribbons replaced on the curtains. When his mother gets home, he tells her Maggie has gone to \"hell.\" She begins to cry and curse Maggie. She cant imagine why Maggie has done this since she was raised so well. She tells Jimmie that she often warned Maggie away from this kind of life. When the girl next door got pregnant, she had warned Maggie. Jimmie says the girl next door was a different story. Jimmy has always thought that the sexual ruin of other girls was different from that of his sister. He leaves the apartment. On the way out, he hears the neighbors gossiping about Maggie. They all say they always knew this would happen to Maggie. On the street, Jimmie runs into a friend. He tells his friend that hes going to get Pete for this. The friend discourages him from doing anything, saying \"What deh hell?\""}, {"": "313", "document": "                [The DUKE's castle.]\n\n                Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR.\n\n  LORENZO.  My lord, though Bel-imperia seem thus coy,\n    Let reason hold you in your wonted joy:\n    In time the savage bull sustains the yoke,\n    In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure,\n    In time small wedges cleave the hardest oak,\n    In time the flint is pierc'd with softest shower;\n    And she in time will fall from her disdain,\n    And rue the sufferance of your friendly pain.\n\n  BAL.  No; she is wilder, and more hard withal,\n    Then beast or bird, or tree or stony wall!\n    But wherefore blot I Bel-imperia's name?\n    It is my fault, not she that merits blame.\n    My feature is not to content her sight;\n    My words are rude and work her no delight;\n    The lines I send her are but harsh and ill,\n    Such as do drop from Pan and Marsya's quill;\n    My presents are not of sufficient cost;\n    And, being worthless, all my labours lost.\n    Yet might she love me for my valiancy.\n    Aye; but that's slander'd by captivity.\n    Yet might she love me to content her sire.\n    Aye; but her reason masters her desire.\n    Yet might she love me as her brother's friend.\n    Aye; but her hopes aim at some other end.\n    Yet might she love me to uprear her state.\n    Aye; but perhaps she loves some nobler mate.\n    Yet might she love me as her beauty's thrall.\n    Aye; but I fear she cannot love at all.\n\n  LOR.  My lord, for my sake leave these ecstasies,\n    And doubt not but we'll find some remedy.\n    Some cause there is that lets you not be lov'd:\n    First that must needs be known, and then remov'd.\n    What if my sister love some other knight?\n\n  BAL.  My summer's day will turn to winter's night.\n\n  LOR.  I have already found a stratagem\n    To sound the bottom of this doubtful theme.\n    My lord, for once you shall be rul'd by me;\n    Hinder me not what ere you hear or see:\n    By force or fair means will I cast about\n    To find the truth of all this question out.\n    Ho, Pedringano!\n\n  PED.          Signior.\n\n  LOR.                  Vien qui presto!\n\n                Enter PEDRINGANO.\n\n  PED.  Hath your lordship any service to command me?\n\n  LOR.  Aye, Pedringano, service of import.\n    And, not to spend the time in trifling words,\n    Thus stands the case:  it is not long, thou know'st,\n    Since I did shield thee from my father's wrath\n    For thy convenience in Andrea's love,\n    For which thou wert adjudg'd to punishment;\n    I stood betwixt thee and thy punishment,\n    And since thou knowest how I have favour'd thee.\n    Now to these favours will I add reward,\n    Not with fair words, but store of golden coin\n    And lands and living join'd with dignities,\n    If thou but satisfy my just demand;\n    Tell truth and have me for thy lasting friend.\n\n  PED.  Whate'er it be your lordship shall demand,\n    My bounden duty bids me tell the truth,\n    If case it lie in me to tell the truth.\n\n  LOR.  Then, Pedringano, this is my demand;\n    Whom loves my sister Bel-imperia?\n    For she reposeth all her trust in thee.\n    Speak, man, and gain both friendship and reward:\n    I mean, whom loves she in Andrea's place?\n\n  PED.  Alas, my lord, since Don Andrea's death\n    I have no credit with her as before,\n    And therefore know not if she love or no.\n\n  LOR.  Nay, if thou dally, then I am thy foe,\n    And fear shall force what friendship cannot win.\n    Thy death shall bury what thy life conceals.\n    Thou die'st for more esteeming her than me!\n\n                [Draws his sword.]\n\n  PED.  Oh stay, my lord!\n\n  LOR.  Yet speak the truth, and I will guerdon thee\n    And shield thee from whatever can ensue,\n    And will conceal whate'er proceeds from thee;\n    But, if thou dally once again, thou diest!\n\n  PED.  If madame Bel-imperia be in love--\n\n  LOR.  What, villain!  ifs and ands?\n\n  PED.  Oh stay, my lord!  she loves Horatio!\n\n                BALTHAZAR starts back.\n\n  LOR.  What!  Don Horatio, our knight-marshall's son?\n\n  PED. Even him, my lord.\n\n  LOR.  Now say but how know'st thou he is her love,\n    And thou shalt find me kind and liberal.\n    Stand up, I say, and fearless tell the truth.\n\n  PED.  She sent him letters,--which myself perus'd,--\n    Full-fraught with lines and arguments of love,\n    Preferring him before Prince Balthazar.\n\n  LOR.  Swear on this cross that what thou say'st is true,\n    And that thou wilt conceal what thou hast told.\n\n  PED.  I swear to both, by him that made us all.\n\n  LOR.  In hope thine oath is true, here's thy reward.\n    But, if I prove thee perjur'd and unjust,\n    This very sword whereon thou took'st thine oath\n    Shall be the worker of thy tragedy.\n\n  PED.  What I have said is true, and shall, for me,\n    Be still conceal'd from Bel-imperia.\n    Besides, your Honour's liberality\n    Deserves my duteous service ev'n till death.\n\n  LOR.  Let this be all that thou shall do for me:\n    Be watchful when and where these lovers meet,\n    And give me notice in some secret sort.\n\n  PED.  I will, my lord.\n\n  LOR.  Then thou shalt find that I am liberal.\n    Thou know'st that I can more advance thy state\n    Than she:  be therefore wise and fail me not.\n    Go and attend her as thy custom is,\n    Least absence make her think thou dost amiss.\n\n                Exit PEDRINGANO.\n\n    Why, so, Tam armis quam ingenio:\n    Where words prevail not, violence prevails.\n    But gold doth more than either of them both.\n    How likes Prince Balthazar this stratagem?\n\n  BAL.  Both well and ill; it makes me glad and sad:\n    Glad, that I know the hind'rer of my love;\n    Sad, that I fear she hates me whom I love;\n    Glad, that I know on whom to be reveng'd;\n    Sad, that she'll fly me if I take revenge.\n    Yet must I take revenge or die myself;\n    For love resisted grows impatient.\n    I think Horatio be my destin'd plague:\n    First, in his hand he brandished a sword,\n    And with that sword he fiercely waged war,\n    And in that war he gave me dangerous wounds,\n    And by those wounds he forced me to yield,\n    And by my yielding I became his slave;\n    Now, in his mouth he carries pleasing words,\n    Which pleasing words do harbour sweet conceits,\n    Which sweet conceits are lim'd with sly deceits,\n    Which sly deceits smooth Bel-imperia's ears,\n    And through her ears dive down into her heart,\n    And in her heart set him, where I should stand.\n    Thus hath he ta'en my body by his force,\n    And now by sleight would captivate my soul;\n    But in his fall I'll tempt the Destinies,\n    And either lose my life or win my love.\n\n  LOR. Let's go, my lord;  our staying stays revenge.\n    Do but follow me, and gain your love;\n    Her favour must be won by his remove.\n\n                Exeunt.", "summary": "The scene opens with Balthazar moping about Bel-Imperia denying his best pick-up lines. Lorenzo tries to assure Balthazar that his sister will eventually give in if he just remains patient, but he does admit that it's possible that she loves another knight. Lorenzo is a forward thinking baddie, so he's got a plan if Bel-Imperia is crushing on a new dude. As soon as he tells Balthazar this, the henchman who will carry out this plan enters the room--his name is Pedringano . Lorenzo reminds Pedringano that he owes him one for a solid in the past. Apparently, Pedringano helped to hide Bel-Imperia's relationship with Andrea from the King. And Lorenzo helped to shield the wormy servant from the king's wrath. After being reminded of his debt, Pedringano is more than willing to give Lorenzo any information he might need--in fact, Pedringano seems to enjoy being bad. His first bad guy move is to rat out the lady he serves. So, Pedringano spills the beans and says that Bel-Imperia now loves Horatio--big trouble. He even goes the extra mile by letting Lorenzo know that he passed love notes to Horatio for Bel-Imperia. Lorenzo happily pays Pedringano for the down low, and says something like, \"there's more where that comes from if you wanna help.\" Pedringano accepts his new role as Lorenzo's moustache-twirling-assistant-villain. And while the money is nice, the job is also a perfect fit for a fellow of Pedringano's character and skill set. After Pedringano exits the scene, Lorenzo tells Balthazar that the only way he'll hook up with Bel-Imperia is if Horatio is dead--man, this guy is really devoted to matchmaking."}, {"": "314", "document": "SCENE VII.\nA camp at a short distance from Rome\n\nEnter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT\n\n  AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th' Roman?\n  LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but\n    Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat,\n    Their talk at table, and their thanks at end;\n    And you are dark'ned in this action, sir,\n    Even by your own.\n  AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now,\n    Unless by using means I lame the foot\n    Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier,\n    Even to my person, than I thought he would\n    When first I did embrace him; yet his nature\n    In that's no changeling, and I must excuse\n    What cannot be amended.\n  LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir-\n    I mean, for your particular- you had not\n    Join'd in commission with him, but either\n    Had borne the action of yourself, or else\n    To him had left it solely.\n  AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well; and be thou sure,\n    When he shall come to his account, he knows not\n    What I can urge against him. Although it seems,\n    And so he thinks, and is no less apparent\n    To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly\n    And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state,\n    Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon\n    As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone\n    That which shall break his neck or hazard mine\n    Whene'er we come to our account.\n  LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome?\n  AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down,\n    And the nobility of Rome are his;\n    The senators and patricians love him too.\n    The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people\n    Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty\n    To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome\n    As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it\n    By sovereignty of nature. First he was\n    A noble servant to them, but he could not\n    Carry his honours even. Whether 'twas pride,\n    Which out of daily fortune ever taints\n    The happy man; whether defect of judgment,\n    To fail in the disposing of those chances\n    Which he was lord of; or whether nature,\n    Not to be other than one thing, not moving\n    From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace\n    Even with the same austerity and garb\n    As he controll'd the war; but one of these-\n    As he hath spices of them all- not all,\n    For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd,\n    So hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit\n    To choke it in the utt'rance. So our virtues\n    Lie in th' interpretation of the time;\n    And power, unto itself most commendable,\n    Hath not a tomb so evident as a cheer\n    T' extol what it hath done.\n    One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail;\n    Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail.\n    Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,\n    Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine.\n                                                          Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In the Volscian camp near Rome, a Lieutenant is telling Aufidius that the Volscian soldiers hero-worship Coriolanus and that Aufidius's standing has suffered as a result. Aufidius admits that Coriolanus is proud, but says he can do nothing while he depends on him for the attack on Rome. He hints at something Coriolanus has done that will enable the Volscians to dispose of him when he is no longer useful to them. In the meantime, he believes that Rome will fall under Coriolanus's attack"}, {"": "315", "document": "Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, Christian de Neuvillette.\n\nA CADET (seated at a table, glass in hand):\n  Cyrano!\n(Cyrano turns round):\n  The story!\n\nCYRANO:\n  In its time!\n\n(He goes up on Le Bret's arm.  They talk in low voices.)\n\nTHE CADET (rising and coming down):\n  The story of the fray!  'Twill lesson well\n(He stops before the table where Christian is seated):\n  This timid young apprentice!\n\nCHRISTIAN (raising his head):\n  'Prentice!  Who?\n\nANOTHER CADET:\n  This sickly Northern greenhorn!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Sickly!\n\nFIRST CADET (mockingly):\n  Hark!\n  Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear:\n  There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name,\n  Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What may that be?\n\nANOTHER CADET (in a terrible voice):\n  See here!\n(He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose):\n  Do you understand?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh! 'tis the. . .\n\nANOTHER:\n  Hush! oh, never breathe that word,\n  Unless you'd reckon with him yonder!\n\n(He points to Cyrano, who is talking with Le Bret.)\n\nANOTHER (who has meanwhile come up noiselessly to sit on the table--whispering\nbehind him):\n  Hark!\n  He put two snuffling men to death, in rage,\n  For the sole reason they spoke through their nose!\n\nANOTHER (in a hollow voice, darting on all-fours from under the table, where\nhe had crept):\n  And if you would not perish in flower o' youth,\n  --Oh, mention not the fatal cartilage!\n\nANOTHER (clapping him on the shoulder):\n  A word?  A gesture!  For the indiscreet\n  His handkerchief may prove his winding-sheet!\n\n(Silence.  All, with crossed arms, look at Christian.  He rises and goes over\nto Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is talking to an officer, and feigns to see\nnothing.)\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Captain!\n\nCARBON (turning and looking at him from head to foot):\n  Sir!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Pray, what skills it best to do\n  To Southerners who swagger?. . .\n\nCARBON:\n  Give them proof\n  That one may be a Northerner, yet brave!\n\n(He turns his back on him.)\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I thank you.\n\nFIRST CADET (to Cyrano):\n  Now the tale!\n\nALL:\n  The tale!\n\nCYRANO (coming toward them):\n  The tale?. . .\n(All bring their stools up, and group round him, listening eagerly.  Christian\nis astride a chair):\n  Well!  I went all alone to meet the band.\n  The moon was shining, clock-like, full i' th' sky,\n  When, suddenly, some careful clockwright passed\n  A cloud of cotton-wool across the case\n  That held this silver watch.  And, presto! heigh!\n  The night was inky black, and all the quays\n  Were hidden in the murky dark.  Gadsooks!\n  One could see nothing further. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Than one's nose!\n\n(Silence.  All slowly rise, looking in terror at Cyrano, who has stopped--\ndumfounded.  Pause.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Who on God's earth is that?\n\nA CADET (whispering):\n  It is a man\n  Who joined to-day.\n\nCYRANO (making a step toward Christian):\n  To-day?\n\nCARBON (in a low voice):\n  Yes. . .his name is\n  The Baron de Neuvil. . .\n\nCYRANO (checking himself):\n  Good!  It is well. . .\n(He turns pale, flushes, makes as if to fall on Christian):\n  I. . .\n(He controls himself):\n  What said I?. . .\n(With a burst of rage):\n  MORDIOUS!. . .\n(Then continues calmly):\n  That it was dark.\n(Astonishment.  The cadets reseat themselves, staring at him):\n  On I went, thinking, 'For a knavish cause\n  I may provoke some great man, some great prince,\n  Who certainly could break'. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  My nose!. . .\n\n(Every one starts up.  Christian balances on his chair.)\n\nCYRANO (in a choked voice):\n  . . .'My teeth!\n  Who would break my teeth, and I, imprudent-like,\n  Was poking. . .'\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  My nose!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  'My finger,. . .in the crack\n  Between the tree and bark!  He may prove strong\n  And rap me. . .'\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Over the nose. . .\n\nCYRANO (wiping his forehead):\n  . . .'O' th' knuckles!  Ay,'\n  But I cried, 'Forward, Gascon!  Duty calls!\n  On, Cyrano!'  And thus I ventured on. . .\n  When, from the shadow, came. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  A crack o' th' nose.\n\nCYRANO:\n  I parry it--find myself. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Nose to nose. . .\n\nCYRANO (bounding on to him):\n  Heaven and earth!\n(All the Gascons leap up to see, but when he is close to Christian he controls\nhimself and continues):\n  . . .With a hundred brawling sots,\n  Who stank. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  A noseful. . .\n\nCYRANO (white, but smiling):\n  Onions, brandy-cups!\n  I leapt out, head well down. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Nosing the wind!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I charge!--gore two, impale one--run him through,\n  One aims at me--Paf! and I parry. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Pif!\n\nCYRANO (bursting out):\n  Great God!  Out! all of you!\n\n(The cadets rush to the doors.)\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  The tiger wakes!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Every man, out!  Leave me alone with him!\n\nSECOND CADET:\n  We shall find him minced fine, minced into hash\n  In a big pasty!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  I am turning pale,\n  And curl up, like a napkin, limp and white!\n\nCARBON:\n  Let us be gone.\n\nANOTHER:\n  He will not leave a crumb!\n\nANOTHER:\n  I die of fright to think what will pass here!\n\nANOTHER (shutting door right):\n  Something too horrible!\n\n(All have gone out by different doors, some by the staircase.  Cyrano and\nChristian are face to face, looking at each other for a moment.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Christian enters with some of the cadets. None of them sit with him. They taunt him for being a northerner, and warn him not to mention Cyrano's nose, as Cyrano may kill him. Christian asks Carbon what a northerner should do when southerners boast too much. Carbon answers that he should show them that a northerner can be as brave as a southerner. The Guards beg Cyrano to tell them the story of what happened at the Porte de Nesle. Christian, in an attempt to demonstrate his courage to the cadets, constantly interrupts Cyrano's narrative to make jokes about his nose. The Guardsare terrified of how Cyrano might respond. Cyrano moves threateningly towards Christian, but on hearing who he is, he stops in his tracks and controls his anger. Christian continues to taunt Cyrano about his nose. Finally, Cyrano can contain himself no longer and orders the other Guards out of the room. They rush out, expecting to return to see Christian's corpse chopped into pieces"}, {"": "316", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\nA field near Windsor.\n\n[Enter CAIUS and RUGBY.]\n\nCAIUS.\nJack Rugby!\n\nRUGBY.\nSir?\n\nCAIUS.\nVat is de clock, Jack?\n\nRUGBY.\n'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his\nPible vell dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead\nalready, if he be come.\n\nRUGBY.\nHe is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your\nrapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.\n\nRUGBY.\nAlas, sir, I cannot fence!\n\nCAIUS.\nVillany, take your rapier.\n\nRUGBY.\nForbear; here's company.\n\n[Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE.]\n\nHOST.\nBless thee, bully doctor!\n\nSHALLOW.\nSave you, Master Doctor Caius!\n\nPAGE.\nNow, good Master Doctor!\n\nSLENDER.\nGive you good morrow, sir.\n\nCAIUS.\nVat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for?\n\nHOST.\nTo see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see\nthee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock,\nthy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian?\nIs he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius?\nmy Galen? my heart of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he\ndead?\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show\nhis face.\n\nHOST.\nThou art a Castalion King Urinal! Hector of Greece, my boy!\n\nCAIUS.\nI pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree\nhours for him, and he is no come.\n\nSHALLOW.\nHe is the wiser man, Master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you\na curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of\nyour professions. Is it not true, Master Page?\n\nPAGE.\nMaster Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now\na man of peace.\n\nSHALLOW.\nBodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if\nI see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are\njustices, and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we have some\nsalt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.\n\nPAGE.\n'Tis true, Master Shallow.\n\nSHALLOW.\nIt will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I come to\nfetch you home. I am sworn of the peace; you have showed yourself\na wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and\npatient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor.\n\nHOST.\nPardon, guest-justice.--A word, Monsieur Mockwater.\n\nCAIUS.\nMock-vater! Vat is dat?\n\nHOST.\nMockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman.--Scurvy\njack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears.\n\nHOST.\nHe will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.\n\nCAIUS.\nClapper-de-claw! Vat is dat?\n\nHOST.\nThat is, he will make thee amends.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me\nvill have it.\n\nHOST.\nAnd I will provoke him to't, or let him wag.\n\nCAIUS.\nMe tank you for dat.\n\nHOST.\nAnd, moreover, bully--but first: Master guest, and Master Page,\nand eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore.\n\n[Aside to them.]\n\nPAGE.\nSir Hugh is there, is he?\n\nHOST.\nHe is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the\ndoctor about by the fields. Will it do well?\n\nSHALLOW.\nWe will do it.\n\nPAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.\nAdieu, good Master Doctor.\n\n[Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape\nto Anne Page.\n\nHOST.\nLet him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler;\ngo about the fields with me through Frogmore; I will bring thee\nwhere Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou\nshalt woo her. Cried I aim? Said I well?\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall\nprocure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de\ngentlemen, my patients.\n\nHOST.\nFor the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page: said I well?\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, 'tis good; vell said.\n\nHOST.\nLet us wag, then.\n\nCAIUS.\nCome at my heels, Jack Rugby.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\nACT III  SCENE 1.\n\nA field near Frogmore.\n\n[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.]\n\nEVANS.\nI pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and friend\nSimple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius,\nthat calls himself doctor of physic?\n\nSIMPLE.\nMarry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way; old Windsor\nway, and every way but the town way.\n\nEVANS.\nI most fehemently desire you you will also look that\nway.\n\nSIMPLE.\nI will, Sir.\n\n[Exit.]\n\nEVANS.\nPless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind!\nI shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am!\nI will knog his urinals about his knave's costard when I have goot\nopportunities for the 'ork: pless my soul! \n\n[Sings]\n   To shallow rivers, to whose falls\n   Melodious birds sings madrigals;\n   There will we make our peds of roses,\n   And a thousand fragrant posies.\n   To shallow--\n\nMercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.\n\n[Sings.]\n   Melodious birds sing madrigals,--\n   Whenas I sat in Pabylon,--\n   And a thousand vagram posies.\n   To shallow,--\n\n[Re-enter SIMPLE.]\n\nSIMPLE.\nYonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh.\n\nEVANS.\nHe's welcome.\n\n[Sings]\n   To shallow rivers, to whose falls--\n\nHeaven prosper the right!--What weapons is he?\n\nSIMPLE.\nNo weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another\ngentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way.\n\nEVANS.\nPray you give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms.\n[Reads in a book.]\n\n[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]\n\nSHALLOW.\nHow now, Master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester\nfrom the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful.\n\nSLENDER.\n[Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page!\n\nPAGE.\n'Save you, good Sir Hugh!\n\nEVANS.\nPless you from his mercy sake, all of you!\n\nSHALLOW.\nWhat, the sword and the word! Do you study them both, Master Parson?\n\nPAGE.\nAnd youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day!\n\nEVANS.\nThere is reasons and causes for it.\n\nPAGE.\nWe are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson.\n\nEVANS.\nFery well; what is it?\n\nPAGE.\nYonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received\nwrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and\npatience that ever you saw.\n\nSHALLOW.\nI have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of\nhis place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect.\n\nEVANS.\nWhat is he?\n\nPAGE.\nI think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French\nphysician.\n\nEVANS.\nGot's will and His passion of my heart! I had as lief you would\ntell me of a mess of porridge.\n\nPAGE.\nWhy?\n\nEVANS.\nHe has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen,--and he is a\nknave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be\nacquainted withal.\n\nPAGE.\nI warrant you, he's the man should fight with him.\n\nSLENDER.\n[Aside] O, sweet Anne Page!\n\nSHALLOW.\nIt appears so, by his weapons. Keep them asunder; here comes\nDoctor Caius.\n\n[Enter HOST, CAIUS, and RUGBY.]\n\nPAGE.\nNay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon.\n\nSHALLOW.\nSo do you, good Master Doctor.\n\nHOST.\nDisarm them, and let them question; let them keep their limbs whole\nand hack our English.\n\nCAIUS.\nI pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear: verefore will you\nnot meet-a me?\n\nEVANS.\n[Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you use your patience; in good time.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape.\n\nEVANS.\n[Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other\nmen's humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or\nother make you amends.\n[Aloud.] I will knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb\nfor missing your meetings and appointments.\n\nCAIUS.\nDiable!--Jack Rugby,--mine Host de Jarretiere,--have I not stay for\nhim to kill him? Have I not, at de place I did appoint?\n\nEVANS.\nAs I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place\nappointed. I'll be judgment by mine host of the Garter.\n\nHOST.\nPeace, I say, Gallia and Gaullia; French and Welsh, soul-curer\nand body-curer!\n\nCAIUS.\nAy, dat is very good; excellent!\n\nHOST.\nPeace, I say! Hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I\nsubtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? No; he gives me\nthe potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest,\nmy Sir Hugh? No; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs.\nGive me thy hand, terrestrial; so;--give me thy hand, celestial;\nso. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you\nto wrong places; your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole,\nand let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn.\nFollow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow.\n\nSHALLOW.\nTrust me, a mad host!--Follow, gentlemen, follow.\n\nSLENDER.\n[Aside] O, sweet Anne Page!\n\n[Exeunt SHALLOW, SLENDER, PAGE, and HOST.]\n\nCAIUS.\nHa, do I perceive dat? Have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha?\n\nEVANS.\nThis is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that\nwe may be friends; and let us knog our prains together to be\nrevenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host\nof the Garter.\n\nCAIUS.\nBy gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne\nPage; by gar, he deceive me too.\n\nEVANS.\nWell, I will smite his noddles. Pray you follow.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In a field near Windsor, Dr. Caius is angry that Evans has not shown up for the duel. Page, Shallow, Slender and the Host enter, telling Caius that they have come to see the duel, even though they know that Evans has been directed to another place, the other side of town. Caius claims Evans is a coward. He still wants to kill him. . The men plan to continue their joke at Caius's expense. They agree to take him to Frogmore, where Evans has been sent. But they tell Caius they are taking him to see Anne Page, and he will have the opportunity to woo her. The Host even promises to be his advocate. . In the next scene, at a field near Frogmore, Evans awaits Caius for the duel and sends Simple out to look for him. After Simple exits, Evans reveals that secretly he is relieved Caius has not shown up. . Page, Shallow and Slender enter. Pretending that they do not know what the situation is, they tell Evans that Caius is nearby, and is very upset at being wronged. In a show of bravado, Evans denounces him as a cowardly knave. . The Host, Caius and Rugby enter. Evans and Caius offer to fight, but Evans also takes Caius aside and offers him friendship, while saying aloud for the benefit of the others that he will beat Caius up for reneging on his appointment. Caius makes some aggressive remarks, but the Host calms the situation down and confesses that he deliberately directed them to different places because he did not want to lose either his doctor  or his priest . He asks them to put away their swords and be reconciled. After the Host exits, Caius and Evans agree to be revenged on him for his deceit. Caius is angry because he was told that he would be meeting Anne Page there. ."}, {"": "317", "document": "THE MEN'S WORKSHOP HANBURY STREET, WHITECHAPEL\n\nThis Salvation Army carpentering and joinery shop has been in\nexistence for about fifteen years, but it does not even now pay its\nway. It was started by the Army in order to assist fallen mechanics by\ngiving them temporary work until they could find other situations.\n\nThe manager informed me that at the beginning they found work for\nabout thirty men. When I visited the place some fifty hands were\nemployed--bricklayers, painters, joiners, etc., none of whom need stop\nan hour longer than they choose. From 100 to 150 men pass through this\nWorkshop in a year, but many of them being elderly and therefore\nunable to obtain work elsewhere, stop for a long while, as the Army\ncannot well get rid of them. All of these folk arrive in a state of\nabsolute destitution, having even sold their tools, the last\npossessions with which a competent workman parts.\n\nThe Parliamentary Committee of the Labour Party and the Trade Unions\nhave recently stirred up a great agitation, which has been widely\nreported in the Press, against the Hanbury Street Workshop, because\nthe Army does not pay the Union rate of wages. As a result the Army\nnow declines all outside contracts, and confines its operations to the\nwork of erecting, repairing, or furnishing its own buildings.\n\nHere it may be stated that these complaints seem to be unreasonable.\nThe men employed have almost without exception been taken off the\nstreets to save them from starvation or the poorhouse. Often enough\nthey are by no means competent at their work, while some of them have\nfor the time being been rendered practically useless through the\neffects of drink or other debaucheries. Yet it is argued with violence\nthat to such people, whom no business firm would employ upon any\nterms, the Army ought to pay the full Trade Union rate of wages. When\nevery allowance is made for the great and urgent problems connected\nwith the cruel practice of 'sweating,' surely this attitude throws a\nstrange light upon some of the methods of the Trade Unions?\n\nThe inference seems to be that they would prefer that these derelicts\nshould come on the rates or starve rather than that the Army should\nhouse and feed them, giving them, in addition, such wage as their\nlabour may be worth. Further comment seems to be needless, especially\nwhen I repeat that, as I am assured, this Hanbury Street Institution\nnever has earned, and does not now earn, the cost of its upkeep.\n\nIt is situated in the heart of a very poor district, and is rather a\nramshackle place to look at, but still quite suitable to its purposes.\nI have observed that one of the characteristics of the Salvation Army\nis that it never spends unnecessary money upon buildings. If it can\nbuy a good house or other suitable structure cheap it does so. If it\ncannot, it makes use of what it can get at a price within its means,\nprovided that the place will satisfy the requirements of the sanitary\nand other Authorities.\n\nAll the machines at Hanbury Street are driven by electric power that\nis supplied by the Stepney Council at a cost of 1_d_. per unit for\npower and 3_d_. per unit for lighting.\n\nAn elderly man whom I saw there attending to this machinery, was\ndismissed by one of the great railway companies when they were\nreducing their hands. He had been in the employ of the Salvation Army\nfor seven years and received the use of a house rent free and a wage\nof 30_s_. a week, which probably he would find it quite impossible to\nearn anywhere else.\n\nThe hours of employment are from 6.30 a.m. to 5.30 p.m. if the man is\nengaged on outside work, or to 6 p.m. if he labours in the workshop,\nand the men are paid at various rates according to the value of their\nwork, and whether they are boarded and lodged, or live outside. Thus\none to whom I spoke, who was the son of a former mayor of an important\ntown, was allowed 3_s._ a week plus food and lodging, while another\nreceived 9_s._ a week, 5_s._ of which was sent to his wife, from whom\nhe was separated. Another man, after living on the Army for about two\nyears, made charges against it to the Carpenters' and Joiners' Union.\nHe returned and apologized, but had practically to be kept under\nrestraint on account of his drinking habits.\n\nAnother man spent twenty years in jail and then walked the streets. He\nis now a very respectable person, earns 27_s._ 6_d._ a week, and lives\noutside with his wife and family. Another was once convicted of\ncruelty to his children, whom he placed under the boards of the\nflooring while he went out to drink. These children are now restored\nto him, and he lives with them. Another among those with whom I\nhappened to speak, was robbed by a relative of L4,000 which his father\nleft to him. He was taken on by the Army in a state of destitution,\nbut I forget what he earned. Another, the youngest man in the Works,\ncame to them without any trade at all and in a destitute condition,\nbut when I saw him was in charge of a morticing machine. He had\nmarried, lived out, and had been in the employ of the Army for five\nyears. His wage was 27_s._ 6_d._ a week. Two others drew as much as L2\n5_s._ 11_d._ each, living out; but, on the other hand, some received\nas little as 3_s._ a week with board and lodging.\n\nAmongst this latter class was a young Mormon from Salt Lake City, who\nearned 4_s._ 6_d._ a week and his board and lodging. He had been in\nthe Elevator about three months, having got drunk in London and missed\nhis ship. Although he attended the Salvation Army meetings, he\nremained a Mormon.\n\nIn these Works all sorts of articles are manufactured to be used by\nother branches of the Salvation Army. Thus I saw poultry-houses being\nmade for the Boxted Small Holdings; these cost from L4 5_s._ to L4\n10_s._ net, and were excellent structures designed to hold about two\ndozen fowls. Further on large numbers of seats of different patterns\nwere in process of manufacture, some of them for children, and other\nlonger ones, with reversible backs, to be used in the numerous Army\nhalls. Next I visited a room in which mattresses and mattress covers\nare made for the various Shelters, also the waterproof bunk bedding,\nwhich costs 7_s._ 9_d._ per cover. Further on, in a separate\ncompartment, was a flock-tearing machine, at which the Mormon I have\nmentioned was employed. This is a very dusty job whereat a man does\nnot work for more than one day in ten.\n\nThen there were the painting and polishing-room, the joinery room, and\nthe room where doors, window frames, and articles of furniture are\nconstructed; also special garden benches, cleverly planned so that the\nseat can be protected from rain. These were designed by a young lady\nwhom I chance to know in private life, and who, as I now discovered\nfor the first time, is also a member of the Salvation Army.\n\nSuch is the Hanbury Street Workshop, where the Army makes the best use\nit can of rather indifferent human materials, and, as I have said,\nloses money at the business.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sassoon wakes up during the night to the sound of screams and running footsteps. Screaming patients are very common at Craiglockhart, and he is thankful that his own roommate does not scream. Nevertheless, Sassoon fears Craiglockhart more than the front; its patients have stammers, stumbling walks, and a look of being \"mental. The next morning, Rivers visits Prior in his room and finds him reading one of the books Rivers published years ago. Prior is the one who was screaming the previous night. He apologizes to Rivers and admits that he wants to impress him. Rivers tells Prior that such a feeling is very common. They begin talking about how Prior \"fit in\" on the front. Prior laughs at the thought that there are no class distinctions on the front; a soldier is judged by what he wears, what he carries, and where he sleeps. They talk for a while about how stupid the military mind is; Prior tells a story about how a man was flogged just for smoking a cigarette. After Rivers gets frustrated with Prior for refusing to discuss his dreams, Prior once again requests hypnosis. Rivers insists he will only do hypnosis if all other methods fail. Rivers and Sassoon reads the daily newspaper. Sassoon's letter has been read in the House of Commons, but after it is announced that he is in a mental hospital, many members of Parliament dismiss his letter as written by a crazy man. Sassoon is angered at the complacency of the British people; they do not even care if a boy who is not even old enough to enlist is killed. After talking a bit more with Rivers, Sassoon leaves. Rivers begins writing Sassoon's medical history for the hospital records. He notes that Sassoon's view of the war differs from that of the ordinary pacifist in that \"he would no longer object to the continuance of the War if he saw any reasonable prospect of a rapid decision. He does not include any mention of Sassoon's homosexuality in the report. That evening, Rivers sits around the table with the other psychiatrists to discuss the cases. They ask him to speak about Sassoon. Richards tells them the facts, and Brock, another doctor, suggests that perhaps they should just leave Sassoon alone. Rivers disagrees; he feels it is his duty to convince Sassoon to go back to the front, since his grief and horror should not be allowed to dominate his actions"}, {"": "318", "document": "Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise.  Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired\nair, at a small table, and counting on his fingers.\n\nFIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish):\n  Fruits in nougat!\n\nSECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish):\n  Custard!\n\nTHIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers):\n  Peacock!\n\nFOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab):\n  Rissoles!\n\nFIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish):\n  Beef jelly!\n\nRAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head):\n  Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O\nRagueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song!  Anon shall\ncome the hour of the lute!--now 'tis the hour of the oven!\n(He rises.  To a cook):\n  You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short!\n\nTHE COOK:\n  How much too short?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Three feet.\n\n(He passes on farther.)\n\nTHE COOK:\n  What means he?\n\nFIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau):\n  The tart!\n\nSECOND PASTRY-COOK:\n  The pie!\n\nRAGUENEAU (before the fire):\n  My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze!\n(To a cook, showing him some loaves):\n  You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that\nthe coesura should be between the hemistiches?\n(To another, showing him an unfinished pasty):\n  To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . .\n(To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls):\n  And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb\nturkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate\nhis long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in\nstrophes, turn before the flame!\n\nANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin):\n  Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will\nplease you, I hope.\n\n(He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (enchanted):\n  A lyre!\n\nTHE APPRENTICE:\n  'Tis of brioche pastry.\n\nRAGUENEAU (touched):\n  With conserved fruits.\n\nTHE APPRENTICE:\n  The strings, see, are of sugar.\n\nRAGUENEAU (giving him a coin):\n  Go, drink my health!\n(Seeing Lise enter):\n  Hush!  My wife.  Bustle, pass on, and hide that money!\n(To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look):\n  Is it not beautiful?\n\nLISE:\n  'Tis passing silly!\n\n(She puts a pile of papers on the counter.)\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Bags?  Good.  I thank you.\n(He looks at them):\n  Heavens! my cherished leaves!  The poems of my friends!  Torn, dismembered,\nto make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again.\n. .Orpheus and the Bacchantes!\n\nLISE (dryly):\n  And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your\nwretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers!\n\nLISE:\n  Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not\ncall your wife ant and Bacchante!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  To turn fair verse to such a use!\n\nLISE:\n  'Faith, 'tis all it's good for.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose?\n\n\n\n\nThe same.  Two children, who have just trotted into the shop.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  What would you, little ones?\n\nFIRST CHILD:\n  Three pies.\n\nRAGUENEAU (serving them):\n  See, hot and well browned.\n\nSECOND CHILD:\n  If it please you, Sir, will you wrap them up for us?\n\nRAGUENEAU (aside, distressed):\n  Alas! one of my bags!\n(To the children):\n  What?  Must I wrap them up?\n(He takes a bag, and just as he is about to put in the pies, he reads):\n  'Ulysses thus, on leaving fair Penelope. . .'\n  Not that one!\n(He puts it aside, and takes another, and as he is about to put in the pies,\nhe reads):\n  'The gold-locked Phoebus. . .'\n  Nay, nor that one!. . .\n\n(Same play.)\n\nLISE (impatiently):\n  What are you dallying for?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Here! here! here\n(He chooses a third, resignedly):\n  The sonnet to Phillis!. . .but 'tis hard to part with it!\n\nLISE:\n  By good luck he has made up his mind at last!\n(Shrugging her shoulders):\n  Nicodemus!\n\n(She mounts on a chair, and begins to range plates on a dresser.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (taking advantage of the moment she turns her back, calls back the\nchildren, who are already at the door):\n  Hist! children!. . .render me back the sonnet to Phillis, and you shall have\nsix pies instead of three.\n\n(The children give him back the bag, seize the cakes quickly, and go out.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (smoothing out the paper, begins to declaim):\n  'Phillis!. . .'  On that sweet name a smear of butter!  'Phillis!. . .'\n\n(Cyrano enters hurriedly.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Act II takes place in the pastry shop owned by Ragueneau, who was introduced in Act I. Ragueneau's wife, Lise, has more business sense and less love of poetry than her husband-she has made sacks out of the poems his friends have left in payment for food. Two children make a small purchase, and Lise wraps their pastries in the pages of poetry. When his wife is not looking, Ragueneau calls the children back and trades them three more pastries for the poems."}, {"": "319", "document": "HAVING fully resolved to leave the vessel clandestinely, and having\nacquired all the knowledge concerning the bay that I could obtain under\nthe circumstances in which I was placed, I now deliberately turned over\nin my mind every plan to escape that suggested itself, being determined\nto act with all possible prudence in an attempt where failure would be\nattended with so many disagreeable consequences. The idea of being\ntaken and brought back ignominiously to the ship was so inexpressibly\nrepulsive to me, that I was determined by no hasty and imprudent\nmeasures to render such an event probable.\n\nI knew that our worthy captain, who felt, such a paternal solicitude\nfor the welfare of his crew, would not willingly consent that one of his\nbest hands should encounter the perils of a sojourn among the natives\nof a barbarous island; and I was certain that in the event of my\ndisappearance, his fatherly anxiety would prompt him to offer, by way of\na reward, yard upon yard of gaily printed calico for my apprehension.\nHe might even have appreciated my services at the value of a musket, in\nwhich case I felt perfectly certain that the whole population of the\nbay would be immediately upon my track, incited by the prospect of so\nmagnificent a bounty.\n\nHaving ascertained the fact before alluded to, that the islanders,--from\nmotives of precaution, dwelt altogether in the depths of the valleys,\nand avoided wandering about the more elevated portions of the shore,\nunless bound on some expedition of war or plunder, I concluded that if\nI could effect unperceived a passage to the mountain, I might easily\nremain among them, supporting myself by such fruits as came in my way\nuntil the sailing of the ship, an event of which I could not fail to be\nimmediately apprised, as from my lofty position I should command a view\nof the entire harbour.\n\nThe idea pleased me greatly. It seemed to combine a great deal of\npracticability with no inconsiderable enjoyment in a quiet way; for how\ndelightful it would be to look down upon the detested old vessel from\nthe height of some thousand feet, and contrast the verdant scenery about\nme with the recollection of her narrow decks and gloomy forecastle! Why,\nit was really refreshing even to think of it; and so I straightway fell\nto picturing myself seated beneath a cocoanut tree on the brow of the\nmountain, with a cluster of plantains within easy reach, criticizing her\nnautical evolutions as she was working her way out of the harbour.\n\nTo be sure there was one rather unpleasant drawback to these agreeable\nanticipations--the possibility of falling in with a foraging party of\nthese same bloody-minded Typees, whose appetites, edged perhaps by the\nair of so elevated a region, might prompt them to devour one. This, I\nmust confess, was a most disagreeable view of the matter.\n\nJust to think of a party of these unnatural gourmands taking it into\ntheir heads to make a convivial meal of a poor devil, who would have\nno means of escape or defence: however, there was no help for it. I was\nwilling to encounter some risks in order to accomplish my object, and\ncounted much upon my ability to elude these prowling cannibals amongst\nthe many coverts which the mountains afforded. Besides, the chances\nwere ten to one in my favour that they would none of them quit their own\nfastnesses.\n\nI had determined not to communicate my design of withdrawing from the\nvessel to any of my shipmates, and least of all to solicit any one to\naccompany me in my flight. But it so happened one night, that being upon\ndeck, revolving over in my mind various plans of escape, I perceived one\nof the ship's company leaning over the bulwarks, apparently plunged in a\nprofound reverie. He was a young fellow about my own age, for whom I\nhad all along entertained a great regard; and Toby, such was the name\nby which he went among us, for his real name he would never tell us, was\nevery way worthy of it. He was active, ready and obliging, of dauntless\ncourage, and singularly open and fearless in the expression of his\nfeelings. I had on more than one occasion got him out of scrapes into\nwhich this had led him; and I know not whether it was from this cause,\nor a certain congeniality of sentiment between us, that he had always\nshown a partiality for my society. We had battled out many a long watch\ntogether, beguiling the weary hours with chat, song, and story, mingled\nwith a good many imprecations upon the hard destiny it seemed our common\nfortune to encounter.\n\nToby, like myself, had evidently moved in a different sphere of life,\nand his conversation at times betrayed this, although he was anxious\nto conceal it. He was one of that class of rovers you sometimes meet\nat sea, who never reveal their origin, never allude to home, and go\nrambling over the world as if pursued by some mysterious fate they\ncannot possibly elude.\n\nThere was much even in the appearance of Toby calculated to draw me\ntowards him, for while the greater part of the crew were as coarse in\nperson as in mind, Toby was endowed with a remarkably prepossessing\nexterior. Arrayed in his blue frock and duck trousers, he was as smart a\nlooking sailor as ever stepped upon a deck; he was singularly small\nand slightly made, with great flexibility of limb. His naturally dark\ncomplexion had been deepened by exposure to the tropical sun, and a mass\nof jetty locks clustered about his temples, and threw a darker shade\ninto his large black eyes. He was a strange wayward being, moody,\nfitful, and melancholy--at times almost morose. He had a quick and fiery\ntemper too, which, when thoroughly roused, transported him into a state\nbordering on delirium.\n\nIt is strange the power that a mind of deep passion has over feebler\nnatures. I have seen a brawny, fellow, with no lack of ordinary courage,\nfairly quail before this slender stripling, when in one of his curious\nfits. But these paroxysms seldom occurred, and in them my big-hearted\nshipmate vented the bile which more calm-tempered individuals get rid of\nby a continual pettishness at trivial annoyances.\n\nNo one ever saw Toby laugh. I mean in the hearty abandonment of\nbroad-mouthed mirth. He did smile sometimes, it is true; and there was\na good deal of dry, sarcastic humour about him, which told the more from\nthe imperturbable gravity of his tone and manner.\n\nLatterly I had observed that Toby's melancholy had greatly increased,\nand I had frequently seen him since our arrival at the island gazing\nwistfully upon the shore, when the remainder of the crew would be\nrioting below. I was aware that he entertained a cordial detestation\nof the ship, and believed that, should a fair chance of escape present\nitself, he would embrace it willingly.\n\nBut the attempt was so perilous in the place where we then lay, that\nI supposed myself the only individual on board the ship who was\nsufficiently reckless to think of it. In this, however, I was mistaken.\n\nWhen I perceived Toby leaning, as I have mentioned, against the bulwarks\nand buried in thought, it struck me at once that the subject of his\nmeditations might be the same as my own. And if it be so, thought I,\nis he not the very one of all my shipmates whom I would choose: for the\npartner of my adventure? and why should I not have some comrade with me\nto divide its dangers and alleviate its hardships? Perhaps I might be\nobliged to lie concealed among the mountains for weeks. In such an event\nwhat a solace would a companion be?\n\nThese thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and I wondered why I had\nnot before considered the matter in this light. But it was not too late.\nA tap upon the shoulder served to rouse Toby from his reverie; I found\nhim ripe for the enterprise, and a very few words sufficed for a mutual\nunderstanding between us. In an hour's time we had arranged all the\npreliminaries, and decided upon our plan of action. We then ratified our\nengagement with an affectionate wedding of palms, and to elude suspicion\nrepaired each to his hammock, to spend the last night on board the\nDolly.\n\nThe next day the starboard watch, to which we both belonged, was to be\nsent ashore on liberty; and, availing ourselves of this opportunity,\nwe determined, as soon after landing as possible, to separate ourselves\nfrom the rest of the men without exciting their suspicions, and strike\nback at once for the mountains. Seen from the ship, their summits\nappeared inaccessible, but here and there sloping spurs extended from\nthem almost into the sea, buttressing the lofty elevations with which\nthey were connected, and forming those radiating valleys I have before\ndescribed. One of these ridges, which appeared more practicable than the\nrest, we determined to climb, convinced that it would conduct us to\nthe heights beyond. Accordingly, we carefully observed its bearings and\nlocality from the ship, so that when ashore we should run no chance of\nmissing it.\n\nIn all this the leading object we had in view was to seclude ourselves\nfrom sight until the departure of the vessel; then to take our chance as\nto the reception the Nukuheva natives might give us; and after remaining\nupon the island as long as we found our stay agreeable, to leave it the\nfirst favourable opportunity that offered.\n\n\n", "summary": "Now that Tommo's decided he'll escape his post on the ship, he begins to make preparations. He decides that, if he can get to the mountains and stay with the kind Happars, he can watch his ship sail off, then return to the coast and catch a ride on a different boat home. All he needs to do is avoid those fearsome Typees. Tommo is planning on leaving alone, and in secret, but as he's hanging out with his shipmate Toby one night, it becomes obvious that Toby is also unhappy on the ship. Tommo decides to tell him the plan, and invite him along. Within an hour, Toby has taken up the escape planning and the two friends spend the next day gathering information."}, {"": "320", "document": "Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche.  Then Le Bret and\nRagueneau.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  And you stay here still--ever vainly fair,\n  Ever in weeds?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ever.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Still faithful?\n\nROXANE:\n  Still.\n\nTHE DUKE (after a pause):\n  Am I forgiven?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, since I am here.\n\n(Another pause.)\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  His was a soul, you say?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!--when you knew him!\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him!\n  . . .And his last letter, ever next your heart?\n\nROXANE:\n  Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  And, dead, you love him still?\n\nROXANE:\n  At times,--meseems\n  He is but partly dead--our hearts still speak,\n  As if his love, still living, wrapped me round!\n\nTHE DUKE (after another pause):\n  Cyrano comes to see you?\n\nROXANE:\n  Often, ay.\n  Dear, kind old friend!  We call him my 'Gazette.'\n  He never fails to come:  beneath this tree\n  They place his chair, if it be fine:--I wait,\n  I broider;--the clock strikes;--at the last stroke\n  I hear,--for now I never turn to look--\n  Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps;\n  He seats himself:--with gentle raillery\n  He mocks my tapestry that's never done;\n  He tells me all the gossip of the week. . .\n(Le Bret appears on the steps):\n  Why, here's Le Bret!\n(Le Bret descends):\n  How goes it with our friend?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Ill!--very ill.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  How?\n\nROXANE (to the Duke):\n  He exaggerates!\n\nLE BRET:\n  All that I prophesied:  desertion, want!. . .\n  His letters now make him fresh enemies!--\n  Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout,\n  Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check;\n  None get the better of him.\n\nTHE DUKE (shaking his head):\n  Time will show!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,--\n  Solitude--hunger--cold December days,\n  That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:--\n  Lo! the assassins that I fear for him!\n  Each day he tightens by one hole his belt:\n  That poor nose--tinted like old ivory:\n  He has retained one shabby suit of serge.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!--\n  Yet is not to be pitied!\n\nLE BRET (with a bitter smile):\n  My Lord Marshal!. . .\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Pity him not!  He has lived out his vows,\n  Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free!\n\nLE BRET (in the same tone):\n  My Lord!. . .\n\nTHE DUKE (haughtily):\n  True!  I have all, and he has naught;. . .\n  Yet I were proud to take his hand!\n(Bowing to Roxane):\n  Adieu!\n\nROXANE:\n  I go with you.\n\n(The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.)\n\nTHE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up):\n  Ay, true,--I envy him.\n  Look you, when life is brimful of success\n  --Though the past hold no action foul--one feels\n  A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum\n  Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest;\n  And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame,\n  The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds\n  A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets,\n  A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when,\n  Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe\n  Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves.\n\nROXANE (ironically):\n  You are pensive?\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  True!  I am!\n(As he is going out, suddenly):\n  Monsieur Le Bret!\n(To Roxane):\n  A word, with your permission?\n(He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice):\n  True, that none\n  Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him;\n  Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said\n  'That Cyrano may die--by accident!'\n  Let him stay in--be prudent!\n\nLE BRET (raising his arms to heaven):\n  Prudent!  He!. . .\n  He's coming here.  I'll warn him--but!. . .\n\nROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her):\n  What is it?\n\nTHE SISTER:\n  Ragueneau would see you, Madame.\n\nROXANE:\n  Let him come.\n(To the Duke and Le Bret):\n  He comes to tell his troubles.  Having been\n  An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now\n  By turns he's singer. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Bathing-man. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Then actor. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Beadle. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Wig-maker. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Teacher of the lute. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  What will he be to-day, by chance?\n\nRAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly):\n  Ah!  Madame!\n(He sees Le Bret):\n  Ah! you here, Sir!\n\nROXANE (smiling):\n  Tell all your miseries\n  To him; I will return anon.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  But, Madame. . .\n\n(Roxane goes out with the Duke.  Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.)\n\n\n\n\nLe Bret, Ragueneau.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know!\n  I was going to your friend just now--was but\n  A few steps from the house, when I saw him\n  Go out.  I hurried to him.  Saw him turn\n  The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window\n  Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be!\n  A lackey let fall a large piece of wood.\n\nLE BRET:\n  Cowards!  O Cyrano!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  I ran--I saw. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  'Tis hideous!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Saw our poet, Sir--our friend--\n  Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head!\n\nLE BRET:\n  He's dead?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  No--but--I bore him to his room. . .\n  Ah! his room!  What a thing to see!--that garret!\n\nLE BRET:\n  He suffers?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  No, his consciousness has flown.\n\nLE BRET:\n  Saw you a doctor?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  One was kind--he came.\n\nLE BRET:\n  My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this\n  To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?--\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!--\n  Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!--\n  But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!--\n  And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die!\n\nLE BRET (dragging him toward the right):\n  Come!  Through the chapel!  'Tis the quickest way!\n\nROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade\nleading to the chapel door):\n  Monsieur le Bret!\n(Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering):\n  Le Bret goes--when I call!\n'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's.\n\n(She descends the steps.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Roxane is talking to De Guiche, who is now the Duc de Grammont. Roxane has lived in the convent in mourning for all these years, always carrying \"Christian's last letter\" next to her heart. Le Bret enters. They worry about Cyrano, who always seems to be cold, hungry, and alone, and whose writings have made him new enemies. De Guiche admits that, in spite of all he has and all that Cyrano lacks, Cyrano in his poverty is the better and happier man. In other words, things of the spirit are of more value and are nobler than material things. De Guiche then calls Le Bret aside and tells him that Cyrano is in danger of his life. As Roxane walks with the duke, Ragueneau enters hurriedly. He tells Le Bret that Cyrano has had an \"accident\" -- someone has dropped a heavy log of wood on his head as he passed beneath a window. Ragueneau has carried Cyrano to his room. The two men hurry to him."}, {"": "321", "document": "SCENE 5.\n\n                   The English camp near Bordeaux\n\n                    Enter TALBOT and JOHN his son\n\n  TALBOT. O young John Talbot! I did send for thee\n    To tutor thee in stratagems of war,\n    That Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd\n    When sapless age and weak unable limbs\n    Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.\n    But, O malignant and ill-boding stars!\n    Now thou art come unto a feast of death,\n    A terrible and unavoided danger;\n    Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse,\n    And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape\n    By sudden flight. Come, dally not, be gone.\n  JOHN. Is my name Talbot, and am I your son?\n    And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother,\n    Dishonour not her honourable name,\n    To make a bastard and a slave of me!\n    The world will say he is not Talbot's blood\n    That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.\n  TALBOT. Fly to revenge my death, if I be slain.\n  JOHN. He that flies so will ne'er return again.\n  TALBOT. If we both stay, we both are sure to die.\n  JOHN. Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly.\n    Your loss is great, so your regard should be;\n    My worth unknown, no loss is known in me;\n    Upon my death the French can little boast;\n    In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.\n    Flight cannot stain the honour you have won;\n    But mine it will, that no exploit have done;\n    You fled for vantage, every one will swear;\n    But if I bow, they'll say it was for fear.\n    There is no hope that ever I will stay\n    If the first hour I shrink and run away.\n    Here, on my knee, I beg mortality,\n    Rather than life preserv'd with infamy.\n  TALBOT. Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb?\n  JOHN. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb.\n  TALBOT. Upon my blessing I command thee go.\n  JOHN. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.\n  TALBOT. Part of thy father may be sav'd in thee.\n  JOHN. No part of him but will be shame in me.\n  TALBOT. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it.\n  JOHN. Yes, your renowned name; shall flight abuse it?\n  TALBOT. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain.\n  JOHN. You cannot witness for me, being slain.\n    If death be so apparent, then both fly.\n  TALBOT. And leave my followers here to fight and die?\n    My age was never tainted with such shame.\n  JOHN. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?\n    No more can I be severed from your side\n    Than can yourself yourself yourself in twain divide.\n    Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I;\n    For live I will not if my father die.\n  TALBOT. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son,\n    Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.\n    Come, side by side together live and die;\n    And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.         Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Talbot enters with his son, John. He had planned to use the siege of Bordeaux to teach his son the art of war, so that John could take over from his father after the latter's death. But now Talbot knows that John will certainly be killed if he stays for the battle, so he tells him to flee. John refuses to desert his father. Talbot says if they both stay, they will both die. John tells his father to flee and says he himself will stay, since his own death would be no great loss to the English and would not be significant enough for the French to boast about. John adds that he prefers an honorable death than a life lived in shame. Talbot worries that his wife, the boy's mother, will be left without husband or son, but John replies that his mother would not want to be shamed by a cowardly son. They argue further, but eventually Talbot agrees that they will live or die together. ."}, {"": "322", "document": "III. The Shadow\n\n\nOne of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.\nLorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to\nimperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under\nthe Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded\nfor Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust\nhe held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict\nman of business.\n\nAt first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out\nthe wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to\nthe safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the\nsame consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the\nmost violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in\nits dangerous workings.\n\nNoon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay\ntending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said\nthat her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that\nQuarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to\nthis, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and\nhe were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry\nwent out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up\nin a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows\nof a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.\n\nTo this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:\ngiving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.\nHe left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear\nconsiderable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.\nA disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly\nand heavily the day lagged on with him.\n\nIt wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He\nwas again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to\ndo next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a\nman stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,\naddressed him by his name.\n\n\"Your servant,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Do you know me?\"\n\nHe was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five\nto fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of\nemphasis, the words:\n\n\"Do you know me?\"\n\n\"I have seen you somewhere.\"\n\n\"Perhaps at my wine-shop?\"\n\nMuch interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: \"You come from Doctor\nManette?\"\n\n\"Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.\"\n\n\"And what says he? What does he send me?\"\n\nDefarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the\nwords in the Doctor's writing:\n\n    \"Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.\n     I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note\n     from Charles to his wife.  Let the bearer see his wife.\"\n\nIt was dated from La Force, within an hour.\n\n\"Will you accompany me,\" said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading\nthis note aloud, \"to where his wife resides?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Defarge.\n\nScarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical\nway Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the\ncourtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.\n\n\"Madame Defarge, surely!\" said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly\nthe same attitude some seventeen years ago.\n\n\"It is she,\" observed her husband.\n\n\"Does Madame go with us?\" inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as\nthey moved.\n\n\"Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.\nIt is for their safety.\"\n\nBeginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously\nat him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being\nThe Vengeance.\n\nThey passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,\nascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,\nand found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the\ntidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that\ndelivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in\nthe night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.\n\n     \"DEAREST,--Take courage.  I am well, and your father has\n      influence around me.  You cannot answer this.\n      Kiss our child for me.\"\n\nThat was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received\nit, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the\nhands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly\naction, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took\nto its knitting again.\n\nThere was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in\nthe act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her\nneck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted\neyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.\n\n\"My dear,\" said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; \"there are frequent\nrisings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever\ntrouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power\nto protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she\nmay identify them. I believe,\" said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his\nreassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself\nupon him more and more, \"I state the case, Citizen Defarge?\"\n\nDefarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a\ngruff sound of acquiescence.\n\n\"You had better, Lucie,\" said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to\npropitiate, by tone and manner, \"have the dear child here, and our\ngood Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no\nFrench.\"\n\nThe lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a\nmatch for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,\nappeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,\nwhom her eyes first encountered, \"Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope\n_you_ are pretty well!\" She also bestowed a British cough on Madame\nDefarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.\n\n\"Is that his child?\" said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the\nfirst time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it\nwere the finger of Fate.\n\n\"Yes, madame,\" answered Mr. Lorry; \"this is our poor prisoner's darling\ndaughter, and only child.\"\n\nThe shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so\nthreatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively\nkneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The\nshadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,\nthreatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.\n\n\"It is enough, my husband,\" said Madame Defarge. \"I have seen them. We\nmay go.\"\n\nBut, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and\npresented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as\nshe laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:\n\n\"You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will\nhelp me to see him if you can?\"\n\n\"Your husband is not my business here,\" returned Madame Defarge, looking\ndown at her with perfect composure. \"It is the daughter of your father\nwho is my business here.\"\n\n\"For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She\nwill put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more\nafraid of you than of these others.\"\n\nMadame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.\nDefarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,\ncollected his face into a sterner expression.\n\n\"What is it that your husband says in that little letter?\" asked Madame\nDefarge, with a lowering smile. \"Influence; he says something touching\ninfluence?\"\n\n\"That my father,\" said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her\nbreast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, \"has\nmuch influence around him.\"\n\n\"Surely it will release him!\" said Madame Defarge. \"Let it do so.\"\n\n\"As a wife and mother,\" cried Lucie, most earnestly, \"I implore you to\nhave pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against\nmy innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think\nof me. As a wife and mother!\"\n\nMadame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,\nturning to her friend The Vengeance:\n\n\"The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little\nas this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have\nknown _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,\noften enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in\nthemselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,\nsickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?\"\n\n\"We have seen nothing else,\" returned The Vengeance.\n\n\"We have borne this a long time,\" said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes\nagain upon Lucie. \"Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife\nand mother would be much to us now?\"\n\nShe resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge\nwent last, and closed the door.\n\n\"Courage, my dear Lucie,\" said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. \"Courage,\ncourage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of\nlate gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.\"\n\n\"I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a\nshadow on me and on all my hopes.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" said Mr. Lorry; \"what is this despondency in the brave\nlittle breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.\"\n\nBut the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,\nfor all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Mr. Lorry is concerned that Lucie and her child could also be in danger and their presence in the bank could also endanger this institution. He, therefore, finds them an apartment nearby and charges Jerry Cruncher to protect them. There has been no word from Dr. Manette. Defarge meets Mr. Lorry and has a letter from the Doctor that states that Darnay is safe for the moment. He also has a note from Darnay for Lucie and he takes it to her accompanied by Mr. Lorry. Mme. Defarge and the grocer's wife, who is called the Vengeance, join them. The women wish to see Lucie and her child so that they can be identified and put under their protection. Lucie thanks Mme. Defarge and begs her to help Darnay. She is cold to Lucie's pleas. When Miss Pross and young Lucie present themselves to Mme. Defarge all her attention is focused on young Lucie, hardly noticing Miss Pross."}, {"": "323", "document": "Ragueneau, Lise, the musketeer.  Cyrano at the little table writing.  The\npoets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud.\n\nLISE (entering, to Ragueneau):\n  Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends!\n\nFIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau):\n  Brother in art!. . .\n\nSECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands):\n  Dear brother!\n\nTHIRD POET:\n  High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks!\n(He sniffs):\n  Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie!\n\nFOURTH POET:\n  'Tis at Phoebus' own rays that thy roasts turn!\n\nFIFTH POET:\n  Apollo among master-cooks--\n\nRAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace):\n  Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . .\n\nFIRST POET:\n  We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. .\n.\n\nSECOND POET:\n  Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there--all slit open\nwith sword-gashes!\n\nCYRANO (raising his head a minute):\n  Eight?. . .hold, methought seven.\n\n(He goes on writing.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (to Cyrano):\n  Know you who might be the hero of the fray?\n\nCYRANO (carelessly):\n  Not I.\n\nLISE (to the musketeer):\n  And you?  Know you?\n\nTHE MUSKETEER (twirling his mustache):\n  Maybe!\n\nCYRANO (writing a little way off:--he is heard murmuring a word from time to\ntime):\n  'I love thee!'\n\nFIRST POET:\n  'Twas one man, say they all, ay, swear to it, one man who, single-handed,\nput the whole band to the rout!\n\nSECOND POET:\n  'Twas a strange sight!--pikes and cudgels strewed thick upon the ground.\n\nCYRANO (writing):\n  . . .'Thine eyes'. . .\n\nTHIRD POET:\n  And they were picking up hats all the way to the Quai d'Orfevres!\n\nFIRST POET:\n  Sapristi! but he must have been a ferocious. . .\n\nCYRANO (same play):\n  . . .'Thy lips'. . .\n\nFIRST POET:\n  'Twas a parlous fearsome giant that was the author of such exploits!\n\nCYRANO (same play):\n  . . .'And when I see thee come, I faint for fear.'\n\nSECOND POET (filching a cake):\n  What hast rhymed of late, Ragueneau?\n\nCYRANO (same play):\n  . . .'Who worships thee'. . .\n(He stops, just as he is about to sign, and gets up, slipping the letter into\nhis doublet):\n  No need I sign, since I give it her myself.\n\nRAGUENEAU (to second poet):\n  I have put a recipe into verse.\n\nTHIRD POET (seating himself by a plate of cream-puffs):\n  Go to!  Let us hear these verses!\n\nFOURTH POET (looking at a cake which he has taken):\n  Its cap is all a' one side!\n\n(He makes one bite of the top.)\n\nFIRST POET:\n  See how this gingerbread woos the famished rhymer with its almond eyes, and\nits eyebrows of angelica!\n\n(He takes it.)\n\nSECOND POET:\n  We listen.\n\nTHIRD POET (squeezing a cream-puff gently):\n  How it laughs!  Till its very cream runs over!\n\nSECOND POET (biting a bit off the great lyre of pastry):\n  This is the first time in my life that ever I drew any means of nourishing\nme from the lyre!\n\nRAGUENEAU (who has put himself ready for reciting, cleared his throat, settled\nhis cap, struck an attitude):\n  A recipe in verse!. . .\n\nSECOND POET (to first, nudging him):\n  You are breakfasting?\n\nFIRST POET (to second):\n  And you dining, methinks.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  How almond tartlets are made.\n\n  Beat your eggs up, light and quick;\n    Froth them thick;\n  Mingle with them while you beat\n  Juice of lemon, essence fine;\n    Then combine\n  The burst milk of almonds sweet.\n\n  Circle with a custard paste\n    The slim waist\n  Of your tartlet-molds; the top\n  With a skillful finger print,\n    Nick and dint,\n  Round their edge, then, drop by drop,\n  In its little dainty bed\n    Your cream shed:\n  In the oven place each mold:\n  Reappearing, softly browned,\n    The renowned\n  Almond tartlets you behold!\n\nTHE POETS (with mouths crammed full):\n  Exquisite!  Delicious!\n\nA POET (choking):\n  Homph!\n\n(They go up, eating.)\n\nCYRANO (who has been watching, goes toward Ragueneau):\n  Lulled by your voice, did you see how they were stuffing themselves?\n\nRAGUENEAU (in a low voice, smiling):\n  Oh, ay!  I see well enough, but I never will seem to look, fearing to\ndistress them; thus I gain a double pleasure when I recite to them my poems;\nfor I leave those poor fellows who have not breakfasted free to eat, even\nwhile I gratify my own dearest foible, see you?\n\nCYRANO (clapping him on the shoulder):\n  Friend, I like you right well!. . .\n(Ragueneau goes after his friends.  Cyrano follows him with his eyes, then,\nrather sharply):\n  Ho there!  Lise!\n(Lise, who is talking tenderly to the musketeer, starts, and comes down toward\nCyrano):\n  So this fine captain is laying siege to you?\n\nLISE (offended):\n  One haughty glance of my eye can conquer any man that should dare venture\naught 'gainst my virtue.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Pooh!  Conquering eyes, methinks, are oft conquered eyes.\n\nLISE (choking with anger):\n  But--\n\nCYRANO (incisively):\n  I like Ragueneau well, and so--mark me, Dame Lise--I permit not that he be\nrendered a laughing-stock by any. . .\n\nLISE:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO (who has raised his voice so as to be heard by the gallant):\n  A word to the wise. . .\n\n(He bows to the musketeer, and goes to the doorway to watch, after looking at\nthe clock.)\n\nLISE (to the musketeer, who has merely bowed in answer to Cyrano's bow):\n  How now?  Is this your courage?. . .Why turn you not a jest on his nose?\n\nTHE MUSKETEER:\n  On his nose?. . .ay, ay. . .his nose.\n\n(He goes quickly farther away; Lise follows him.)\n\nCYRANO (from the doorway, signing to Ragueneau to draw the poets away):\n  Hist!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (showing them the door on the right):\n  We shall be more private there. . .\n\nCYRANO (impatiently):\n  Hist!  Hist!. . .\n\nRAGUENEAU (drawing them farther):\n  To read poetry, 'tis better here. . .\n\nFIRST POET (despairingly, with his mouth full):\n  What! leave the cakes?. . .\n\nSECOND POET:\n  Never!  Let's take them with us!\n\n(They all follow Ragueneau in procession, after sweeping all the cakes off the\ntrays.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Some poets arrive and begin eating Ragueneau's wares, describing the food poetically and thereby delighting the baker. Cyrano tries to write something to Roxane. When Ragueneau leaves, Cyrano warns Lise that Ragueneau is his friend and that he will not tolerate her having an affair with the musketeer. The musketeer hears what he says but does not dare to challenge Cyrano"}, {"": "324", "document": "\nTHE ATTACK\n\n\nAs soon as Silver disappeared, the captain, who had been closely\nwatching him, turned toward the interior of the house, and found not a\nman of us at his post but Gray. It was the first time we had ever seen\nhim angry.\n\n\"Quarters!\" he roared. And then, as we slunk back to our places, \"Gray,\"\nhe said, \"I'll put your name in the log; you've stood by your duty like\na seaman. Mr. Trelawney, I'm surprised at you, sir. Doctor, I thought\nyou had worn the king's coat! If that was how you served at Fontenoy,\nsir, you'd have been better in your berth.\"\n\nThe doctor's watch were all back at their loopholes, the rest were busy\nloading the spare muskets, and everyone with a red face, you may be\ncertain, and a flea in his ear, as the saying is.\n\nThe captain looked on for a while in silence. Then he spoke.\n\n\"My lads,\" he said, \"I've given Silver a broadside. I pitched it in\nred-hot on purpose; and before the hour's out, as he said, we shall be\nboarded. We're outnumbered, I needn't tell you that, but we fight in\nshelter; and, a minute ago, I should have said we fought with\ndiscipline. I've no manner of doubt that we can drub them, if you\nchoose.\"\n\nThen he went the rounds, and saw, as he said, that all was clear.\n\nOn the two short sides of the house, east and west, there were only two\nloopholes; on the south side where the porch was, two again; and on the\nnorth side, five. There was a round score of muskets for the seven of\nus; the firewood had been built into four piles--tables, you might\nsay--one about the middle of each side, and on each of these tables some\nammunition and four loaded muskets were laid ready to the hand of the\ndefenders. In the middle, the cutlasses lay ranged.\n\n\"Toss out the fire,\" said the captain; \"the chill is past, and we\nmustn't have smoke in our eyes.\"\n\nThe iron fire basket was carried bodily out by Mr. Trelawney, and the\nembers smothered among sand.\n\n\"Hawkins hasn't had his breakfast. Hawkins, help yourself, and back to\nyour post to eat it,\" continued Captain Smollett. \"Lively, now, my lad;\nyou'll want it before you've done. Hunter, serve out a round of brandy\nto all hands.\"\n\nAnd while this was going on the captain completed, in his own mind, the\nplan of the defense.\n\n\"Doctor, you will take the door,\" he resumed. \"See and don't expose\nyourself; keep within, and fire through the porch. Hunter, take the east\nside, there. Joyce, you stand by the west, my man. Mr. Trelawney, you\nare the best shot--you and Gray will take this long north side, with the\nfive loopholes; it's there the danger is. If they can get up to it, and\nfire in upon us through our own ports, things would begin to look dirty.\nHawkins, neither you nor I are much account at the shooting; we'll stand\nby to load and bear a hand.\"\n\nAs the captain had said, the chill was past. As soon as the sun had\nclimbed above our girdle of trees, it fell with all its force upon the\nclearing, and drank up the vapors at a draught. Soon the sand was\nbaking, and the resin melting in the logs of the blockhouse. Jackets and\ncoats were flung aside; shirts were thrown open at the neck, and rolled\nup to the shoulders; and we stood there, each at his post, in a fever of\nheat and anxiety.\n\nAn hour passed away.\n\n\"Hang them!\" said the captain. \"This is as dull as the doldrums. Gray,\nwhistle for a wind.\"\n\nAnd just at that moment came the first news of the attack.\n\n\"If you please, sir,\" said Joyce, \"if I see anyone, am I to fire?\"\n\n\"I told you so!\" cried the captain.\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" returned Joyce, with the same quiet civility.\n\nNothing followed for a time, but the remark had set us all on the alert,\nstraining ears and eyes--the musketeers with their pieces balanced in\ntheir hands, the captain out in the middle of the blockhouse, with his\nmouth very tight and a frown on his face.\n\nSo some seconds passed, till suddenly Joyce whipped up his musket and\nfired. The report had scarcely died away ere it was repeated and\nrepeated from without in a scattering volley, shot behind shot, like a\nstring of geese, from every side of the inclosure. Several bullets\nstruck the log-house, but not one entered; and, as the smoke cleared\naway and vanished, the stockade and the woods around it looked as quiet\nand empty as before. Not a bough waved, not the gleam of a musket-barrel\nbetrayed the presence of our foes.\n\n\"Did you hit your man?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"No, sir,\" replied Joyce. \"I believe not, sir.\"\n\n\"Next best thing to tell the truth,\" muttered Captain Smollett. \"Load\nhis gun, Hawkins. How many should you say there were on your side,\ndoctor?\"\n\n\"I know precisely,\" said Doctor Livesey. \"Three shots were fired on this\nside. I saw the three flashes--two close together--one farther to the\nwest.\"\n\n\"Three!\" repeated the captain. \"And how many on yours, Mr. Trelawney?\"\n\nBut this was not so easily answered. There had come many from the\nnorth--seven, by the squire's computation; eight or nine, according to\nGray. From the east and west only a single shot had been fired. It was\nplain, therefore, that the attack would be developed from the north, and\nthat on the other three sides we were only to be annoyed by a show of\nhostilities. But Captain Smollett made no change in his arrangements. If\nthe mutineers succeeded in crossing the stockade, he argued, they would\ntake possession of any unprotected loophole, and shoot us down like rats\nin our own stronghold.\n\nNor had we much time left to us for thought. Suddenly, with a loud\nhuzza, a little cloud of pirates leaped from the woods on the north\nside, and ran straight on the stockade. At the same moment, the fire was\nonce more opened from the woods, and a rifle-ball sang through the\ndoorway, and knocked the doctor's musket into bits.\n\nThe boarders swarmed over the fence, like monkeys. Squire and Gray fired\nagain and yet again; three men fell, one forward into the inclosure, two\nback on the outside. But of these, one was evidently more frightened\nthan hurt, for he was on his feet again in a crack, and instantly\ndisappeared among the trees.\n\nTwo had bit the dust, one had fled, four had made good their footing\ninside our defenses; while from the shelter of the woods seven or eight\nmen, each evidently supplied with several muskets, kept up a hot though\nuseless fire on the log-house.\n\n[Illustration: _In a moment the four pirates had swarmed up the mound\nand were upon us_ (Page 153)]\n\nThe four who had boarded made straight before them for the building,\nshouting as they ran, and the men among the trees shouted back to\nencourage them. Several shots were fired, but such was the hurry of the\nmarksmen, that not one appeared to have taken effect. In a moment the\nfour pirates had swarmed up the mound and were upon us.\n\nThe head of Job Anderson, the boatswain, appeared at the middle\nloophole.\n\n\"At 'em, all hands--all hands!\" he roared, in a voice of thunder.\n\nAt the same moment another pirate grasped Hunter's musket by the muzzle,\nwrenched it from his hands, plucked it through the loophole, and, with\none stunning blow, laid the poor fellow senseless on the floor.\nMeanwhile a third, running unharmed all round the house, appeared\nsuddenly in the doorway, and fell with his cutlass on the doctor.\n\nOur position was utterly reversed. A moment since we were firing, under\ncover, at an exposed enemy; now it was we who lay uncovered, and could\nnot return a blow.\n\nThe log-house was full of smoke, to which we owed our comparative\nsafety. Cries and confusion, the flashes and reports of pistol-shots,\nand one loud groan, rang in my ears.\n\n\"Out, lads, out and fight 'em in the open! Cutlasses!\" cried the\ncaptain.\n\nI snatched a cutlass from the pile, and someone, at the same time\nsnatching another, gave me a cut across the knuckles which I hardly\nfelt. I dashed out of the door into the clear sunlight. Someone was\nclose behind, I knew not whom. Right in front, the doctor was pursuing\nhis assailant down the hill, and, just as my eyes fell upon him, beat\ndown his guard, and sent him sprawling on his back, with a great slash\nacross his face.\n\n\"Round the house, lads! round the house!\" cried the captain, and even in\nthe hurly-burly I perceived a change in his voice.\n\nMechanically I obeyed, turned eastward, and, with my cutlass raised, ran\nround the corner of the house. Next moment I was face to face with\nAnderson. He roared aloud, and his hanger went up above his head,\nflashing in the sunlight. I had not time to be afraid, but, as the blow\nstill hung impending, leaped in a trice upon one side, and missing my\nfooting in the soft sand, rolled headlong down the slope.\n\nWhen I had first sallied from the door, the other mutineers had been\nalready swarming up the palisade to make an end of us. One man, in a red\nnightcap, with his cutlass in his mouth, had even got upon the top and\nthrown a leg across. Well, so short had been the interval, that when I\nfound my feet again all was in the same posture, the fellow with the red\nnightcap still halfway over, another still just showing his head above\nthe top of the stockade. And yet, in this breath of time, the fight was\nover, and the victory ours.\n\nGray, following close behind me, had cut down the big boatswain ere he\nhad time to recover from his lost blow. Another had been shot at a\nloophole in the very act of firing into the house, and now lay in agony,\nthe pistol still smoking in his hand. A third, as I had seen, the doctor\nhad disposed of at a blow. Of the four who had scaled the palisade, one\nonly remained unaccounted for, and he, having left his cutlass on the\nfield, was now clambering out again with the fear of death upon him.\n\n\"Fire--fire from the house!\" cried the doctor. \"And you, lads, back into\ncover.\"\n\nBut his words were unheeded, no shot was fired, and the last boarder\nmade good his escape and disappeared with the rest into the wood. In\nthree seconds nothing remained of the attacking party but the five who\nhad fallen, four on the inside and one on the outside of the palisade.\n\nThe doctor and Gray and I ran full speed for shelter. The survivors\nwould soon be back where they had left their muskets, and at any moment\nthe fire might recommence.\n\nThe house was by this time somewhat cleared of smoke, and we saw at a\nglance the price we had paid for victory. Hunter lay beside his\nloophole, stunned; Joyce by his, shot through the head, never to move\nagain; while right in the center the squire was supporting the captain,\none as pale as the other.\n\n\"The captain's wounded,\" said Mr. Trelawney.\n\n\"Have they run?\" asked Mr. Smollett.\n\n\"All that could, you may be bound,\" returned the doctor; \"but there's\nfive of them will never run again.\"\n\n\"Five!\" cried the captain. \"Come, that's better. Five against three\nleaves us four to nine. That's better odds than we had at starting. We\nwere seven to nineteen then, or thought we were, and that's as bad to\nbear.\"[1]\n\n    [1] The mutineers were soon only eight in number, for the man shot\n    by Mr. Trelawney on board the schooner died that same evening of his\n    wound. But this was, of course, not known till after by the faithful\n    party.\n\n\n\n\nPART V\n\nMY SEA ADVENTURE\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Long John Silver disappears. When the Captain turns to his crew, he becomes furious on seeing the men have not stayed in the position he put them in, except Gray. Regaining his composure, the Captain addresses his men. He tells them that the mutineers could be back in an hour and that they have to fight them. He offers Jim his breakfast and asks Hunter to serve brandy to everyone. While he did so, he was planning defense strategies in his mind. Everyone was given positions to handle and monitor the movements of the enemy. An hour passed without any movement. Joyce reconfirms the Captains command to shoot anyone at sight. Shortly later, Joyce fires his gun, and the fighting begins. His shot is answered by many rounds of returned gunfire. After the initial rounds the Captain takes a stock of the situation. Suddenly a group of pirates appear from the woods and charge toward the stockade. Casualties on the enemys side increase as fighting starts again. As the mutineers outnumber them, they still have an advantage over the Captains men and they can attack the stockade from all sides. The situation in the stockade is reversed. The stockade has now filled with smoke from the fire used to cook their meals and the men have trouble seeing. The Captain orders his men to fight in the open with their cutlasses. They rush out. Jim makes his first attack with the Cutlass and kills one. The Captain keeps giving orders. The fighting picks up tempo. Jim counts the number of mutineers who have died. He could see three of the four who attacked lying dead. The doctors command to get back into cover is ignored. The mutineers are, by now, decreasing in number. They are defeated. When they run back for inside the stockade shelter, Jim learns the price they have to pay for their victory. Hunter is wounded and lies beside a hole, and Joyce has been shot dead. The Squire informs them that the Captain is wounded. Despite his wounds, the Captain is overjoyed to hear that they had killed five pirates and says that the new ratio of the pirates with them is survivable."}, {"": "325", "document": "\nThe youth fell back in the procession until the tattered soldier was\nnot in sight.  Then he started to walk on with the others.\n\nBut he was amid wounds.  The mob of men was bleeding.  Because of the\ntattered soldier's question he now felt that his shame could be viewed.\nHe was continually casting sidelong glances to see if the men were\ncontemplating the letters of guilt he felt burned into his brow.\n\nAt times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way.  He\nconceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy.  He wished\nthat he, too, had a wound, a red badge of courage.\n\nThe spectral soldier was at his side like a stalking reproach.  The\nman's eyes were still fixed in a stare into the unknown.  His gray,\nappalling face had attracted attention in the crowd, and men, slowing\nto his dreary pace, were walking with him.  They were discussing his\nplight, questioning him and giving him advice.\n\nIn a dogged way he repelled them, signing to them to go on and leave\nhim alone.  The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips\nseemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen\na certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking\ninfinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds.  As he went on,\nhe seemed always looking for a place, like one who goes to choose a\ngrave.\n\nSomething in the gesture of the man as he waved the bloody and pitying\nsoldiers away made the youth start as if bitten.  He yelled in horror.\nTottering forward he laid a quivering hand upon the man's arm.  As the\nlatter slowly turned his waxlike features toward him, the youth\nscreamed:\n\n\"Gawd!  Jim Conklin!\"\n\nThe tall soldier made a little commonplace smile.  \"Hello, Henry,\" he\nsaid.\n\nThe youth swayed on his legs and glared strangely.  He stuttered and\nstammered.  \"Oh, Jim--oh, Jim--oh, Jim--\"\n\nThe tall soldier held out his gory hand.  There was a curious red and\nblack combination of new blood and old blood upon it.  \"Where yeh been,\nHenry?\" he asked.  He continued in a monotonous voice, \"I thought mebbe\nyeh got keeled over.  There 's been thunder t' pay t'-day.  I was\nworryin' about it a good deal.\"\n\nThe youth still lamented.  \"Oh, Jim--oh, Jim--oh, Jim--\"\n\n\"Yeh know,\" said the tall soldier, \"I was out there.\"  He made a\ncareful gesture.  \"An', Lord, what a circus!  An', b'jiminey, I got\nshot--I got shot.  Yes, b'jiminey, I got shot.\"  He reiterated this\nfact in a bewildered way, as if he did not know how it came about.\n\nThe youth put forth anxious arms to assist him, but the tall soldier\nwent firmly on as if propelled.  Since the youth's arrival as a\nguardian for his friend, the other wounded men had ceased to display\nmuch interest.  They occupied themselves again in dragging their own\ntragedies toward the rear.\n\nSuddenly, as the two friends marched on, the tall soldier seemed to be\novercome by a terror. His face turned to a semblance of gray paste. He\nclutched the youth's arm and looked all about him, as if dreading to be\noverheard.  Then he began to speak in a shaking whisper:\n\n\"I tell yeh what I'm 'fraid of, Henry--I 'll tell yeh what I 'm 'fraid\nof.  I 'm 'fraid I 'll fall down--an' then yeh know--them damned\nartillery wagons--they like as not 'll run over me.  That 's what I 'm\n'fraid of--\"\n\nThe youth cried out to him hysterically: \"I 'll take care of yeh, Jim!\nI'll take care of yeh!  I swear t' Gawd I will!\"\n\n\"Sure--will yeh, Henry?\" the tall soldier beseeched.\n\n\"Yes--yes--I tell yeh--I'll take care of yeh, Jim!\" protested the\nyouth.  He could not speak accurately because of the gulpings in his\nthroat.\n\nBut the tall soldier continued to beg in a lowly way.  He now hung\nbabelike to the youth's arm.  His eyes rolled in the wildness of his\nterror.  \"I was allus a good friend t' yeh, wa'n't I, Henry?  I 've\nallus been a pretty good feller, ain't I?  An' it ain't much t' ask, is\nit?  Jest t' pull me along outer th' road?  I 'd do it fer you,\nWouldn't I, Henry?\"\n\nHe paused in piteous anxiety to await his friend's reply.\n\nThe youth had reached an anguish where the sobs scorched him.  He\nstrove to express his loyalty, but he could only make fantastic\ngestures.\n\nHowever, the tall soldier seemed suddenly to forget all those fears. He\nbecame again the grim, stalking specter of a soldier.  He went stonily\nforward.  The youth wished his friend to lean upon him, but the other\nalways shook his head and strangely protested. \"No--no--no--leave me\nbe--leave me be--\"\n\nHis look was fixed again upon the unknown. He moved with mysterious\npurpose, and all of the youth's offers he brushed aside. \"No--no--leave\nme be--leave me be--\"\n\nThe youth had to follow.\n\nPresently the latter heard a voice talking softly near his shoulders.\nTurning he saw that it belonged to the tattered soldier.  \"Ye 'd better\ntake 'im outa th' road, pardner.  There 's a batt'ry comin' helitywhoop\ndown th' road an' he 'll git runned over.  He 's a goner anyhow in\nabout five minutes--yeh kin see that.  Ye 'd better take 'im outa th'\nroad.  Where th' blazes does he git his stren'th from?\"\n\n\"Lord knows!\" cried the youth.  He was shaking his hands helplessly.\n\nHe ran forward presently and grasped the tall soldier by the arm. \"Jim!\nJim!\" he coaxed, \"come with me.\"\n\nThe tall soldier weakly tried to wrench himself free.  \"Huh,\" he said\nvacantly.  He stared at the youth for a moment.  At last he spoke as if\ndimly comprehending.  \"Oh!  Inteh th' fields?  Oh!\"\n\nHe started blindly through the grass.\n\nThe youth turned once to look at the lashing riders and jouncing guns\nof the battery.  He was startled from this view by a shrill outcry from\nthe tattered man.\n\n\"Gawd!  He's runnin'!\"\n\nTurning his head swiftly, the youth saw his friend running in a\nstaggering and stumbling way toward a little clump of bushes.  His\nheart seemed to wrench itself almost free from his body at this sight.\nHe made a noise of pain. He and the tattered man began a pursuit. There\nwas a singular race.\n\nWhen he overtook the tall soldier he began to plead with all the words\nhe could find. \"Jim--Jim--what are you doing--what makes you do this\nway--you 'll hurt yerself.\"\n\nThe same purpose was in the tall soldier's face. He protested in a\ndulled way, keeping his eyes fastened on the mystic place of his\nintentions. \"No--no--don't tech me--leave me be--leave me be--\"\n\nThe youth, aghast and filled with wonder at the tall soldier, began\nquaveringly to question him. \"Where yeh goin', Jim?  What you thinking\nabout?  Where you going?  Tell me, won't you, Jim?\"\n\nThe tall soldier faced about as upon relentless pursuers.  In his eyes\nthere was a great appeal. \"Leave me be, can't yeh?  Leave me be fer a\nminnit.\"\n\nThe youth recoiled.  \"Why, Jim,\" he said, in a dazed way, \"what's the\nmatter with you?\"\n\nThe tall soldier turned and, lurching dangerously, went on.  The youth\nand the tattered soldier followed, sneaking as if whipped, feeling\nunable to face the stricken man if he should again confront them.  They\nbegan to have thoughts of a solemn ceremony.  There was something\nrite-like in these movements of the doomed soldier. And there was a\nresemblance in him to a devotee of a mad religion, blood-sucking,\nmuscle-wrenching, bone-crushing.  They were awed and afraid. They hung\nback lest he have at command a dreadful weapon.\n\nAt last, they saw him stop and stand motionless.  Hastening up, they\nperceived that his face wore an expression telling that he had at last\nfound the place for which he had struggled.  His spare figure was\nerect; his bloody hands were quietly at his side.  He was waiting with\npatience for something that he had come to meet.  He was at the\nrendezvous.  They paused and stood, expectant.\n\nThere was a silence.\n\nFinally, the chest of the doomed soldier began to heave with a strained\nmotion.  It increased in violence until it was as if an animal was\nwithin and was kicking and tumbling furiously to be free.\n\nThis spectacle of gradual strangulation made the youth writhe, and once\nas his friend rolled his eyes, he saw something in them that made him\nsink wailing to the ground.  He raised his voice in a last supreme call.\n\n\"Jim--Jim--Jim--\"\n\nThe tall soldier opened his lips and spoke. He made a gesture.  \"Leave\nme be--don't tech me--leave me be--\"\n\nThere was another silence while he waited.\n\nSuddenly, his form stiffened and straightened. Then it was shaken by a\nprolonged ague.  He stared into space.  To the two watchers there was a\ncurious and profound dignity in the firm lines of his awful face.\n\nHe was invaded by a creeping strangeness that slowly enveloped him. For\na moment the tremor of his legs caused him to dance a sort of hideous\nhornpipe.  His arms beat wildly about his head in expression of implike\nenthusiasm.\n\nHis tall figure stretched itself to its full height. There was a slight\nrending sound.  Then it began to swing forward, slow and straight, in\nthe manner of a falling tree.  A swift muscular contortion made the\nleft shoulder strike the ground first.\n\nThe body seemed to bounce a little way from the earth.  \"God!\" said the\ntattered soldier.\n\nThe youth had watched, spellbound, this ceremony at the place of\nmeeting.  His face had been twisted into an expression of every agony\nhe had imagined for his friend.\n\nHe now sprang to his feet and, going closer, gazed upon the pastelike\nface.  The mouth was open and the teeth showed in a laugh.\n\nAs the flap of the blue jacket fell away from the body, he could see\nthat the side looked as if it had been chewed by wolves.\n\nThe youth turned, with sudden, livid rage, toward the battlefield.  He\nshook his fist.  He seemed about to deliver a philippic.\n\n\"Hell--\"\n\nThe red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer.\n\n\n", "summary": "Henry walks along with the wounded regiment, wishing he had a wound too - a \"red badge of courage\" of his very own. Henry feels that his chickenness is written on his forehead... which would be quite interesting, if it were possible. Henry sees the worst thing he's seen yet. It's his old friend Jim Conklin and it is apparent that Jim is in the process of dying. He's afraid of getting run over if he stays in the road and somehow runs to some bushes on the side of the path. As Henry and \"the Tattered Soldier\" watch, Jim dies a horrible, grisly, pitiful death in a scene like no other. Henry, angry at losing his friend, rages internally at the battle."}, {"": "326", "document": "ACT II. SCENE 1.\nThe Grecian camp\n\nEnter Ajax and THERSITES\n\n  AJAX. Thersites!\n  THERSITES. Agamemnon-how if he had boils full, an over, generally?\n  AJAX. Thersites!\n  THERSITES. And those boils did run-say so. Did not the general run\n    then? Were not that a botchy core?\n  AJAX. Dog!\n  THERSITES. Then there would come some matter from him;\n    I see none now.\n  AJAX. Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then.\n                                                  [Strikes him.]\n  THERSITES. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted\n    lord!\n  AJAX. Speak, then, thou whinid'st leaven, speak. I will beat thee\n    into handsomeness.\n  THERSITES. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I\n    think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a\n    prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain\n    o' thy jade's tricks!\n  AJAX. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.\n  THERSITES. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?\n  AJAX. The proclamation!\n  THERSITES. Thou art proclaim'd, a fool, I think.\n  AJAX. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.\n  THERSITES. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the\n    scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in\n    Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as\n    slow as another.\n  AJAX. I say, the proclamation.\n  THERSITES. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and\n    thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at\n    Proserpina's beauty-ay, that thou bark'st at him.\n  AJAX. Mistress Thersites!\n  THERSITES. Thou shouldst strike him.\n  AJAX. Cobloaf!\n  THERSITES. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a\n    sailor breaks a biscuit.\n  AJAX. You whoreson cur!                          [Strikes him]\n  THERSITES. Do, do.\n  AJAX. Thou stool for a witch!\n  THERSITES. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more\n    brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinico may tutor thee. You\n    scurvy valiant ass! Thou art here but to thrash Troyans, and thou\n    art bought and sold among those of any wit like a barbarian\n    slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel and tell\n    what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!\n  AJAX. You dog!\n  THERSITES. You scurvy lord!\n  AJAX. You cur!                                   [Strikes him]\n  THERSITES. Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.\n\n                 Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS\n\n  ACHILLES. Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do you thus?\n    How now, Thersites! What's the matter, man?\n  THERSITES. You see him there, do you?\n  ACHILLES. Ay; what's the matter?\n  THERSITES. Nay, look upon him.\n  ACHILLES. So I do. What's the matter?\n  THERSITES. Nay, but regard him well.\n  ACHILLES. Well! why, so I do.\n  THERSITES. But yet you look not well upon him; for who some ever\n    you take him to be, he is Ajax.\n  ACHILLES. I know that, fool.\n  THERSITES. Ay, but that fool knows not himself.\n  AJAX. Therefore I beat thee.\n  THERSITES. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His\n    evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb'd his brain more than\n    he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and\n    his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This\n    lord, Achilles, Ajax-who wears his wit in his belly and his guts\n    in his head-I'll tell you what I say of him.\n  ACHILLES. What?\n  THERSITES. I say this Ajax-        [AJAX offers to strike him]\n  ACHILLES. Nay, good Ajax.\n  THERSITES. Has not so much wit-\n  ACHILLES. Nay, I must hold you.\n  THERSITES. As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he\n    comes to fight.\n  ACHILLES. Peace, fool.\n  THERSITES. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not-\n    he there; that he; look you there.\n  AJAX. O thou damned cur! I shall-\n  ACHILLES. Will you set your wit to a fool's?\n  THERSITES. No, I warrant you, the fool's will shame it.\n  PATROCLUS. Good words, Thersites.\n  ACHILLES. What's the quarrel?\n  AJAX. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the\n    proclamation, and he rails upon me.\n  THERSITES. I serve thee not.\n  AJAX. Well, go to, go to.\n  THERSITES. I serve here voluntary.\n  ACHILLES. Your last service was suff'rance; 'twas not voluntary. No\n    man is beaten voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as\n    under an impress.\n  THERSITES. E'en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your\n    sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch\n    an he knock out either of your brains: 'a were as good crack a\n    fusty nut with no kernel.\n  ACHILLES. What, with me too, Thersites?\n  THERSITES. There's Ulysses and old Nestor-whose wit was mouldy ere\n    your grandsires had nails on their toes-yoke you like draught\n    oxen, and make you plough up the wars.\n  ACHILLES. What, what?\n  THERSITES. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to-\n  AJAX. I shall cut out your tongue.\n  THERSITES. 'Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou\n    afterwards.\n  PATROCLUS. No more words, Thersites; peace!\n  THERSITES. I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach bids me, shall\n    I?\n  ACHILLES. There's for you, Patroclus.\n  THERSITES. I will see you hang'd like clotpoles ere I come any more\n    to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave\n    the faction of fools.\nExit\n  PATROCLUS. A good riddance.\n  ACHILLES. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim'd through all our host,\n    That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,\n    Will with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy,\n    To-morrow morning, call some knight to arms\n    That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare\n    Maintain I know not what; 'tis trash. Farewell.\n  AJAX. Farewell. Who shall answer him?\n  ACHILLES. I know not; 'tis put to lott'ry. Otherwise. He knew his\n    man.\n  AJAX. O, meaning you! I will go learn more of it.\nExeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Elsewhere in the Greek camp, Ajax yells at his slave Thersites, who ignores him and talks smack about what it would be like if Agamemnon had a bunch of nasty, oozing boils and skin ulcers. Ajax is enraged when his slave blows him off. He asks him if he's deaf and calls him a bunch of names like \"dog,\" \"b****-wolf's son,\" \"Toadstool,\" \"cobloaf,\" and so on. Just in case Thersites doesn't know he's in trouble, Ajax beats him... repeatedly. What does Thersites do? He eggs on Ajax and encourages the guy to beat him some more. Finally, Thersites calls Ajax an idiot and insists that when it comes to trash-talk, Thersites totally owns him. Tired of lazing about in their tent, Achilles and Patroclus show up and want to know what's going on. We find out that Ajax wants Thersites to find out about a proclamation that's just been issued, but Thersites refuses. Thersites keeps talking smack to his master and gets into a spat with Achilles. Then he storms off. Luckily, Achilles knows what's up. He tells Ajax that the proclamation is about the lottery to see who's going to throw down with Hector. Achilles brags that if there wasn't going to be a lottery, he'd be the guy chosen to fight, since he's so awesome. Ajax is all, \"whatever, man.\" But hey! It looks like the plot might work."}, {"": "327", "document": "\n\nAt the moment when that pyramid of fire rose to a prodigious\nheight into the air, the glare of flame lit up the whole of\nFlorida; and for a moment day superseded night over a\nconsiderable extent of the country.  This immense canopy of fire\nwas perceived at a distance of one hundred miles out at sea, and\nmore than one ship's captain entered in his log the appearance\nof this gigantic meteor.\n\nThe discharge of the Columbiad was accompanied by a\nperfect earthquake.  Florida was shaken to its very depths.\nThe gases of the powder, expanded by heat, forced back the\natmospheric strata with tremendous violence, and this\nartificial hurricane rushed like a water-spout through the air.\n\nNot a single spectator remained on his feet!  Men, women\nchildren, all lay prostrate like ears of corn under a tempest.\nThere ensued a terrible tumult; a large number of persons were\nseriously injured.  J. T. Maston, who, despite all dictates of\nprudence, had kept in advance of the mass, was pitched back 120\nfeet, shooting like a projectile over the heads of his\nfellow-citizens.  Three hundred thousand persons remained deaf\nfor a time, and as though struck stupefied.\n\nAs soon as the first effects were over, the injured, the deaf,\nand lastly, the crowd in general, woke up with frenzied cries.\n\"Hurrah for Ardan!  Hurrah for Barbicane!  Hurrah for Nicholl!\"\nrose to the skies.  Thousands of persons, noses in air, armed\nwith telescopes and race-glasses, were questioning space,\nforgetting all contusions and emotions in the one idea of\nwatching for the projectile.  They looked in vain!  It was no\nlonger to be seen, and they were obliged to wait for telegrams\nfrom Long's Peak.  The director of the Cambridge Observatory was\nat his post on the Rocky Mountains; and to him, as a skillful\nand persevering astronomer, all observations had been confided.\n\nBut an unforeseen phenomenon came in to subject the public\nimpatience to a severe trial.\n\nThe weather, hitherto so fine, suddenly changed; the sky became\nheavy with clouds.  It could not have been otherwise after the\nterrible derangement of the atmospheric strata, and the dispersion\nof the enormous quantity of vapor arising from the combustion of\n200,000 pounds of pyroxyle!\n\nOn the morrow the horizon was covered with clouds-- a thick and\nimpenetrable curtain between earth and sky, which unhappily\nextended as far as the Rocky Mountains.  It was a fatality!\nBut since man had chosen so to disturb the atmosphere, he was\nbound to accept the consequences of his experiment.\n\nSupposing, now, that the experiment had succeeded, the travelers\nhaving started on the 1st of December, at 10h. 46m. 40s. P.M.,\nwere due on the 4th at 0h. P.M. at their destination.  So that\nup to that time it would have been very difficult after all to\nhave observed, under such conditions, a body so small as the shell.\nTherefore they waited with what patience they might.\n\nFrom the 4th to the 6th of December inclusive, the weather\nremaining much the same in America, the great European\ninstruments of Herschel, Rosse, and Foucault, were constantly\ndirected toward the moon, for the weather was then magnificent;\nbut the comparative weakness of their glasses prevented any\ntrustworthy observations being made.\n\nOn the 7th the sky seemed to lighten.  They were in hopes now,\nbut their hope was of but short duration, and at night again\nthick clouds hid the starry vault from all eyes.\n\nMatters were now becoming serious, when on the 9th the sun\nreappeared for an instant, as if for the purpose of teasing\nthe Americans.  It was received with hisses; and wounded, no\ndoubt, by such a reception, showed itself very sparing of its rays.\n\nOn the 10th, no change!  J. T. Maston went nearly mad, and great\nfears were entertained regarding the brain of this worthy\nindividual, which had hitherto been so well preserved within his\ngutta-percha cranium.\n\nBut on the 11th one of those inexplicable tempests peculiar to\nthose intertropical regions was let loose in the atmosphere.\nA terrific east wind swept away the groups of clouds which had\nbeen so long gathering, and at night the semi-disc of the orb of\nnight rode majestically amid the soft constellations of the sky.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The launch has some nasty side-effects. For one, there's an earthquake in Florida, which knocks the crowd over \"like ears of corn before a storm\" . Meanwhile, the sky is now completely \"covered with clouds\" and doesn't clear up for some time, making it impossible to track to capsule's progress. Finally, the sky clears up, allowing the Gun Club to view their hard work in action."}, {"": "328", "document": "\nA group of urchins were intent upon the side door of a saloon.\nExpectancy gleamed from their eyes.  They were twisting their fingers\nin excitement.\n\n\"Here she comes,\" yelled one of them suddenly.\n\nThe group of urchins burst instantly asunder and its individual\nfragments were spread in a wide, respectable half circle about the\npoint of interest.  The saloon door opened with a crash, and the figure\nof a woman appeared upon the threshold.  Her grey hair fell in knotted\nmasses about her shoulders.  Her face was crimsoned and wet with\nperspiration.  Her eyes had a rolling glare.\n\n\"Not a damn cent more of me money will yehs ever get, not a damn cent.\nI spent me money here fer t'ree years an' now yehs tells me yeh'll sell\nme no more stuff!  T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie Murckre!  'Disturbance'?\nDisturbance be damned!  T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie--\"\n\nThe door received a kick of exasperation from within and the woman\nlurched heavily out on the sidewalk.\n\nThe gamins in the half-circle became violently agitated.  They began to\ndance about and hoot and yell and jeer.  Wide dirty grins spread over\neach face.\n\nThe woman made a furious dash at a particularly outrageous cluster of\nlittle boys.  They laughed delightedly and scampered off a short\ndistance, calling out over their shoulders to her.  She stood tottering\non the curb-stone and thundered at them.\n\n\"Yeh devil's kids,\" she howled, shaking red fists.  The little boys\nwhooped in glee.  As she started up the street they fell in behind and\nmarched uproariously.  Occasionally she wheeled about and made charges\non them.  They ran nimbly out of reach and taunted her.\n\nIn the frame of a gruesome doorway she stood for a moment cursing them.\nHer hair straggled, giving her crimson features a look of insanity.\nHer great fists quivered as she shook them madly in the air.\n\nThe urchins made terrific noises until she turned and disappeared.\nThen they filed quietly in the way they had come.\n\nThe woman floundered about in the lower hall of the tenement house and\nfinally stumbled up the stairs.  On an upper hall a door was opened and\na collection of heads peered curiously out, watching her.  With a\nwrathful snort the woman confronted the door, but it was slammed\nhastily in her face and the key was turned.\n\nShe stood for a few minutes, delivering a frenzied challenge at the\npanels.\n\n\"Come out in deh hall, Mary Murphy, damn yeh, if yehs want a row.  Come\nahn, yeh overgrown terrier, come ahn.\"\n\nShe began to kick the door with her great feet.  She shrilly defied the\nuniverse to appear and do battle.  Her cursing trebles brought heads\nfrom all doors save the one she threatened.  Her eyes glared in every\ndirection.  The air was full of her tossing fists.\n\n\"Come ahn, deh hull damn gang of yehs, come ahn,\" she roared at the\nspectators.  An oath or two, cat-calls, jeers and bits of facetious\nadvice were given in reply.  Missiles clattered about her feet.\n\n\"What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?\" said a voice in the gathered\ngloom, and Jimmie came forward.  He carried a tin dinner-pail in his\nhand and under his arm a brown truckman's apron done in a bundle.\n\"What deh hell's wrong?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Come out, all of yehs, come out,\" his mother was howling.  \"Come ahn\nan' I'll stamp her damn brains under me feet.\"\n\n\"Shet yer face, an' come home, yeh damned old fool,\" roared Jimmie at\nher.  She strided up to him and twirled her fingers in his face.  Her\neyes were darting flames of unreasoning rage and her frame trembled\nwith eagerness for a fight.\n\n\"T'hell wid yehs!  An' who deh hell are yehs?  I ain't givin' a snap of\nme fingers fer yehs,\" she bawled at him.  She turned her huge back in\ntremendous disdain and climbed the stairs to the next floor.\n\nJimmie followed, cursing blackly.  At the top of the flight he seized\nhis mother's arm and started to drag her toward the door of their room.\n\n\"Come home, damn yeh,\" he gritted between his teeth.\n\n\"Take yer hands off me!  Take yer hands off me,\" shrieked his mother.\n\nShe raised her arm and whirled her great fist at her son's face.\nJimmie dodged his head and the blow struck him in the back of the neck.\n\"Damn yeh,\" gritted he again.  He threw out his left hand and writhed\nhis fingers about her middle arm.  The mother and the son began to sway\nand struggle like gladiators.\n\n\"Whoop!\" said the Rum Alley tenement house.  The hall filled with\ninterested spectators.\n\n\"Hi, ol' lady, dat was a dandy!\"\n\n\"T'ree to one on deh red!\"\n\n\"Ah, stop yer damn scrappin'!\"\n\nThe door of the Johnson home opened and Maggie looked out.  Jimmie made\na supreme cursing effort and hurled his mother into the room.  He\nquickly followed and closed the door.  The Rum Alley tenement swore\ndisappointedly and retired.\n\nThe mother slowly gathered herself up from the floor.  Her eyes\nglittered menacingly upon her children.\n\n\"Here, now,\" said Jimmie, \"we've had enough of dis.  Sit down, an' don'\nmake no trouble.\"\n\nHe grasped her arm, and twisting it, forced her into a creaking chair.\n\n\"Keep yer hands off me,\" roared his mother again.\n\n\"Damn yer ol' hide,\" yelled Jimmie, madly.  Maggie shrieked and ran\ninto the other room.  To her there came the sound of a storm of crashes\nand curses.  There was a great final thump and Jimmie's voice cried:\n\"Dere, damn yeh, stay still.\"  Maggie opened the door now, and went\nwarily out.  \"Oh, Jimmie.\"\n\nHe was leaning against the wall and swearing.  Blood stood upon bruises\non his knotty fore-arms where they had scraped against the floor or the\nwalls in the scuffle.  The mother lay screeching on the floor, the\ntears running down her furrowed face.\n\nMaggie, standing in the middle of the room, gazed about her.  The usual\nupheaval of the tables and chairs had taken place.  Crockery was strewn\nbroadcast in fragments.  The stove had been disturbed on its legs, and\nnow leaned idiotically to one side.  A pail had been upset and water\nspread in all directions.\n\nThe door opened and Pete appeared.  He shrugged his shoulders.  \"Oh,\nGawd,\" he observed.\n\nHe walked over to Maggie and whispered in her ear.  \"Ah, what deh hell,\nMag?  Come ahn and we'll have a hell of a time.\"\n\nThe mother in the corner upreared her head and shook her tangled locks.\n\n\"Teh hell wid him and you,\" she said, glowering at her daughter in the\ngloom.  Her eyes seemed to burn balefully.  \"Yeh've gone teh deh devil,\nMag Johnson, yehs knows yehs have gone teh deh devil.  Yer a disgrace\nteh yer people, damn yeh.  An' now, git out an' go ahn wid dat\ndoe-faced jude of yours.  Go teh hell wid him, damn yeh, an' a good\nriddance.  Go teh hell an' see how yeh likes it.\"\n\nMaggie gazed long at her mother.\n\n\"Go teh hell now, an' see how yeh likes it.  Git out.  I won't have\nsech as yehs in me house!  Get out, d'yeh hear!  Damn yeh, git out!\"\n\nThe girl began to tremble.\n\nAt this instant Pete came forward.  \"Oh, what deh hell, Mag, see,\"\nwhispered he softly in her ear.  \"Dis all blows over.  See?  Deh ol'\nwoman 'ill be all right in deh mornin'.  Come ahn out wid me!  We'll\nhave a hell of a time.\"\n\nThe woman on the floor cursed.  Jimmie was intent upon his bruised\nfore-arms.  The girl cast a glance about the room filled with a chaotic\nmass of debris, and at the red, writhing body of her mother.\n\n\"Go teh hell an' good riddance.\"\n\nShe went.\n\n\n", "summary": "A group of children wait outside the side door of a bar. One of them calls out a warning to the others and at that moment Mary Johnson comes reeling out of the bar. She is screaming at the bar keeper that she has been frequenting the bar for three years and finds it astonishing that they are now trying to ban her. The children begin to jeer at her and she tries to grab them. They easily get away and follow her all the way home making fun of her. When she gets into her building, one of the apartment doors is open and everyone from that apartment is looking out at her grinning in amusement. She lunges for the door, but they shut it and lock it before she can get to them. She stands outside kicking the door and cursing them until Jimmie comes home. He tries to make her go home, but she fights him. Everyone comes outside their apartments to watch the fight. Finally, he shoves her into their own apartment and continues to fight her until she falls on the floor cursing. Maggie has run to hide in the other room. Just at that moment, Pete comes over. He tells Maggie to come with him and they will have \"a hell of a time.\" Mrs. Johnson looks at him and tells Maggie to go to hell. She says Maggie has gone to the devil and that she is a disgrace to herself and to her people. Maggie stares at her mother frozen. Her mother continues to tell her to get out of the house and never come back. Maggie trembles in fear. Pete asks her again to come with him. He tells Maggie her mother will forget all about it by morning. Maggie gets up and leaves with him. Her mother yells \"good riddance\" behind her."}, {"": "329", "document": "ALMOST every country has its medicinal springs famed for their healing\nvirtues. The Cheltenham of Typee is embosomed in the deepest solitude,\nand but seldom receives a visitor. It is situated remote from any\ndwelling, a little way up the mountain, near the head of the valley; and\nyou approach it by a pathway shaded by the most beautiful foliage, and\nadorned with a thousand fragrant plants. The mineral waters of Arva Wai*\nooze forth from the crevices of a rock, and gliding down its mossy side,\nfall at last, in many clustering drops, into a natural basin of stone\nfringed round with grass and dewy-looking little violet-coloured\nflowers, as fresh and beautiful as the perpetual moisture they enjoy can\nmake them.\n\n*I presume this might be translated into 'Strong Waters'. Arva is the\nname bestowed upon a root the properties of which are both inebriating\nand medicinal. 'Wai' is the Marquesan word for water.\n\n\n\nThe water is held in high estimation by the islanders, some of whom\nconsider it an agreeable as well as a medicinal beverage; they bring it\nfrom the mountain in their calabashes, and store it away beneath heaps\nof leaves in some shady nook near the house. Old Marheyo had a great\nlove for the waters of the spring. Every now and then he lugged off to\nthe mountain a great round demijohn of a calabash, and, panting with his\nexertions, brought it back filled with his darling fluid.\n\nThe water tasted like a solution of a dozen disagreeable things, and was\nsufficiently nauseous to have made the fortune of the proprietor, had\nthe spa been situated in the midst of any civilized community.\n\nAs I am no chemist, I cannot give a scientific analysis of the water.\nAll I know about the matter is, that one day Marheyo in my presence\npoured out the last drop from his huge calabash, and I observed at the\nbottom of the vessel a small quantity of gravelly sediment very much\nresembling our common sand. Whether this is always found in the water,\nand gives it its peculiar flavour and virtues, or whether its presence\nwas merely incidental, I was not able to ascertain.\n\nOne day in returning from this spring by a circuitous path, I came upon\na scene which reminded me of Stonehenge and the architectural labours of\nthe Druids.\n\nAt the base of one of the mountains, and surrounded on all sides by\ndense groves, a series of vast terraces of stone rises, step by step,\nfor a considerable distance up the hill side. These terraces cannot\nbe less than one hundred yards in length and twenty in width. Their\nmagnitude, however, is less striking than the immense size of the blocks\ncomposing them. Some of the stones, of an oblong shape, are from ten\nto fifteen feet in length, and five or six feet thick. Their sides are\nquite smooth, but though square, and of pretty regular formation, they\nbear no mark of the chisel. They are laid together without cement, and\nhere and there show gaps between. The topmost terrace and the lower\none are somewhat peculiar in their construction. They have both a\nquadrangular depression in the centre, leaving the rest of the terrace\nelevated several feet above it. In the intervals of the stones immense\ntrees have taken root, and their broad boughs stretching far over, and\ninterlacing together, support a canopy almost impenetrable to the sun.\nOvergrowing the greater part of them, and climbing from one to another,\nis a wilderness of vines, in whose sinewy embrace many of the stones\nlie half-hidden, while in some places a thick growth of bushes entirely\ncovers them. There is a wild pathway which obliquely crosses two of\nthese terraces; and so profound is the shade, so dense the vegetation,\nthat a stranger to the place might pass along it without being aware of\ntheir existence.\n\nThese structures bear every indication of a very high antiquity and\nKory-Kory, who was my authority in all matters of scientific research,\ngave me to understand that they were coeval with the creation of the\nworld; that the great gods themselves were the builders; and that they\nwould endure until time shall be no more.\n\nKory-Kory's prompt explanation and his attributing the work to a\ndivine origin, at once convinced me that neither he nor the rest of his\ncountry-men knew anything about them.\n\nAs I gazed upon this monument, doubtless the work of an extinct and\nforgotten race, thus buried in the green nook of an island at the ends\nof the earth, the existence of which was yesterday unknown, a stronger\nfeeling of awe came over me than if I had stood musing at the mighty\nbase of the Pyramid of Cheops. There are no inscriptions, no sculpture,\nno clue, by which to conjecture its history; nothing but the dumb\nstones. How many generations of the majestic trees which overshadow them\nhave grown and flourished and decayed since first they were erected!\n\nThese remains naturally suggest many interesting reflections. They\nestablish the great age of the island, an opinion which the builders\nof theories concerning, the creation of the various groups in the South\nSeas are not always inclined to admit. For my own part, I think it\njust as probable that human beings were living in the valleys of the\nMarquesas three thousand years ago as that they were inhabiting the land\nof Egypt. The origin of the island of Nukuheva cannot be imputed to the\ncoral insect; for indefatigable as that wonderful creature is, it would\nbe hardly muscular enough to pile rocks one upon the other more than\nthree thousand feet above the level of the sea. That the land may have\nbeen thrown up by a submarine volcano is as possible as anything else.\nNo one can make an affidavit to the contrary, and therefore I still say\nnothing against the supposition: indeed, were geologists to assert that\nthe whole continent of America had in like manner been formed by the\nsimultaneous explosion of a train of Etnas laid under the water all the\nway from the North Pole to the parallel of Cape Horn, I am the last man\nin the world to contradict them.\n\nI have already mentioned that the dwellings of the islanders were almost\ninvariably built upon massive stone foundations, which they call pi-pis.\nThe dimensions of these, however, as well as of the stones composing\nthem, are comparatively small: but there are other and larger erections\nof a similar description comprising the 'morais', or burying grounds,\nand festival-places, in nearly all the valleys of the island. Some of\nthese piles are so extensive, and so great a degree of labour and skill\nmust have been requisite in constructing them, that I can scarcely\nbelieve they were built by the ancestors of the present inhabitants. If\nindeed they were, the race has sadly deteriorated in their knowledge of\nthe mechanic arts. To say nothing of their habitual indolence, by what\ncontrivance within the reach of so simple a people could such enormous\nmasses have been moved or fixed in their places? and how could they with\ntheir rude implements have chiselled and hammered them into shape?\n\nAll of these larger pi-pis--like that of the Hoolah Hoolah ground in the\nTypee valley--bore incontestible marks of great age; and I am disposed\nto believe that their erection may be ascribed to the same race of men\nwho were the builders of the still more ancient remains I have just\ndescribed.\n\nAccording to Kory-Kory's account, the pi-pi upon which stands the Hoolah\nHoolah ground was built a great many moons ago, under the direction of\nMonoo, a great chief and warrior, and, as it would appear, master-mason\namong the Typees. It was erected for the express purpose to which it is\nat present devoted, in the incredibly short period of one sun; and was\ndedicated to the immortal wooden idols by a grand festival, which lasted\nten days and nights.\n\nAmong the smaller pi-pis, upon which stand the dwelling-houses of the\nnatives, I never observed any which intimated a recent erection. There\nare in every part of the valley a great many of these massive stone\nfoundations which have no houses upon them. This is vastly convenient,\nfor whenever an enterprising islander chooses to emigrate a few hundred\nyards from the place where he was born, all he has to do in order to\nestablish himself in some new locality, is to select one of the many\nunappropriated pi-pis, and without further ceremony pitch his bamboo\ntent upon it.\n\n\n", "summary": "The valley also contains a medicinal spring far from any dwelling. It is called \"Arva Wai\" which means \"strong waters. The narrator thinks that it tastes unpleasant, although Marheyo frequently drinks it. Near the spring stand large, finely constructed terraces of stone, apparently having once been arranged by the ancient island dwellers. The narrator feels certain that men have lived on the island for thousands of years and that they once arranged these stone terraces for the purposes of religion"}, {"": "330", "document": "The same.  De Guiche.\n\nDE GUICHE (to Carbon):\n  Good-day!\n(They examine each other.  Aside, with satisfaction):\n  He's green.\n\nCARBON (aside):\n  He has nothing left but eyes.\n\nDE GUICHE (looking at the cadets):\n  Here are the rebels!  Ay, Sirs, on all sides\n  I hear that in your ranks you scoff at me;\n  That the Cadets, these loutish, mountain-bred,\n  Poor country squires, and barons of Perigord,\n  Scarce find for me--their Colonel--a disdain\n  Sufficient! call me plotter, wily courtier!\n  It does not please their mightiness to see\n  A point-lace collar on my steel cuirass,--\n  And they enrage, because a man, in sooth,\n  May be no ragged-robin, yet a Gascon!\n(Silence.  All smoke and play):\n  Shall I command your Captain punish you?\n  No.\n\nCARBON:\n  I am free, moreover,--will not punish--\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Ah!\n\nCARBON:\n  I have paid my company--'tis mine.\n  I bow but to headquarters.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  So?--in faith!\n  That will suffice.\n(Addressing himself to the cadets):\n  I can despise your taunts\n  'Tis well known how I bear me in the war;\n  At Bapaume, yesterday, they saw the rage\n  With which I beat back the Count of Bucquoi;\n  Assembling my own men, I fell on his,\n  And charged three separate times!\n\nCYRANO (without lifting his eyes from his book):\n  And your white scarf?\n\nDE GUICHE (surprised and gratified):\n  You know that detail?. . .Troth!  It happened thus:\n  While caracoling to recall the troops\n  For the third charge, a band of fugitives\n  Bore me with them, close by the hostile ranks:\n  I was in peril--capture, sudden death!--\n  When I thought of the good expedient\n  To loosen and let fall the scarf which told\n  My military rank; thus I contrived\n  --Without attention waked--to leave the foes,\n  And suddenly returning, reinforced\n  With my own men, to scatter them!  And now,\n  --What say you, Sir?\n\n(The cadets pretend not to be listening, but the cards and the dice-boxes\nremain suspended in their hands, the smoke of their pipes in their cheeks.\nThey wait.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  I say, that Henri Quatre\n  Had not, by any dangerous odds, been forced\n  To strip himself of his white helmet plume.\n\n(Silent delight.  The cards fall, the dice rattle.  The smoke is puffed.)\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  The ruse succeeded, though!\n\n(Same suspension of play, etc.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh, may be!  But\n  One does not lightly abdicate the honor\n  To serve as target to the enemy\n(Cards, dice, fall again, and the cadets smoke with evident delight):\n  Had I been present when your scarf fell low,\n  --Our courage, Sir, is of a different sort--\n  I would have picked it up and put it on.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Oh, ay!  Another Gascon boast!\n\nCYRANO:\n  A boast?\n  Lend it to me.  I pledge myself, to-night,\n  --With it across my breast,--to lead th' assault.\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Another Gascon vaunt!  You know the scarf\n  Lies with the enemy, upon the brink\n  Of the stream,. . .the place is riddled now with shot,--\n  No one can fetch it hither!\n\nCYRANO (drawing the scarf from his pocket, and holding it out to him):\n  Here it is.\n\n(Silence.  The cadets stifle their laughter in their cards and dice-boxes. De\nGuiche turns and looks at them; they instantly become grave, and set to play.\nOne of them whistles indifferently the air just played by the fifer.)\n\nDE GUICHE (taking the scarf):\n  I thank you.  It will now enable me\n  To make a signal,--that I had forborne\n  To make--till now.\n\n(He goes to the rampart, climbs it, and waves the scarf thrice.)\n\nALL:\n  What's that?\n\nTHE SENTINEL (from the top of the rampart):\n  See you yon man\n  Down there, who runs?. . .\n\nDE GUICHE (descending):\n  'Tis a false Spanish spy\n  Who is extremely useful to my ends.\n  The news he carries to the enemy\n  Are those I prompt him with--so, in a word,\n  We have an influence on their decisions!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Scoundrel!\n\nDE GUICHE (carelessly knotting on his scarf):\n  'Tis opportune.  What were we saying?\n  Ah! I have news for you.  Last evening\n  --To victual us--the Marshal did attempt\n  A final effort:--secretly he went\n  To Dourlens, where the King's provisions be.\n  But--to return to camp more easily--\n  He took with him a goodly force of troops.\n  Those who attacked us now would have fine sport!\n  Half of the army's absent from the camp!\n\nCARBON:\n  Ay, if the Spaniards knew, 'twere ill for us,\n  But they know nothing of it?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Oh! they know.\n  They will attack us.\n\nCARBON:\n  Ah!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  For my false spy\n  Came to warn me of their attack.  He said,\n  'I can decide the point for their assault;\n  Where would you have it?  I will tell them 'tis\n  The least defended--they'll attempt you there.'\n  I answered, 'Good.  Go out of camp, but watch\n  My signal.  Choose the point from whence it comes.'\n\nCARBON (to cadets):\n  Make ready!\n\n(All rise; sounds of swords and belts being buckled.)\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  'Twill be in an hour.\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  Good!. . .\n\n(They all sit down again and take up their games.)\n\nDE GUICHE (to Carbon):\n  Time must be gained.  The Marshal will return.\n\nCARBON:\n  How gain it?\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  You will all be good enough\n  To let yourselves to be killed.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Vengeance! oho!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I do not say that, if I loved you well,\n  I had chosen you and yours,--but, as things stand,--\n  Your courage yielding to no corps the palm--\n  I serve my King, and serve my grudge as well.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Permit that I express my gratitude. . .\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  I know you love to fight against five score;\n  You will not now complain of paltry odds.\n\n(He goes up with Carbon.)\n\nCYRANO (to the cadets):\n  We shall add to the Gascon coat of arms,\n  With its six bars of blue and gold, one more--\n  The blood-red bar that was a-missing there!\n\n(De Guiche speaks in a low voice with Carbon at the back.  Orders are given.\nPreparations go forward.  Cyrano goes up to Christian, who stands with crossed\narms.)\n\nCYRANO (putting his hand on Christian's shoulder):\n  Christian!\n\nCHRISTIAN (shaking his head):\n  Roxane!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Alas!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  At least, I'd send\n  My heart's farewell to her in a fair letter!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  I had suspicion it would be to-day,\n(He draws a letter out of his doublet):\n  And had already writ. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Show!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Will you. . .?\n\nCHRISTIAN (taking the letter):\n  Ay!\n(He opens and reads it):\n  Hold!\n\nCYRANO:\n  What?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  This little spot!\n\nCYRANO (taking the letter, with an innocent look):\n  A spot?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  A tear!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Poets, at last,--by dint of counterfeiting--\n  Take counterfeit for true--that is the charm!\n  This farewell letter,--it was passing sad,\n  I wept myself in writing it!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Wept? why?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh!. . .death itself is hardly terrible,. . .\n  --But, ne'er to see her more!  That is death's sting!\n  --For. . .I shall never. . .\n(Christian looks at him):\n  We shall. . .\n(Quickly):\n  I mean, you. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN (snatching the letter from him):\n  Give me that letter!\n\n(A rumor, far off in the camp.)\n\nVOICE Of SENTINEL:\n  Who goes there?  Halloo!\n\n(Shots--voices--carriage-bells.)\n\nCARBON:\n  What is it?\n\nA SENTINEL (on the rampart):\n  'Tis a carriage!\n\n(All rush to see.)\n\nCRIES:\n  In the camp?\n  It enters!--It comes from the enemy!\n  --Fire!--No!--The coachman cries!--What does he say?\n  --'On the King's service!'\n\n(Everyone is on the rampart, staring.  The bells come nearer.)\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  The King's service?  How?\n\n(All descend and draw up in line.)\n\nCARBON:\n  Uncover, all!\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  The King's!  Draw up in line!\n  Let him describe his curve as it befits!\n\n(The carriage enters at full speed covered with dust and mud.  The curtains\nare drawn close.  Two lackeys behind.  It is pulled up suddenly.)\n\nCARBON:\n  Beat a salute!\n\n(A roll of drums.  The cadets uncover.)\n\nDE GUICHE:\n  Lower the carriage-steps!\n\n(Two cadets rush forward.  The door opens.)\n\nROXANE (jumping down from the carriage):\n  Good-day!\n\n(All are bowing to the ground, but at the sound of a woman's voice every head\nis instantly raised.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Prompted by Cyrano, de Guiche boasts of his conduct in the previous day's battle when, to confuse the Spaniards, he flung away the white plume that marked him as an officer. Cyrano then proclaims that a courageous man would never have flung away the white plume, and he offers to wear it in the next bout of fighting. De Guiche says Cyrano makes the pledge only because he knows the plume lies somewhere on the battlefield. To the cadets' delight, Cyrano produces the plume from his pocket. Furious, de Guiche seizes the plume and waves it to a sentry, who runs toward the Spanish encampments. De Guiche says that he has just given a signal and that the Spanish will attack in perhaps an hour. He says that the cadets will all die but that, in the process, they will buy the French forces as much time as possible. Cyrano thanks de Guiche solemnly for the opportunity to die with glory. Christian tells Cyrano he wishes he could say farewell to Roxane, and Cyrano shows him the farewell letter he has just written. Christian notices the mark of a tear on the letter and nearly guesses Cyrano's secret. He is interrupted by the arrival of a mysterious coach"}, {"": "331", "document": "CHAPTER XIX\n\n\n\n  Now my task is smoothly done,\n I can fly, or I can run\n Quickly to the green earth's end,\n Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend,\n And, from thence, can soar as soon\n To the corners of the moon.\n     MILTON\n\nThe marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated,\non the same day, and with the ancient baronial magnificence, at\nChateau-le-Blanc. The feasts were held in the great hall of the castle,\nwhich, on this occasion, was hung with superb new tapestry, representing\nthe exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; here, were seen the\nSaracens, with their horrible visors, advancing to battle; and there,\nwere displayed the wild solemnities of incantation, and the necromantic\nfeats, exhibited by the magician JARL before the Emperor. The sumptuous\nbanners of the family of Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, were\nonce more unfurled, to wave over the gothic points of painted casements;\nand music echoed, in many a lingering close, through every winding\ngallery and colonnade of that vast edifice.\n\nAs Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches and\nwindows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and gazed\non the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of the\nattendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened to\nthe gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost fancied\nherself in an enchanted palace, and declared, that she had not met with\nany place, which charmed her so much, since she read the fairy tales;\nnay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly revels in this old\nhall, could display nothing finer; while old Dorothee, as she surveyed\nthe scene, sighed, and said, the castle looked as it was wont to do in\nthe time of her youth.\n\nAfter gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days,\nValancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned to\nLa Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned\njoy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender and\naffecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over the\nscenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St. Aubert, and\nEmily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite haunts, her\npresent happiness was heightened, by considering, that it would have\nbeen worthy of their approbation, could they have witnessed it.\n\nValancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had first\nventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of the\nanxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the dangers\nand misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they sat together\nbeneath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their present felicity,\nwhich, on this spot, sacred to the memory of St. Aubert, they solemnly\nvowed to deserve, as far as possible, by endeavouring to imitate his\nbenevolence,--by remembering, that superior attainments of every sort\nbring with them duties of superior exertion,--and by affording to their\nfellow-beings, together with that portion of ordinary comforts, which\nprosperity always owes to misfortune, the example of lives passed in\nhappy thankfulness to GOD, and, therefore, in careful tenderness to his\ncreatures.\n\nSoon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came to\ncongratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to Emily, with\nwhom he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect of rational\nhappiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, that he\nimmediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the whole of\nwhich, as he had no family, would of course descend to his brother, on\nhis decease.\n\nThe estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of\nMons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having given\nAnnette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper,\nand Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and herself\npreferred the pleasant and long-loved shades of La Vallee to the\nmagnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing,\nhowever, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, in\ntender respect to his memory.\n\nThe legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini,\nshe begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac;\nand Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of the\ncompliment it conveyed. The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to the\nwife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviving relation of the\nhouse of that name, and thus affluence restored his long-oppressed\nspirits to peace, and his family to comfort.\n\nO! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt\nand Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of the\nvicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, restored to\neach other--to the beloved landscapes of their native country,--to the\nsecurest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to moral and labouring\nfor intellectual improvement--to the pleasures of enlightened society,\nand to the exercise of the benevolence, which had always animated their\nhearts; while the bowers of La Vallee became, once more, the retreat of\ngoodness, wisdom and domestic blessedness!\n\nO! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can\nsometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient\nand their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed\nby injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over\nmisfortune!\n\nAnd, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes,\nbeguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught him\nto sustain it--the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the\nwriter unrewarded.\n\n\n", "summary": "Blanche and Em get married in a double wedding to their sweethearts in grand style at Chateau-le-Blanc. Soon after all the celebrating goes down, Em and Valancourt zip back to La Vallee to start their married life together. Valancourt's brother likes Em so much that he gives him part of his estates. Nice. Em gives Annette a hefty chunk of moolah to settle down with Ludovico. Oh yeah, and Em gives away Udolpho to the Bonnacs. We didn't know Em was that tight with the guy Valancourt helped out of prison, but maybe she wanted the creepy castle out of her hair. Everyone is happy, happy, happy. Let's shut this thing down before a ghost pops up somewhere."}, {"": "332", "document": "Christian, Cyrano, two pages.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Come to my aid!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Not I!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But I shall die,\n  Unless at once I win back her fair favor.\n\nCYRANO:\n  And how can I, at once, i' th' devil's name,\n  Lesson you in. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN (seizing his arm):\n  Oh, she is there!\n\n(The window of the balcony is now lighted up.)\n\nCYRANO (moved):\n  Her window!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh!  I shall die!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Speak lower!\n\nCHRISTIAN (in a whisper):\n  I shall die!\n\nCYRANO:\n  The night is dark. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Well!\n\nCYRANO:\n  All can be repaired.\n  Although you merit not.  Stand there, poor wretch!\n  Fronting the balcony!  I'll go beneath\n  And prompt your words to you. . .\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Hold your tongue!\n\nTHE PAGES (reappearing at back--to Cyrano):\n  Ho!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Hush!\n\n(He signs to them to speak softly.)\n\nFIRST PAGE (in a low voice):\n  We've played the serenade you bade\n  To Montfleury!\n\nCYRANO (quickly, in a low voice):\n  Go! lurk in ambush there,\n  One at this street corner, and one at that;\n  And if a passer-by should here intrude,\n  Play you a tune!\n\nSECOND PAGE:\n  What tune, Sir Gassendist?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Gay, if a woman comes,--for a man, sad!\n(The pages disappear, one at each street corner.  To Christian):\n  Call her!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Roxane!\n\nCYRANO (picking up stones and throwing them at the window):\n  Some pebbles! wait awhile!\n\nROXANE (half-opening the casement):\n  Who calls me?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I!\n\nROXANE:\n  Who's that?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Christian!\n\nROXANE (disdainfully):\n  Oh! you?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  I would speak with you.\n\nCYRANO (under the balcony--to Christian):\n  Good.  Speak soft and low.\n\nROXANE:\n  No, you speak stupidly!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh, pity me!\n\nROXANE:\n  No! you love me no more!\n\nCHRISTIAN (prompted by Cyrano):\n  You say--Great Heaven!\n  I love no more?--when--I--love more and more!\n\nROXANE (who was about to shut the casement, pausing):\n  Hold! 'tis a trifle better! ay, a trifle!\n\nCHRISTIAN (same play):\n  Love grew apace, rocked by the anxious beating. . .\n  Of this poor heart, which the cruel wanton boy. . .\n  Took for a cradle!\n\nROXANE (coming out on to the balcony):\n  That is better!  But\n  An if you deem that Cupid be so cruel\n  You should have stifled baby-love in's cradle!\n\nCHRISTIAN (same play):\n  Ah, Madame, I assayed, but all in vain\n  This. . .new-born babe is a young. . .Hercules!\n\nROXANE:\n  Still better!\n\nCHRISTIAN (same play):\n  Thus he strangled in my heart\n  The. . .serpents twain, of. . .Pride. . .and Doubt!\n\nROXANE (leaning over the balcony):\n  Well said!\n  --But why so faltering?  Has mental palsy\n  Seized on your faculty imaginative?\n\nCYRANO (drawing Christian under the balcony, and slipping into his place):\n  Give place!  This waxes critical!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  To-day. . .\n  Your words are hesitating.\n\nCYRANO (imitating Christian--in a whisper):\n  Night has come. . .\n  In the dusk they grope their way to find your ear.\n\nROXANE:\n  But my words find no such impediment.\n\nCYRANO:\n  They find their way at once?  Small wonder that!\n  For 'tis within my heart they find their home;\n  Bethink how large my heart, how small your ear!\n  And,--from fair heights descending, words fall fast,\n  But mine must mount, Madame, and that takes time!\n\nROXANE:\n  Meseems that your last words have learned to climb.\n\nCYRANO:\n  With practice such gymnastic grows less hard!\n\nROXANE:\n  In truth, I seem to speak from distant heights!\n\nCYRANO:\n  True, far above; at such a height 'twere death\n  If a hard word from you fell on my heart.\n\nROXANE (moving):\n  I will come down. . .\n\nCYRANO (hastily):\n  No!\n\nROXANE (showing him the bench under the balcony):\n  Mount then on the bench!\n\nCYRANO (starting back alarmed):\n  No!\n\nROXANE:\n  How, you will not?\n\nCYRANO (more and more moved):\n  Stay awhile!  'Tis sweet,. . .\n  The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak\n  Our selves unseen, unseeing!\n\nROXANE:\n  Why--unseen?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, it is sweet!  Half hidden,--half revealed--\n  You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak,\n  And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress:\n  I but a shadow--you a radiance fair!\n  Know you what such a moment holds for me?\n  If ever I were eloquent. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  You were!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Yet never till to-night my speech has sprung\n  Straight from my heart as now it springs.\n\nROXANE:\n  Why not?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Till now I spoke haphazard. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  What?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Your eyes\n  Have beams that turn men dizzy!--But to-night\n  Methinks I shall find speech for the first time!\n\nROXANE:\n  'Tis true, your voice rings with a tone that's new.\n\nCYRANO (coming nearer, passionately):\n  Ay, a new tone!  In the tender, sheltering dusk\n  I dare to be myself for once,--at last!\n(He stops, falters):\n  What say I? I know not!--Oh, pardon me--\n  It thrills me,--'tis so sweet, so novel. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  How?\n  So novel?\n\nCYRANO (off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence):\n  Ay,--to be at last sincere;\n  Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Mocked, and for what?\n\nCYRANO:\n  For its mad beating!--Ay,\n  My heart has clothed itself with witty words,\n  To shroud itself from curious eyes:--impelled\n  At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand,\n  And, fearing ridicule,--cull a wild flower!\n\nROXANE:\n  A wild flower's sweet.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, but to-night--the star!\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh! never have you spoken thus before!\n\nCYRANO:\n  If, leaving Cupid's arrows, quivers, torches,\n  We turned to seek for sweeter--fresher things!\n  Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass\n  Dull fashionable waters,--did we try\n  How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught\n  By drinking from the river's flooding brim!\n\nROXANE:\n  But wit?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  If I have used it to arrest you\n  At the first starting,--now, 'twould be an outrage,\n  An insult--to the perfumed Night--to Nature--\n  To speak fine words that garnish vain love-letters!\n  Look up but at her stars!  The quiet Heaven\n  Will ease our hearts of all things artificial;\n  I fear lest, 'midst the alchemy we're skilled in\n  The truth of sentiment dissolve and vanish,--\n  The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes,\n  The gain of fine things be the loss of all things!\n\nROXANE:\n  But wit?  I say. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  In love 'tis crime,--'tis hateful!\n  Turning frank loving into subtle fencing!\n  At last the moment comes, inevitable,--\n  --Oh, woe for those who never know that moment!\n  When feeling love exists in us, ennobling,\n  Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening!\n\nROXANE:\n  Well, if that moment's come for us--suppose it!\n  What words would serve you?\n\nCYRANO:\n  All, all, all, whatever\n  That came to me, e'en as they came, I'd fling them\n  In a wild cluster, not a careful bouquet.\n  I love thee!  I am mad!  I love, I stifle!\n  Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell,\n  And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee,\n  Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth!\n  All things of thine I mind, for I love all things;\n  I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month,\n  To walk abroad, one day you changed your hair-plaits!\n  I am so used to take your hair for daylight\n  That,--like as when the eye stares on the sun's disk,\n  One sees long after a red blot on all things--\n  So, when I quit thy beams, my dazzled vision\n  Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted.\n\nROXANE (agitated):\n  Why, this is love indeed!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, true, the feeling\n  Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly\n  Love,--which is ever sad amid its transports!\n  Love,--and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion!\n  I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down,\n  --E'en though you never were to know it,--never!\n  --If but at times I might--far off and lonely,--\n  Hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you!\n  Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue,--\n  A novel, unknown valor.  Dost begin, sweet,\n  To understand?  So late, dost understand me?\n  Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness mounting?\n  Too fair the night!  Too fair, too fair the moment!\n  That I should speak thus, and that you should hearken!\n  Too fair!  In moments when my hopes rose proudest,\n  I never hoped such guerdon.  Naught is left me\n  But to die now!  Have words of mine the power\n  To make you tremble,--throned there in the branches?\n  Ay, like a leaf among the leaves, you tremble!\n  You tremble!  For I feel,--an if you will it,\n  Or will it not,--your hand's beloved trembling\n  Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of jasmine!\n\n(He kisses passionately one of the hanging tendrils.)\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay!  I am trembling, weeping!--I am thine!\n  Thou hast conquered all of me!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Then let death come!\n  'Tis I, 'tis I myself, who conquered thee!\n  One thing, but one, I dare to ask--\n\nCHRISTIAN (under the balcony):\n  A kiss!\n\nROXANE (drawing back):\n  What?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh!\n\nROXANE:\n  You ask. . .?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I. . .\n(To Christian, whispering):\n  Fool! you go too quick!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Since she is moved thus--I will profit by it!\n\nCYRANO (to Roxane):\n  My words sprang thoughtlessly, but now I see--\n  Shame on me!--I was too presumptuous.\n\nROXANE (a little chilled):\n  How quickly you withdraw.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Yes, I withdraw\n  Without withdrawing!  Hurt I modesty?\n  If so--the kiss I asked--oh, grant it not.\n\nCHRISTIAN (to Cyrano, pulling him by his cloak):\n  Why?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Silence, Christian!  Hush!\n\nROXANE (leaning over):\n  What whisper you?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I chid myself for my too bold advances;\n  Said, 'Silence, Christian!'\n(The lutes begin to play):\n  Hark!  Wait awhile,. . .\n  Steps come!\n(Roxane shuts the window.  Cyrano listens to the lutes, one of which plays a\nmerry, the other a melancholy, tune):\n  Why, they play sad--then gay--then sad!  What?  Neither man nor woman?--oh!\na monk!\n\n(Enter a capuchin friar, with a lantern.  He goes from house to house, looking\nat every door.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Before Roxane and her governess depart for the meeting at Clomire's, she asks Cyrano to tell Christian to await her return. Cyrano asks Roxane what subject she desires Christian to discuss today. She says that she wants him to speak about love, but Cyrano must not let Christian know. Of course, Cyrano tries to prepare Christian for the speech as usual. This time, however, Christian rebels against presenting a borrowed speech, wanting to express his own thoughts. Roxane soon returns from Clomire's, for she has missed the discourse on tenderness. She invites Christian to sit on the bench outside her house and elaborate on his sentiment of love. He fails miserably. Roxane, thinking he is being foolish, is displeased with him. She leaves Christian alone on the bench and enters her house. Cyrano, who has been eavesdropping, comes up to Christian and sarcastically congratulates him. Christian, in utter despair, asks for Cyrano's help in wooing Roxane; but it is too late to train Christian in an appropriate speech. Cyrano, however, comes up with another plan. Christian should stand under Roxane's balcony. Hiding in the darkness out of sight, Cyrano will whisper to Christian what he should say. Christian agrees to the plan. The musical pages appear with their lutes. Cyrano puts them on guard duty. They are to play a happy melody if a woman is approaching and a sad one if a man appears. Then Cyrano throws some pebbles at Roxane's window and tells Christian to call her."}, {"": "333", "document": "\n\nFOR several weeks after my sleigh-ride, we heard nothing from the\nShimerdas. My sore throat kept me indoors, and grandmother had a cold\nwhich made the housework heavy for her. When Sunday came she was glad to\nhave a day of rest. One night at supper Fuchs told us he had seen Mr.\nShimerda out hunting.\n\n\"He's made himself a rabbit-skin cap, Jim, and a rabbit-skin collar that\nhe buttons on outside his coat. They ain't got but one overcoat among 'em\nover there, and they take turns wearing it. They seem awful scared of\ncold, and stick in that hole in the bank like badgers.\"\n\n\"All but the crazy boy,\" Jake put in. \"He never wears the coat. Krajiek\nsays he's turrible strong and can stand anything. I guess rabbits must be\ngetting scarce in this locality. Ambrosch come along by the cornfield\nyesterday where I was at work and showed me three prairie dogs he'd shot.\nHe asked me if they was good to eat. I spit and made a face and took on,\nto scare him, but he just looked like he was smarter'n me and put 'em back\nin his sack and walked off.\"\n\nGrandmother looked up in alarm and spoke to grandfather. \"Josiah, you\ndon't suppose Krajiek would let them poor creatures eat prairie dogs, do\nyou?\"\n\n\"You had better go over and see our neighbors to-morrow, Emmaline,\" he\nreplied gravely.\n\nFuchs put in a cheerful word and said prairie dogs were clean beasts and\nought to be good for food, but their family connections were against them.\nI asked what he meant, and he grinned and said they belonged to the rat\nfamily.\n\nWhen I went downstairs in the morning, I found grandmother and Jake\npacking a hamper basket in the kitchen.\n\n\"Now, Jake,\" grandmother was saying, \"if you can find that old rooster\nthat got his comb froze, just give his neck a twist, and we'll take him\nalong. There's no good reason why Mrs. Shimerda could n't have got hens\nfrom her neighbors last fall and had a henhouse going by now. I reckon she\nwas confused and did n't know where to begin. I've come strange to a new\ncountry myself, but I never forgot hens are a good thing to have, no\nmatter what you don't have.\"\n\n\"Just as you say, mam,\" said Jake, \"but I hate to think of Krajiek getting\na leg of that old rooster.\" He tramped out through the long cellar and\ndropped the heavy door behind him.\n\nAfter breakfast grandmother and Jake and I bundled ourselves up and\nclimbed into the cold front wagon-seat. As we approached the Shimerdas' we\nheard the frosty whine of the pump and saw Antonia, her head tied up and\nher cotton dress blown about her, throwing all her weight on the\npump-handle as it went up and down. She heard our wagon, looked back over\nher shoulder, and catching up her pail of water, started at a run for the\nhole in the bank.\n\nJake helped grandmother to the ground, saying he would bring the\nprovisions after he had blanketed his horses. We went slowly up the icy\npath toward the door sunk in the drawside. Blue puffs of smoke came from\nthe stovepipe that stuck out through the grass and snow, but the wind\nwhisked them roughly away.\n\nMrs. Shimerda opened the door before we knocked and seized grandmother's\nhand. She did not say \"How do!\" as usual, but at once began to cry,\ntalking very fast in her own language, pointing to her feet which were\ntied up in rags, and looking about accusingly at every one.\n\nThe old man was sitting on a stump behind the stove, crouching over as if\nhe were trying to hide from us. Yulka was on the floor at his feet, her\nkitten in her lap. She peeped out at me and smiled, but, glancing up at\nher mother, hid again. Antonia was washing pans and dishes in a dark\ncorner. The crazy boy lay under the only window, stretched on a gunnysack\nstuffed with straw. As soon as we entered he threw a grainsack over the\ncrack at the bottom of the door. The air in the cave was stifling, and it\nwas very dark, too. A lighted lantern, hung over the stove, threw out a\nfeeble yellow glimmer.\n\nMrs. Shimerda snatched off the covers of two barrels behind the door, and\nmade us look into them. In one there were some potatoes that had been\nfrozen and were rotting, in the other was a little pile of flour.\nGrandmother murmured something in embarrassment, but the Bohemian woman\nlaughed scornfully, a kind of whinny-laugh, and catching up an empty\ncoffee-pot from the shelf, shook it at us with a look positively\nvindictive.\n\nGrandmother went on talking in her polite Virginia way, not admitting\ntheir stark need or her own remissness, until Jake arrived with the\nhamper, as if in direct answer to Mrs. Shimerda's reproaches. Then the\npoor woman broke down. She dropped on the floor beside her crazy son, hid\nher face on her knees, and sat crying bitterly. Grandmother paid no heed\nto her, but called Antonia to come and help empty the basket. Tony left\nher corner reluctantly. I had never seen her crushed like this before.\n\n\"You not mind my poor mamenka, Mrs. Burden. She is so sad,\" she whispered,\nas she wiped her wet hands on her skirt and took the things grandmother\nhanded her.\n\nThe crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make soft, gurgling noises and\nstroked his stomach. Jake came in again, this time with a sack of\npotatoes. Grandmother looked about in perplexity.\n\n\"Have n't you got any sort of cave or cellar outside, Antonia? This is no\nplace to keep vegetables. How did your potatoes get frozen?\"\n\n\"We get from Mr. Bushy, at the post-office,--what he throw out. We got no\npotatoes, Mrs. Burden,\" Tony admitted mournfully.\n\nWhen Jake went out, Marek crawled along the floor and stuffed up the\ndoor-crack again. Then, quietly as a shadow, Mr. Shimerda came out from\nbehind the stove. He stood brushing his hand over his smooth gray hair, as\nif he were trying to clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and\nneat as usual, with his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took\ngrandmother's arm and led her behind the stove, to the back of the room.\nIn the rear wall was another little cave; a round hole, not much bigger\nthan an oil barrel, scooped out in the black earth. When I got up on one\nof the stools and peered into it, I saw some quilts and a pile of straw.\nThe old man held the lantern. \"Yulka,\" he said in a low, despairing voice,\n\"Yulka; my Antonia!\"\n\nGrandmother drew back. \"You mean they sleep in there,--your girls?\" He\nbowed his head.\n\nTony slipped under his arm. \"It is very cold on the floor, and this is\nwarm like the badger hole. I like for sleep there,\" she insisted eagerly.\n\"My mamenka have nice bed, with pillows from our own geese in Bohemie.\nSee, Jim?\" She pointed to the narrow bunk which Krajiek had built against\nthe wall for himself before the Shimerdas came.\n\nGrandmother sighed. \"Sure enough, where _would_ you sleep, dear! I don't\ndoubt you're warm there. You'll have a better house after while, Antonia,\nand then you'll forget these hard times.\"\n\nMr. Shimerda made grandmother sit down on the only chair and pointed his\nwife to a stool beside her. Standing before them with his hand on\nAntonia's shoulder, he talked in a low tone, and his daughter translated.\nHe wanted us to know that they were not beggars in the old country; he\nmade good wages, and his family were respected there. He left Bohemia with\nmore than a thousand dollars in savings, after their passage money was\npaid. He had in some way lost on exchange in New York, and the railway\nfare to Nebraska was more than they had expected. By the time they paid\nKrajiek for the land, and bought his horses and oxen and some old farm\nmachinery, they had very little money left. He wished grandmother to know,\nhowever, that he still had some money. If they could get through until\nspring came, they would buy a cow and chickens and plant a garden, and\nwould then do very well. Ambrosch and Antonia were both old enough to work\nin the fields, and they were willing to work. But the snow and the bitter\nweather had disheartened them all.\n\nAntonia explained that her father meant to build a new house for them in\nthe spring; he and Ambrosch had already split the logs for it, but the\nlogs were all buried in the snow, along the creek where they had been\nfelled.\n\nWhile grandmother encouraged and gave them advice, I sat down on the floor\nwith Yulka and let her show me her kitten. Marek slid cautiously toward us\nand began to exhibit his webbed fingers. I knew he wanted to make his\nqueer noises for me--to bark like a dog or whinny like a horse,--but he did\nnot dare in the presence of his elders. Marek was always trying to be\nagreeable, poor fellow, as if he had it on his mind that he must make up\nfor his deficiencies.\n\nMrs. Shimerda grew more calm and reasonable before our visit was over,\nand, while Antonia translated, put in a word now and then on her own\naccount. The woman had a quick ear, and caught up phrases whenever she\nheard English spoken. As we rose to go, she opened her wooden chest and\nbrought out a bag made of bed-ticking, about as long as a flour sack and\nhalf as wide, stuffed full of something. At sight of it, the crazy boy\nbegan to smack his lips. When Mrs. Shimerda opened the bag and stirred the\ncontents with her hand, it gave out a salty, earthy smell, very pungent,\neven among the other odors of that cave. She measured a teacup full, tied\nit up in a bit of sacking, and presented it ceremoniously to grandmother.\n\n\"For cook,\" she announced. \"Little now; be very much when cook,\" spreading\nout her hands as if to indicate that the pint would swell to a gallon.\n\"Very good. You no have in this country. All things for eat better in my\ncountry.\"\n\n\"Maybe so, Mrs. Shimerda,\" grandmother said drily. \"I can't say but I\nprefer our bread to yours, myself.\"\n\n  [Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest]\n\nAntonia undertook to explain. \"This very good, Mrs. Burden,\"--she clasped\nher hands as if she could not express how good,--\"it make very much when\nyou cook, like what my mama say. Cook with rabbit, cook with chicken, in\nthe gravy,--oh, so good!\"\n\nAll the way home grandmother and Jake talked about how easily good\nChristian people could forget they were their brothers' keepers.\n\n\"I will say, Jake, some of our brothers and sisters are hard to keep.\nWhere's a body to begin, with these people? They're wanting in everything,\nand most of all in horse-sense. Nobody can give 'em that, I guess. Jimmy,\nhere, is about as able to take over a homestead as they are. Do you reckon\nthat boy Ambrosch has any real push in him?\"\n\n\"He's a worker, all right, mam, and he's got some ketch-on about him; but\nhe's a mean one. Folks can be mean enough to get on in this world; and\nthen, ag'in, they can be too mean.\"\n\nThat night, while grandmother was getting supper, we opened the package\nMrs. Shimerda had given her. It was full of little brown chips that looked\nlike the shavings of some root. They were as light as feathers, and the\nmost noticeable thing about them was their penetrating, earthy odor. We\ncould not determine whether they were animal or vegetable.\n\n\"They might be dried meat from some queer beast, Jim. They ain't dried\nfish, and they never grew on stalk or vine. I'm afraid of 'em. Anyhow, I\nshould n't want to eat anything that had been shut up for months with old\nclothes and goose pillows.\"\n\nShe threw the package into the stove, but I bit off a corner of one of the\nchips I held in my hand, and chewed it tentatively. I never forgot the\nstrange taste; though it was many years before I knew that those little\nbrown shavings, which the Shimerdas had brought so far and treasured so\njealously, were dried mushrooms. They had been gathered, probably, in some\ndeep Bohemian forest {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~}\n\n\n\n", "summary": "For several weeks Jim doesn't hear anything from the Shimerdas because he's inside sick. One day Otto says that he saw Mr. Shimerda hunting, wearing the one winter coat that the whole family shares. Apparently the family is so poor that they eat prairie dogs, so the next day Grandmother decides to bring over food and chickens. When they arrive, Mrs. Shimerda speaks accusingly to them in Bohemian and shows them how little food they have. The dugout house is dingy and sad. When Jake brings in the food, Mrs. Shimerda begins to weep. Grandmother is appalled to discover that the girls sleep in a small cave in the dirt wall, and Mr. Shimerda, with Antonia translating, explains that in the old country they were a very respectable family. They still have some money left, and once it is spring, they will be ready to build a nice farm. They are just having trouble their first winter. Grandmother gives them some advice. Before they leave, Mrs. Shimerda measures out a pint of some pungent, earthy substance to give to the Burdens. On the way back, Grandmother comments on how lacking in sense and resources the Shimerdas seem. When she looks at what Mrs. Shimerda gave her, she doesn't know what it is and throws it out. Jim tastes a bit of it, and only much later in life realizes that the food was dried mushrooms that the Shimerdas carried over from their homeland."}, {"": "334", "document": "IT was in the summer of 1842 that we arrived at the islands; the French\nhad then held possession of them for several weeks. During this time\nthey had visited some of the principal places in the group, and had\ndisembarked at various points about five hundred troops. These were\nemployed in constructing works of defence, and otherwise providing\nagainst the attacks of the natives, who at any moment might be expected\nto break out in open hostility. The islanders looked upon the people who\nmade this cavalier appropriation of their shores with mingled feelings\nof fear and detestation. They cordially hated them; but the impulses\nof their resentment were neutralized by their dread of the floating\nbatteries, which lay with their fatal tubes ostentatiously pointed,\nnot at fortifications and redoubts, but at a handful of bamboo sheds,\nsheltered in a grove of cocoanuts! A valiant warrior doubtless, but\na prudent one too, was this same Rear-Admiral Du Petit Thouars. Four\nheavy, doublebanked frigates and three corvettes to frighten a parcel of\nnaked heathen into subjection! Sixty-eight pounders to demolish huts of\ncocoanut boughs, and Congreve rockets to set on fire a few canoe sheds!\n\nAt Nukuheva, there were about one hundred soldiers ashore. They were\nencamped in tents, constructed of the old sails and spare spars of\nthe squadron, within the limits of a redoubt mounted with a few\nnine-pounders, and surrounded with a fosse. Every other day, these\ntroops were marched out in martial array, to a level piece of ground\nin the vicinity, and there for hours went through all sorts of military\nevolutions, surrounded by flocks of the natives, who looked on with\nsavage admiration at the show, and as savage a hatred of the actors.\nA regiment of the Old Guard, reviewed on a summer's day in the Champs\nElysees, could not have made a more critically correct appearance. The\nofficers' regimentals, resplendent with gold lace and embroidery as if\npurposely calculated to dazzle the islanders, looked as if just unpacked\nfrom their Parisian cases.\n\nThe sensation produced by the presence of the strangers had not in the\nleast subsided at the period of our arrival at the islands. The natives\nstill flocked in numbers about the encampment, and watched with the\nliveliest curiosity everything that was going forward. A blacksmith's\nforge, which had been set up in the shelter of a grove near the beach,\nattracted so great a crowd, that it required the utmost efforts of the\nsentries posted around to keep the inquisitive multitude at a sufficient\ndistance to allow the workmen to ply their vocation. But nothing gained\nso large a share of admiration as a horse, which had been brought from\nValparaiso by the Achille, one of the vessels of the squadron. The\nanimal, a remarkably fine one, had been taken ashore, and stabled in a\nhut of cocoanut boughs within the fortified enclosure. Occasionally it\nwas brought out, and, being gaily caparisoned, was ridden by one of the\nofficers at full speed over the hard sand beach. This performance was\nsure to be hailed with loud plaudits, and the 'puarkee nuee' (big hog)\nwas unanimously pronounced by the islanders to be the most extraordinary\nspecimen of zoology that had ever come under their observation.\n\nThe expedition for the occupation of the Marquesas had sailed from Brest\nin the spring of 1842, and the secret of its destination was solely in\nthe possession of its commander. No wonder that those who contemplated\nsuch a signal infraction of the rights of humanity should have sought to\nveil the enormity from the eyes of the world. And yet, notwithstanding\ntheir iniquitous conduct in this and in other matters, the French\nhave ever plumed themselves upon being the most humane and polished of\nnations. A high degree of refinement, however, does not seem to subdue\nour wicked propensities so much after all; and were civilization itself\nto be estimated by some of its results, it would seem perhaps better for\nwhat we call the barbarous part of the world to remain unchanged.\n\nOne example of the shameless subterfuges under which the French stand\nprepared to defend whatever cruelties they may hereafter think fit to\ncommit in bringing the Marquesan natives into subjection is well worthy\nof being recorded. On some flimsy pretext or other Mowanna, the king of\nNukuheva, whom the invaders by extravagant presents had cajoled over to\ntheir interests, and moved about like a mere puppet, has been set up\nas the rightful sovereign of the entire island--the alleged ruler by\nprescription of various clans, who for ages perhaps have treated with\neach other as separate nations. To reinstate this much-injured prince in\nthe assumed dignities of his ancestors, the disinterested strangers have\ncome all the way from France: they are determined that his title shall\nbe acknowledged. If any tribe shall refuse to recognize the authority\nof the French, by bowing down to the laced chapeau of Mowanna, let them\nabide the consequences of their obstinacy. Under cover of a similar\npretence, have the outrages and massacres at Tahiti the beautiful, the\nqueen of the South Seas, been perpetrated.\n\nOn this buccaneering expedition, Rear Admiral Du Petit Thouars, leaving\nthe rest of his squadron at the Marquesas,--which had then been occupied\nby his forces about five months--set sail for the doomed island in\nthe Reine Blanche frigate. On his arrival, as an indemnity for alleged\ninsults offered to the flag of his country, he demanded some twenty\nor thirty thousand dollars to be placed in his hands forthwith, and in\ndefault of payment, threatened to land and take possession of the place.\n\nThe frigate, immediately upon coming to an anchor, got springs on her\ncables, and with her guns cast loose and her men at their quarters, lay\nin the circular basin of Papeete, with her broadside bearing upon the\ndevoted town; while her numerous cutters, hauled in order alongside,\nwere ready to effect a landing, under cover of her batteries. She\nmaintained this belligerent attitude for several days, during which time\na series of informal negotiations were pending, and wide alarm spread\nover the island. Many of the Tahitians were at first disposed to resort\nto arms, and drive the invaders from their shores; but more pacific and\nfeebler counsels ultimately prevailed. The unfortunate queen Pomare,\nincapable of averting the impending calamity, terrified at the arrogance\nof the insolent Frenchman, and driven at last to despair, fled by night\nin a canoe to Emio.\n\nDuring the continuance of the panic there occurred an instance of\nfeminine heroism that I cannot omit to record.\n\nIn the grounds of the famous missionary consul, Pritchard, then absent\nin London, the consular flag of Britain waved as usual during the day,\nfrom a lofty staff planted within a few yards of the beach, and in full\nview of the frigate. One morning an officer, at the head of a party\nof men, presented himself at the verandah of Mr Pritchard's house, and\ninquired in broken English for the lady his wife. The matron soon made\nher appearance; and the polite Frenchman, making one of his best bows,\nand playing gracefully with the aiguillettes that danced upon his\nbreast, proceeded in courteous accents to deliver his mission. 'The\nadmiral desired the flag to be hauled down--hoped it would be perfectly\nagreeable--and his men stood ready to perform the duty.' 'Tell the\nPirate your master,' replied the spirited Englishwoman, pointing to\nthe staff, 'that if he wishes to strike these colours, he must come and\nperform the act himself; I will suffer no one else to do it.' The lady\nthen bowed haughtily and withdrew into the house. As the discomfited\nofficer slowly walked away, he looked up to the flag, and perceived that\nthe cord by which it was elevated to its place, led from the top of the\nstaff, across the lawn, to an open upper window of the mansion, where\nsat the lady from whom he had just parted, tranquilly engaged in\nknitting. Was that flag hauled down? Mrs Pritchard thinks not; and\nRear-Admiral Du Petit Thouars is believed to be of the same opinion.\n\n\n", "summary": "It is the summer of 1842 and the French have arrived on the island only a few weeks before the Dolly. About a hundred French soldiers now live around the bay. The natives come from their huts to watch the foreigners. They appear intrigued by European customs and especially are impressed by the arrival of a European horse. One of the chiefs of Nukuheva, Mowanna, is appointed by the French to serve as a puppet chieftain. Although the French act as if they are polite and diplomatic, this behavior merely cloaks the true brutality with which they generally treat natives"}, {"": "335", "document": "\nCarl came into the sitting-room while Alexandra was lighting the\nlamp. She looked up at him as she adjusted the shade. His sharp\nshoulders stooped as if he were very tired, his face was pale,\nand there were bluish shadows under his dark eyes. His anger had\nburned itself out and left him sick and disgusted.\n\n\"You have seen Lou and Oscar?\" Alexandra asked.\n\n\"Yes.\" His eyes avoided hers.\n\nAlexandra took a deep breath. \"And now you are going away. I\nthought so.\"\n\nCarl threw himself into a chair and pushed the dark lock back\nfrom his forehead with his white, nervous hand. \"What a hopeless\nposition you are in, Alexandra!\" he exclaimed feverishly. \"It is\nyour fate to be always surrounded by little men. And I am no better\nthan the rest. I am too little to face the criticism of even such\nmen as Lou and Oscar. Yes, I am going away; to-morrow. I cannot\neven ask you to give me a promise until I have something to offer\nyou. I thought, perhaps, I could do that; but I find I can't.\"\n\n\"What good comes of offering people things they don't need?\"\nAlexandra asked sadly. \"I don't need money. But I have needed\nyou for a great many years. I wonder why I have been permitted to\nprosper, if it is only to take my friends away from me.\"\n\n\"I don't deceive myself,\" Carl said frankly. \"I know that I am\ngoing away on my own account. I must make the usual effort. I\nmust have something to show for myself. To take what you would\ngive me, I should have to be either a very large man or a very\nsmall one, and I am only in the middle class.\"\n\nAlexandra sighed. \"I have a feeling that if you go away, you will\nnot come back. Something will happen to one of us, or to both.\nPeople have to snatch at happiness when they can, in this world.\nIt is always easier to lose than to find. What I have is yours,\nif you care enough about me to take it.\"\n\nCarl rose and looked up at the picture of John Bergson. \"But I\ncan't, my dear, I can't! I will go North at once. Instead of idling\nabout in California all winter, I shall be getting my bearings up\nthere. I won't waste another week. Be patient with me, Alexandra.\nGive me a year!\"\n\n\"As you will,\" said Alexandra wearily. \"All at once, in a single\nday, I lose everything; and I do not know why. Emil, too, is going\naway.\" Carl was still studying John Bergson's face and Alexandra's\neyes followed his. \"Yes,\" she said, \"if he could have seen all\nthat would come of the task he gave me, he would have been sorry.\nI hope he does not see me now. I hope that he is among the old\npeople of his blood and country, and that tidings do not reach him\nfrom the New World.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART III. Winter Memories\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Carl returns from his chat with Lou and Oscar. He avoids making eye contact with Alexandra, and she assumes that he's decided to takeoff. Carl confirms. He's sad that she's surrounded by such \"little men,\" including himself . He's heading off tomorrow. He says he can't promise that he'll return with something more to offer. But, Alexandra responds, money is not something she needs. She's loaded. What she needs is him. She doesn't even know why she has all her money, if she has no one to be with. Carl says it's not just that he can't give her anything. It's that he can't live with himself as a man with no means of his own. He needs to go make his own money. Alexandra has a feeling he won't come back if they don't act now. Something could happen to them in the meantime. Carl refuses. He has to go up North. He asks Alexandra to wait for him for a year. They both look at the portrait of John Bergson. Alexandra says she's glad she can't see him now, when she has become prosperous but is losing the people who matter to her, first Emil, and now Carl."}, {"": "336", "document": "XVIII. A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE.\n\n\nArthur Dimmesdale gazed into Hester's face with a look in which hope\nand joy shone out, indeed, but with fear betwixt them, and a kind of\nhorror at her boldness, who had spoken what he vaguely hinted at, but\ndared not speak.\n\nBut Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for\nso long a period not merely estranged, but outlawed, from society, had\nhabituated herself to such latitude of speculation as was altogether\nforeign to the clergyman. She had wandered, without rule or guidance,\nin a moral wilderness; as vast, as intricate and shadowy, as the\nuntamed forest, amid the gloom of which they were now holding a\ncolloquy that was to decide their fate. Her intellect and heart had\ntheir home, as it were, in desert places, where she roamed as freely\nas the wild Indian in his woods. For years past she had looked from\nthis estranged point of view at human institutions, and whatever\npriests or legislators had established; criticising all with hardly\nmore reverence than the Indian would feel for the clerical band, the\njudicial robe, the pillory, the gallows, the fireside, or the church.\nThe tendency of her fate and fortunes had been to set her free. The\nscarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared\nnot tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her\nteachers,--stern and wild ones,--and they had made her strong, but\ntaught her much amiss.\n\nThe minister, on the other hand, had never gone through an experience\ncalculated to lead him beyond the scope of generally received laws;\nalthough, in a single instance, he had so fearfully transgressed one\nof the most sacred of them. But this had been a sin of passion, not of\nprinciple, nor even purpose. Since that wretched epoch, he had\nwatched, with morbid zeal and minuteness, not his acts,--for those it\nwas easy to arrange,--but each breath of emotion, and his every\nthought. At the head of the social system, as the clergymen of that\nday stood, he was only the more trammelled by its regulations, its\nprinciples, and even its prejudices. As a priest, the framework of his\norder inevitably hemmed him in. As a man who had once sinned, but who\nkept his conscience all alive and painfully sensitive by the fretting\nof an unhealed wound, he might have been supposed safer within the\nline of virtue than if he had never sinned at all.\n\nThus, we seem to see that, as regarded Hester Prynne, the whole seven\nyears of outlaw and ignominy had been little other than a preparation\nfor this very hour. But Arthur Dimmesdale! Were such a man once more\nto fall, what plea could be urged in extenuation of his crime? None;\nunless it avail him somewhat, that he was broken down by long and\nexquisite suffering; that his mind was darkened and confused by the\nvery remorse which harrowed it; that, between fleeing as an avowed\ncriminal, and remaining as a hypocrite, conscience might find it hard\nto strike the balance; that it was human to avoid the peril of death\nand infamy, and the inscrutable machinations of an enemy; that,\nfinally, to this poor pilgrim, on his dreary and desert path, faint,\nsick, miserable, there appeared a glimpse of human affection and\nsympathy, a new life, and a true one, in exchange for the heavy doom\nwhich he was now expiating. And be the stern and sad truth spoken,\nthat the breach which guilt has once made into the human soul is\nnever, in this mortal state, repaired. It may be watched and guarded;\nso that the enemy shall not force his way again into the citadel, and\nmight even, in his subsequent assaults, select some other avenue, in\npreference to that where he had formerly succeeded. But there is still\nthe ruined wall, and, near it, the stealthy tread of the foe that\nwould win over again his unforgotten triumph.\n\nThe struggle, if there were one, need not be described. Let it\nsuffice, that the clergyman resolved to flee, and not alone.\n\n\"If, in all these past seven years,\" thought he, \"I could recall one\ninstant of peace or hope, I would yet endure, for the sake of that\nearnest of Heaven's mercy. But now,--since I am irrevocably\ndoomed,--wherefore should I not snatch the solace allowed to the\ncondemned culprit before his execution? Or, if this be the path to a\nbetter life, as Hester would persuade me, I surely give up no fairer\nprospect by pursuing it! Neither can I any longer live without her\ncompanionship; so powerful is she to sustain,--so tender to soothe! O\nThou to whom I dare not lift mine eyes, wilt Thou yet pardon me!\"\n\n\"Thou wilt go!\" said Hester, calmly, as he met her glance.\n\nThe decision once made, a glow of strange enjoyment threw its\nflickering brightness over the trouble of his breast. It was the\nexhilarating effect--upon a prisoner just escaped from the dungeon of\nhis own heart--of breathing the wild, free atmosphere of an\nunredeemed, unchristianized, lawless region. His spirit rose, as it\nwere, with a bound, and attained a nearer prospect of the sky, than\nthroughout all the misery which had kept him grovelling on the earth.\nOf a deeply religious temperament, there was inevitably a tinge of the\ndevotional in his mood.\n\n\"Do I feel joy again?\" cried he, wondering at himself. \"Methought the\ngerm of it was dead in me! O Hester, thou art my better angel! I seem\nto have flung myself--sick, sin-stained, and sorrow-blackened--down\nupon these forest-leaves, and to have risen up all made anew, and with\nnew powers to glorify Him that hath been merciful! This is already the\nbetter life! Why did we not find it sooner?\"\n\n\"Let us not look back,\" answered Hester Prynne. \"The past is gone!\nWherefore should we linger upon it now? See! With this symbol, I undo\nit all, and make it as it had never been!\"\n\nSo speaking, she undid the clasp that fastened the scarlet letter,\nand, taking it from her bosom, threw it to a distance among the\nwithered leaves. The mystic token alighted on the hither verge of the\nstream. With a hand's breadth farther flight it would have fallen into\nthe water, and have given the little brook another woe to carry\nonward, besides the unintelligible tale which it still kept murmuring\nabout. But there lay the embroidered letter, glittering like a lost\njewel, which some ill-fated wanderer might pick up, and thenceforth be\nhaunted by strange phantoms of guilt, sinkings of the heart, and\nunaccountable misfortune.\n\n[Illustration: A Gleam of Sunshine]\n\nThe stigma gone, Hester heaved a long, deep sigh, in which the burden\nof shame and anguish departed from her spirit. O exquisite relief! She\nhad not known the weight, until she felt the freedom! By another\nimpulse, she took off the formal cap that confined her hair; and down\nit fell upon her shoulders, dark and rich, with at once a shadow and a\nlight in its abundance, and imparting the charm of softness to her\nfeatures. There played around her mouth, and beamed out of her eyes, a\nradiant and tender smile, that seemed gushing from the very heart of\nwomanhood. A crimson flush was glowing on her cheek, that had been\nlong so pale. Her sex, her youth, and the whole richness of her\nbeauty, came back from what men call the irrevocable past, and\nclustered themselves, with her maiden hope, and a happiness before\nunknown, within the magic circle of this hour. And, as if the gloom of\nthe earth and sky had been but the effluence of these two mortal\nhearts, it vanished with their sorrow. All at once, as with a sudden\nsmile of heaven, forth burst the sunshine, pouring a very flood into\nthe obscure forest, gladdening each green leaf, transmuting the yellow\nfallen ones to gold, and gleaming adown the gray trunks of the solemn\ntrees. The objects that had made a shadow hitherto, embodied the\nbrightness now. The course of the little brook might be traced by its\nmerry gleam afar into the wood's heart of mystery, which had become a\nmystery of joy.\n\nSuch was the sympathy of Nature--that wild, heathen Nature of the\nforest, never subjugated by human law, nor illumined by higher\ntruth--with the bliss of these two spirits! Love, whether newly born,\nor aroused from a death-like slumber, must always create a sunshine,\nfilling the heart so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the\noutward world. Had the forest still kept its gloom, it would have been\nbright in Hester's eyes, and bright in Arthur Dimmesdale's!\n\nHester looked at him with the thrill of another joy.\n\n\"Thou must know Pearl!\" said she. \"Our little Pearl! Thou hast seen\nher,--yes, I know it!--but thou wilt see her now with other eyes. She\nis a strange child! I hardly comprehend her! But thou wilt love her\ndearly, as I do, and wilt advise me how to deal with her.\"\n\n\"Dost thou think the child will be glad to know me?\" asked the\nminister, somewhat uneasily. \"I have long shrunk from children,\nbecause they often show a distrust,--a backwardness to be familiar\nwith me. I have even been afraid of little Pearl!\"\n\n\"Ah, that was sad!\" answered the mother. \"But she will love thee\ndearly, and thou her. She is not far off. I will call her! Pearl!\nPearl!\"\n\n\"I see the child,\" observed the minister. \"Yonder she is, standing in\na streak of sunshine, a good way off, on the other side of the brook.\nSo thou thinkest the child will love me?\"\n\nHester smiled, and again called to Pearl, who was visible, at some\ndistance, as the minister had described her, like a bright-apparelled\nvision, in a sunbeam, which fell down upon her through an arch of\nboughs. The ray quivered to and fro, making her figure dim or\ndistinct,--now like a real child, now like a child's spirit,--as the\nsplendor went and came again. She heard her mother's voice, and\napproached slowly through the forest.\n\nPearl had not found the hour pass wearisomely, while her mother sat\ntalking with the clergyman. The great black forest--stern as it showed\nitself to those who brought the guilt and troubles of the world into\nits bosom--became the playmate of the lonely infant, as well as it\nknew how. Sombre as it was, it put on the kindest of its moods to\nwelcome her. It offered her the partridge-berries, the growth of the\npreceding autumn, but ripening only in the spring, and now red as\ndrops of blood upon the withered leaves. These Pearl gathered, and was\npleased with their wild flavor. The small denizens of the wilderness\nhardly took pains to move out of her path. A partridge, indeed, with a\nbrood of ten behind her, ran forward threateningly, but soon repented\nof her fierceness, and clucked to her young ones not to be afraid. A\npigeon, alone on a low branch, allowed Pearl to come beneath, and\nuttered a sound as much of greeting as alarm. A squirrel, from the\nlofty depths of his domestic tree, chattered either in anger or\nmerriment,--for a squirrel is such a choleric and humorous little\npersonage, that it is hard to distinguish between his moods,--so he\nchattered at the child, and flung down a nut upon her head. It was a\nlast year's nut, and already gnawed by his sharp tooth. A fox,\nstartled from his sleep by her light footstep on the leaves, looked\ninquisitively at Pearl, as doubting whether it were better to steal\noff, or renew his nap on the same spot. A wolf, it is said,--but here\nthe tale has surely lapsed into the improbable,--came up, and smelt of\nPearl's robe, and offered his savage head to be patted by her hand.\nThe truth seems to be, however, that the mother-forest, and these wild\nthings which it nourished, all recognized a kindred wildness in the\nhuman child.\n\nAnd she was gentler here than in the grassy-margined streets of the\nsettlement, or in her mother's cottage. The flowers appeared to know\nit; and one and another whispered as she passed, \"Adorn thyself with\nme, thou beautiful child, adorn thyself with me!\"--and, to please\nthem, Pearl gathered the violets, and anemones, and columbines, and\nsome twigs of the freshest green, which the old trees held down before\nher eyes. With these she decorated her hair, and her young waist, and\nbecame a nymph-child, or an infant dryad, or whatever else was in\nclosest sympathy with the antique wood. In such guise had Pearl\nadorned herself, when she heard her mother's voice, and came slowly\nback.\n\nSlowly; for she saw the clergyman.\n\n\n\n\n                            [Illustration]\n\n\n", "summary": "Dimmesdale is pretty stoked that Hester would be bold enough to suggest running away with him. But the narrator isn't surprised. After all, Hester has been wandering in a \"moral wilderness\" for seven years, so she isn't blinded confines of Puritan morality and social structures. She's been prepping to ditch this community for seven years--but Arthur Dimmesdale hasn't. He's pretty freaked out by the whole idea. Still, it's tempting, and he eventually decides to do it. Yay! Hester even takes off that stupid scarlet letter and throws it on the forest floor. Everyone celebrates, the birds sing, the sun comes out, Nature itself blesses them. You know, the whole thing. Even the narrator gets in on the action, philosophizing that untamed Nature will bless people's freedom from society's laws. Hester calls Pearl over--oh, did you forget she was there?--and she comes over, all decked out in twigs and flowers."}, {"": "337", "document": "SCENE III.\nBritain. CYMBELINE'S palace\n\nEnter IMOGEN and PISANIO\n\n  IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven,\n    And questioned'st every sail; if he should write,\n    And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost,\n    As offer'd mercy is. What was the last\n    That he spake to thee?\n  PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen!\n  IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief?\n  PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam.\n  IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I!\n    And that was all?\n  PISANIO. No, madam; for so long\n    As he could make me with his eye, or care\n    Distinguish him from others, he did keep\n    The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,\n    Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind\n    Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on,\n    How swift his ship.\n  IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him\n    As little as a crow, or less, ere left\n    To after-eye him.\n  PISANIO. Madam, so I did.\n  IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but\n    To look upon him, till the diminution\n    Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle;\n    Nay, followed him till he had melted from\n    The smallness of a gnat to air, and then\n    Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio,\n    When shall we hear from him?\n  PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam,\n    With his next vantage.\n  IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had\n    Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him\n    How I would think on him at certain hours\n    Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear\n    The shes of Italy should not betray\n    Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him,\n    At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,\n    T' encounter me with orisons, for then\n    I am in heaven for him; or ere I could\n    Give him that parting kiss which I had set\n    Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father,\n    And like the tyrannous breathing of the north\n    Shakes all our buds from growing.\n\n                        Enter a LADY\n\n  LADY. The Queen, madam,\n    Desires your Highness' company.\n  IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd.\n    I will attend the Queen.\n  PISANIO. Madam, I shall.                                Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The First Lord advises Cloten to change his shirt, which smells as a result of his fighting with Posthumus, though the Lord, in an attempt to flatter Cloten, tries unconvincingly to suggest that it is the air outside Cloten's shirt that is unwholesome. Cloten only sees the need to change his shirt if it were bloody, and asks if Posthumus is hurt. The Second Lord reveals in an aside to the audience that he is not, but the First Lord tries to flatter Cloten by saying it would be remarkable if Posthumus were not hurt. The Second Lord continues to address the audience in asides revealing Cloten's cowardice and Posthumus's bravery in the fight. Cloten claims he wishes the onlookers had not parted them, and the Second Lord says in an aside that he wishes Posthumus had killed Cloten. Cloten is astonished that Imogen could prefer Posthumus to himself. The First lord replies that her beauty exceeds her intelligence."}, {"": "338", "document": "[Enter Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER.]\n\nSir LUCIUS\nI wonder where this Captain Absolute hides himself! Upon my conscience!\nthese officers are always in one's way in love affairs:--I remember I\nmight have married Lady Dorothy Carmine, if it had not been for a\nlittle rogue of a major, who ran away with her before she could get a\nsight of me! And I wonder too what it is the ladies can see in them to\nbe so fond of them--unless it be a touch of the old serpent in 'em,\nthat makes the little creatures be caught, like vipers, with a bit of\nred cloth. Ha! isn't this the captain coming?--faith it is!--There is a\nprobability of succeeding about that fellow, that is mighty provoking!\nWho the devil is he talking to? [Steps aside.]\n\n[Enter CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.]\n\nABSOLUTE\n[Aside.] To what fine purpose I have been plotting! a noble reward for\nall my schemes, upon my soul!--a little gipsy!--I did not think her\nromance could have made her so damned absurd either. 'Sdeath, I never\nwas in a worse humour in my life!--I could cut my own throat, or any\nother person's, with the greatest pleasure in the world!\n\nSir LUCIUS\nOh, faith! I'm in the luck of it. I never could have found him in a\nsweeter temper for my purpose--to be sure I'm just come in the nick!\nNow to enter into conversation with him, and so quarrel\ngenteelly.--[Goes up to CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.] With regard to that matter,\ncaptain, I must beg leave to differ in opinion with you.\n\nABSOLUTE\nUpon my word, then, you must be a very subtle disputant:--because, sir,\nI happened just then to be giving no opinion at all.\n\nSir LUCIUS\nThat's no reason. For give me leave to tell you, a man may think an\nuntruth as well as speak one.\n\nABSOLUTE\nVery true, sir; but if a man never utters his thoughts, I should think\nthey might stand a chance of escaping controversy.\n\nSir LUCIUS\nThen, sir, you differ in opinion with me, which amounts to the same\nthing.\n\nABSOLUTE\nHark'ee, Sir Lucius; if I had not before known you to be a gentleman,\nupon my soul, I should not have discovered it at this interview: for\nwhat you can drive at, unless you mean to quarrel with me, I cannot\nconceive!\n\nSir LUCIUS\nI humbly thank you, sir, for the quickness of your\napprehension.--[Bowing.] You have named the very thing I would be at.\n\nABSOLUTE\nVery well, sir; I shall certainly not balk your inclinations.--But I\nshould be glad you would please to explain your motives.\n\nSir LUCIUS\nPray, sir, be easy; the quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands;\nwe should only spoil it by trying to explain it. However, your memory\nis very short, or you could not have forgot an affront you passed on me\nwithin this week. So, no more, but name your time and place.\n\nABSOLUTE\nWell, sir, since you are so bent on it, the sooner the better; let it\nbe this evening--here, by the Spring Gardens. We shall scarcely be\ninterrupted.\n\nSir LUCIUS\nFaith! that same interruption in affairs of this nature shows very\ngreat ill-breeding. I don't know what's the reason, but in England if a\nthing of this kind gets wind, people make such a pother, that a\ngentleman can never fight in peace and quietness. However, if it's the\nsame to you, captain, I should take it as a particular kindness if\nyou'd let us meet in King's-Mead-Fields, as a little business will call\nme there about six o'clock, and I may despatch both matters at once.\n\nABSOLUTE\n'Tis the same to me exactly. A little after six, then, we will discuss\nthis matter more seriously.\n\nSir LUCIUS\nIf you please, sir; there will be very pretty small-sword light, though\nit won't do for a long shot. So that matter's settled, and my mind's at\nease! [Exit.]\n\n[Enter FAULKLAND.]\n\nABSOLUTE\nWell met! I was going to look for you. O Faulkland! all the demons of\nspite and disappointment have conspired against me! I'm so vex'd, that\nif I had not the prospect of a resource in being knocked o' the head\nby-and-by, I should scarce have spirits to tell you the cause.\n\nFAULKLAND\nWhat can you mean?--Has Lydia changed her mind?--I should have thought\nher duty and inclination would now have pointed to the same object.\n\nABSOLUTE\nAy, just as the eyes do of a person who squints: when her love-eye was\nfixed on me, t'other, her eye of duty, was finely obliqued: but when\nduty bid her point that the same way, off t'other turned on a swivel,\nand secured its retreat with a frown!\n\nFAULKLAND\nBut what's the resource you----\n\nABSOLUTE\nOh, to wind up the whole, a good-natured Irishman here has--[Mimicking\nSir LUCIUS] begged leave to have the pleasure of cutting my throat; and\nI mean to indulge him--that's all.\n\nFAULKLAND\nPrithee, be serious!\n\nABSOLUTE\n'Tis fact, upon my soul! Sir Lucius O'Trigger--you know him by\nsight--for some affront, which I am sure I never intended, has obliged\nme to meet him this evening at six o'clock: 'tis on that account I\nwished to see you; you must go with me.\n\nFAULKLAND\nNay, there must be some mistake, sure. Sir Lucius shall explain\nhimself, and I dare say matters may be accommodated. But this evening\ndid you say? I wish it had been any other time.\n\nABSOLUTE\nWhy? there will be light enough: there will (as Sir Lucius says) be\nvery pretty small-sword light, though it will not do for a long shot.\nConfound his long shots.\n\nFAULKLAND\nBut I am myself a good deal ruffled by a difference I have had with\nJulia. My vile tormenting temper has made me treat her so cruelly, that\nI shall not be myself till we are reconciled.\n\nABSOLUTE\nBy heavens! Faulkland, you don't deserve her!\n\n[Enter SERVANT, gives FAULKLAND a letter, and exit.]\n\nFAULKLAND\nOh, Jack! this is from Julia. I dread to open it! I fear it may be to\ntake a last leave!--perhaps to bid me return her letters, and\nrestore--Oh, how I suffer for my folly!\n\nABSOLUTE\nHere, let me see.--[Takes the letter and opens it.] Ay, a final\nsentence, indeed!--'tis all over with you, faith!\n\nFAULKLAND\nNay, Jack, don't keep me in suspense!\n\nABSOLUTE\nHere then--[Reads.] _As I am convinced that my dear Faulkland's own\nreflections have already upbraided him for his last unkindness to me, I\nwill not add a word on the subject. I wish to speak with you as soon as\npossible. Yours ever and truly,_ Julia. There's stubbornness and\nresentment for you!--[Gives him the letter.] Why, man, you don't seem\none whit the happier at this!\n\nFAULKLAND\nO yes, I am; but--but----\n\nABSOLUTE\nConfound your buts! you never hear any thing that would make another\nman bless himself, but you immediately damn it with a but!\n\nFAULKLAND\nNow, Jack, as you are my friend, own honestly--don't you think there is\nsomething forward, something indelicate, in this haste to forgive?\nWomen should never sue for reconciliation: that should always come from\nus. They should retain their coldness till wooed to kindness; and their\npardon, like their love, should \"not unsought be won.\"\n\nABSOLUTE\nI have not patience to listen to you! thou'rt incorrigible! so say no\nmore on the subject. I must go to settle a few matters. Let me see you\nbefore six, remember, at my lodgings. A poor industrious devil like me,\nwho have toiled, and drudged, and plotted to gain my ends, and am at\nlast disappointed by other people's folly, may in pity be allowed to\nswear and grumble a little; but a captious sceptic in love, a slave to\nfretfulness and whim, who has no difficulties but of his own creating,\nis a subject more fit for ridicule than compassion! [Exit.]\n\nFAULKLAND\nI feel his reproaches; yet I would not change this too exquisite nicety\nfor the gross content with which he tramples on the thorns of love! His\nengaging me in this duel has started an idea in my head, which I will\ninstantly pursue. I'll use it as the touchstone of Julia's sincerity\nand disinterestedness. If her love prove pure and sterling ore, my name\nwill rest on it with honour; and once I've stamped it there, I lay\naside my doubts for ever! But if the dross of selfishness, the alloy of\npride, predominate, 'twill be best to leave her as a toy for some less\ncautious fool to sigh for! [Exit.]", "summary": "At Malaprop's lodgings, Malaprop and Lydia discuss Jack Absolute and Beverley. Malaprop thinks Jack is very handsome indeed, but Lydia stubbornly insists that she still loves Beverley. A servant announces the arrival of Anthony and Jack Absolute, and Malaprop tells him to bring them up, before telling Lydia to \"show good breeding. Lydia is determined to be impolite to Jack, so much so that she decides to not even look at him when he comes in, looking away from the door. Anthony and Jack enter and Jack notices that Lydia is refusing to look at him. He asks his father to leave them alone, but he will not, entreating his son to speak to Lydia. Finally, Jack resolves to alter his voice and speaks to Lydia in a \"low hoarse tone. With no other hope, Jack speaks to Lydia in an aside in his own voice, telling her to \"suppress all surprise at present. When Lydia turns around and sees him, she recognizes him as Beverley, which confuses Malaprop and Anthony. Jack admits that, indeed, he has disguised himself as Beverley to win Lydia's affection, and Lydia disappointedly says, \"So. there will be no elopement after all. Anthony is mad that Jack would mount such an elaborate charade and compromise his reputation. Malaprop is also offended by Jack's ruse, realizing that it was he who wrote such unflattering descriptions of her in his letters. Anthony encourages Malaprop to forgive them and delight in the fact that they are in love, and the two elders leave the room, singing. Jack goes to Lydia and notices that she is disappointed that he is actually a wealthy young captain. She says to him, \"Then, sir, let me tell you, the interest you had there was acquired by a mean, unmanly imposition, and deserves the punishment of fraud. What, you have been treating me like a child. humouring my romance. and laughing, I suppose, at your success. She bemoans the fact that she thought she was rebelling against her family, but was actually falling in love with precisely the person her aunt and father want her to marry. As Jack flatters Lydia and looks at a picture of her, she bursts into tears, and storms out of the room, vowing not to marry him"}, {"": "339", "document": "MORE EDUCATION\n\n\nWith twenty-five dollars in his hand, Henry felt like a millionaire as\nhe edged through the crowd to the gate.\n\n\"That's the boy,\" he heard many a person say when he was forced to hold\nhis silver cup in view out of harm's way.\n\nWhen Dr. McAllister drove into his yard he found a boy washing the\nconcrete drives as calmly as if nothing had happened. He chuckled\nquietly, for he had stopped at the Fair Grounds for a few minutes\nhimself, and held a little conversation with the score-keeper. When\nHenry faithfully repeated the list of winners, however, he said nothing\nabout it.\n\n\"What are you going to do with the prize?\" queried Dr. McAllister.\n\n\"Put it in the savings bank, I guess,\" replied Henry.\n\n\"Have you an account?\" asked his friend.\n\n\"No, but Jess says it's high time we started one.\"\n\n\"Good for Jess,\" said the doctor absently. \"I remember an old uncle of\nmine who put two hundred dollars in the savings bank and forgot all\nabout it. He left it in there till he died, and it came to me. It\namounted to sixteen hundred dollars.\"\n\n\"Whew!\" said Henry.\n\n\"He left it alone for over forty years, you see,\" explained Dr.\nMcAllister.\n\nWhen Henry arrived at his little home in the woods with the twenty-five\ndollars (for he never thought of putting it in the bank before Jess saw\nit), he found a delicious lunch waiting for him. Jess had boiled the\nlittle vegetables in clear water, and the moment they were done she had\ndrained off the water in a remarkable drainer, and heaped them on the\nbiggest dish with melted butter on top.\n\nHis family almost forgot to eat while Henry recounted the details of the\nexciting race. And when he showed them the silver cup and the money they\nactually did stop eating, hungry as they were.\n\n\"I said my name was Henry James,\" repeated Henry.\n\n\"That's all right. So it is,\" affirmed Jess. \"It's clever, too. You can\nuse that name for your bank book.\"\n\n\"So I can!\" said Henry, delighted. \"I'll put it in the bank this very\nafternoon. And by the way, I brought something for dinner tonight.\"\n\nJess looked in the bag. There were a dozen smooth, brown potatoes.\n\n\"I know how to cook those,\" said Jess, nodding her head wisely. \"You\njust wait!\"\n\n\"Can't wait, hardly,\" Henry called back as he went to work.\n\nWhen he had gone, Benny frolicked around noisily with the dog.\n\n\"Benny,\" Jess exclaimed suddenly, as she hung her dish towels up to dry,\n\"it's high time you learned to read.\"\n\n\"No school _now_,\" said Benny hopefully.\n\n\"No, but I can teach you. If I only had a primer!\"\n\n\"Let's make one,\" suggested Violet, shaking her hair back. \"We have\nsaved all the wrapping paper off the bundles, you know.\"\n\nJess was staring off into space, as she always did when she had a bright\nidea.\n\n\"Violet,\" she cried at last, \"remember those chips? We could whittle out\nletters like type--make each letter backwards, you know.\"\n\n\"And stamp them on paper!\" finished Violet.\n\n\"There would be only twenty-six in all. It wouldn't be awfully hard,\"\nsaid Jess. \"We wouldn't bother with capitals.\"\n\n\"What could we use for ink?\" Violet wondered, wrinkling her forehead.\n\n\"Blackberry juice!\" cried Jess. The two girls clapped their hands.\n\"Won't Henry be surprised when he finds that Benny can read?\"\n\nNow from this conversation Benny gathered that this type-business would\ntake his sisters quite a while to prepare. So he was not much worried\nabout his part of the work. In fact, he sorted out chips very cheerfully\nand watched his teachers with interest as they dug carefully around the\nletters with the two knives.\n\n\"We'll teach him two words to begin with,\" said Jess. \"Then we won't\nhave to make the whole alphabet at once. Let's begin to teach him\n_see_.\"\n\n\"That's easy,\" agreed Violet. \"And then we won't have to make but two\nletters, _s_ and _e_.\"\n\n\"And the other word will be _me_,\" cried Jess. \"So only three pieces of\ntype in all, Violet.\"\n\nJess cut the wiggly _s_, because she had the better knife, while Violet\nstruggled with the _e_. Then Jess cut a wonderful _m_ while Violet\nsewed the primer down the back, and gathered a cupful of blackberries.\nAs she sat by, crushing the juice from the berries with a stick, Jess\nplanned the ink pad.\n\n\"We'll have to use a small piece of the wash-cloth, I'm afraid,\" she\nsaid at last.\n\nBut finally they were obliged to cut off only the uneven bits of cloth\nwhich hung around the edges. These they used for stuffing for the pad,\nand covered them with a pocket which Violet carefully ripped from her\napron. When this was sewed firmly into place, and put into a small\nsaucer, Jess poured on the purple juice. Even Benny came up on his hands\nand knees to watch her stamp the first _s_. It came out beautifully on\nthe first page of the primer, purple and clean-cut. The _e_ was almost\nas good, and as for the _m_, Jess' hand shook with pure pride as she\nstamped it evenly on the page. At last the two words were completed. In\nfact, they were done long before Benny had the slightest idea his\nsisters were ready for him.\n\nHe came willingly enough for his first lesson, but he could not tell the\ntwo words apart.\n\n\"Don't you see, Benny?\" Jess explained patiently. \"This one with the\nwiggly _s_ says _see_?\" But Benny did not \"see.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you, Jess,\" said Violet at last. \"Let's print each word again\non a separate card. That's the way they do at school. And then let him\npoint to _see_.\"\n\nThe girls did this, using squares of stiff brown paper. Then they called\nBenny. Very carefully, Jess explained again which word said _see_,\nhissing like a huge snake to show him how the _s_ sounded. Then she\nmixed the cards and said encouragingly, \"Now, Benny, point to\n_s-s-s-ee_.\"\n\nBenny did not move. He sat with his finger on his lip.\n\nBut the children were nearly petrified with astonishment to see Watch\ncock his head on one side and gravely put his paw on the center of the\nword! Now, this was only an accident. Watch did not really know one of\nthe words from the other. But Benny thought he did. And was he going to\nlet a dog get ahead of him? Not Benny! In less time than it takes to\ntell it, Benny had learned both words perfectly.\n\n\"Good old Watch,\" said Jess.\n\n\"It isn't really hard at all,\" said Benny. \"Is it, Watch?\"\n\nDuring all this experiment Jess had not forgotten her dinner. When you\nare living outdoors all the time you do not forget things like that. In\nfact both girls had learned to tell the time very accurately by the sun.\n\nJess started up a beautiful little fire of cones. As they turned into\nred-hot ashes and began to topple over one by one into the glowing pile,\nJess laughed delightedly. She had already scrubbed the smooth potatoes\nand dried them carefully. She now poked them one by one into the glowing\nashes with a stick from a birch tree. Whenever a potato lit up\ndangerously she gave it a poke into a new position. And when Henry found\nher, she was just rolling the charred balls out onto the flat stones.\n\n\"Burned 'em up?\" queried Henry.\n\n\"Burned, nothing!\" cried Jess energetically. \"You just wait!\"\n\n\"Can't wait, hardly,\" replied Henry smiling.\n\n\"You said that a long time ago,\" said Benny.\n\n\"Well, isn't it true?\" demanded Henry, rolling his brother over on the\npine needles.\n\n\"Come,\" said Violet breathlessly, forgetting to ring the bell.\n\n\"Hold them with leaves,\" directed Jess, \"because they're terribly hot.\nKnock them on the side and scoop them out with a spoon and put butter on\ntop.\"\n\nThe children did as the little cook requested, sprinkled on a little\nsalt from the salt shaker, and took a taste.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Henry.\n\n\"It's good,\" said Benny blissfully. It was about the most successful\nmeal of all, in fact. When the children in later years recalled their\ndifferent feasts, they always came back to the baked potatoes roasted in\nthe ashes of the pine cones. Henry said it was because they were poked\nwith a black-birch stick. Benny said it was because Jess nearly burned\nthem up. Jess herself said maybe it was the remarkable salt shaker which\nhad to stand on its head always, because there was no floor to it.\n\nAfter supper the children still were not too sleepy to show Henry the\nnew primer, and allow Benny to display his first reading lesson. Henry,\ngreatly taken with the idea, sat up until it was almost dark, chipping\nout the remaining letters of the alphabet.\n\nIf you should ever care to see this interesting primer, which was\nfinally ten pages in length, you might examine this faithful copy of\nits first page, which required four days for its completion:\n\n[Illustration:\n\n    page 1\n    See\n    me\n    See me\n    O O See me\n    Come\n    Come to me\n    Come to see me\n    cat\n    rat\n]\n\nHenry always insisted that the rat's tail was too long, but Jess said\nhis knife must have slipped when he was making the _a_, so they were\neven, after all.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Days go by. The children keep finding garbage treasures; Henry continues to work for Dr. Moore. Very exciting news: Henry buys Benny some new socks. The girls make Benny a stuffed bear from his old socks. Benny wants his bear to have a long tail even though bears don't have long tails. Whatever, Benny--you do you. The bear is finished, and Benny names it Stockings because that's the old-fashioned word for socks. Jessie gives Benny a haircut, so Benny decides to cut Watch the dog's hair. This does not go well. When he shows Jessie and Violet Watch's haircut, they laugh and laugh. Watch is a really good sport about it. Violet is laughing so hard she cries--but then she keeps crying and won't stop. Turns out she's not hysterical; she's sick. Jessie puts Violet to bed in the boxcar. Her forehead is really hot. Henry comes home, and he and Jessie discuss taking Violet to the hospital. Trouble is, they're worried it will put their grandfather on their trail. Violet is shaking all over, so Jessie covers her with pine needles. Let's give her points for trying. Henry decides that Violet should see Dr. Moore, so he runs into town. Dr. Moore drives back to the boxcar without asking where to go, and when he parks the car, he finds the boxcar straightaway. Odd, isn't it? Dr. Moore decides to take Violet back to his place. Once there, he puts her to bed, and Mrs. Moore and the cook tend to her. Don't worry--the other children are going to stay at Dr. Moore's, too. Violet is so ill that Dr. Moore stays up with her all night. In the morning, a man comes to see Dr. Moore. He mumbles something about $5,000, so we can guess he is Mr. Alden. While the man waits for the doctor, Benny keeps him entertained. Benny also tells the man that his sister Violet is ill. Benny and Mr. Alden are getting along really well. Benny asks Mr. Alden if he has a dog, but Mr. Alden's dog is dead. Bummer. Oh, here's Watch the dog, very much alive. Hi, Watch. Dr. Moore comes in and sends Benny off to play. The doctor tells Mr. Alden that Benny is his grandchild, and Mr. Alden seems excited but confused. Now, Dr. Moore tells Mr. Alden about Henry. Mr. Alden is stoked because he remembers Henry from Field Day."}, {"": "340", "document": "\n\nHad the casting succeeded?  They were reduced to mere conjecture.\nThere was indeed every reason to expect success, since the mould\nhas absorbed the entire mass of the molten metal; still some\nconsiderable time must elapse before they could arrive at any\ncertainty upon the matter.\n\nThe patience of the members of the Gun Club was sorely tried during\nthis period of time.  But they could do nothing.  J. T. Maston\nescaped roasting by a miracle.  Fifteen days after the casting\nan immense column of smoke was still rising in the open sky and\nthe ground burned the soles of the feet within a radius of two\nhundred feet round the summit of Stones Hill.  It was impossible\nto approach nearer.  All they could do was to wait with what\npatience they might.\n\n\"Here we are at the 10th of August,\" exclaimed J. T. Maston one\nmorning, \"only four months to the 1st of December!  We shall\nnever be ready in time!\"  Barbicane said nothing, but his\nsilence covered serious irritation.\n\nHowever, daily observations revealed a certain change going on\nin the state of the ground.  About the 15th of August the vapors\nejected had sensibly diminished in intensity and thickness.\nSome days afterward the earth exhaled only a slight puff of\nsmoke, the last breath of the monster enclosed within its circle\nof stone.  Little by little the belt of heat contracted, until\non the 22nd of August, Barbicane, his colleagues, and the\nengineer were enabled to set foot on the iron sheet which lay\nlevel upon the summit of Stones Hill.\n\n\"At last!\" exclaimed the president of the Gun Club, with an\nimmense sigh of relief.\n\nThe work was resumed the same day.  They proceeded at once to\nextract the interior mould, for the purpose of clearing out the\nboring of the piece.  Pickaxes and boring irons were set to work\nwithout intermission.  The clayey and sandy soils had acquired\nextreme hardness under the action of the heat; but, by the aid\nof the machines, the rubbish on being dug out was rapidly carted\naway on railway wagons; and such was the ardor of the work, so\npersuasive the arguments of Barbicane's dollars, that by the 3rd\nof September all traces of the mould had entirely disappeared.\n\nImmediately the operation of boring was commenced; and by the\naid of powerful machines, a few weeks later, the inner surface\nof the immense tube had been rendered perfectly cylindrical, and\nthe bore of the piece had acquired a thorough polish.\n\nAt length, on the 22d of September, less than a twelvemonth\nafter Barbicane's original proposition, the enormous weapon,\naccurately bored, and exactly vertically pointed, was ready\nfor work.  There was only the moon now to wait for; and they\nwere pretty sure that she would not fail in the rendezvous.\n\nThe ecstasy of J. T. Maston knew no bounds, and he narrowly\nescaped a frightful fall while staring down the tube.  But for\nthe strong hand of Colonel Blomsberry, the worthy secretary,\nlike a modern Erostratus, would have found his death in the\ndepths of the Columbiad.\n\nThe cannon was then finished; there was no possible doubt as to\nits perfect completion.  So, on the 6th of October, Captain\nNicholl opened an account between himself and President Barbicane,\nin which he debited himself to the latter in the sum of two\nthousand dollars.  One may believe that the captain's wrath was\nincreased to its highest point, and must have made him seriously ill.\nHowever, he had still three bets of three, four, and five\nthousand dollars, respectively; and if he gained two out of these,\nhis position would not be very bad.  But the money question did\nnot enter into his calculations; it was the success of his rival\nin casting a cannon against which iron plates sixty feet thick\nwould have been ineffectual, that dealt him a terrible blow.\n\nAfter the 23rd of September the enclosure of Stones hill was\nthrown open to the public; and it will be easily imagined what\nwas the concourse of visitors to this spot!  There was an\nincessant flow of people to and from Tampa Town and the place,\nwhich resembled a procession, or rather, in fact, a pilgrimage.\n\nIt was already clear to be seen that, on the day of the\nexperiment itself, the aggregate of spectators would be counted\nby millions; for they were already arriving from all parts of\nthe earth upon this narrow strip of promontory.  Europe was\nemigrating to America.\n\nUp to that time, however, it must be confessed, the curiosity\nof the numerous comers was but scantily gratified.  Most had\ncounted upon witnessing the spectacle of the casting, and they\nwere treated to nothing but smoke.  This was sorry food for\nhungry eyes; but Barbicane would admit no one to that operation.\nThen ensued grumbling, discontent, murmurs; they blamed the\npresident, taxed him with dictatorial conduct.  His proceedings\nwere declared \"un-American.\"  There was very nearly a riot round\nStones Hill; but Barbicane remained inflexible.  When, however,\nthe Columbiad was entirely finished, this state of closed doors\ncould no longer be maintained; besides it would have been bad\ntaste, and even imprudence, to affront the public feeling.\nBarbicane, therefore, opened the enclosure to all comers; but,\ntrue to his practical disposition, he determined to coin money\nout of the public curiosity.\n\nIt was something, indeed, to be enabled to contemplate this\nimmense Columbiad; but to descend into its depths, this seemed\nto the Americans the _ne plus ultra_ of earthly felicity.\nConsequently, there was not one curious spectator who was not\nwilling to give himself the treat of visiting the interior of\nthis great metallic abyss.  Baskets suspended from steam-cranes\npermitted them to satisfy their curiosity.  There was a\nperfect mania.  Women, children, old men, all made it a point\nof duty to penetrate the mysteries of the colossal gun.\nThe fare for the descent was fixed at five dollars per head;\nand despite this high charge, during the two months which\npreceded the experiment, the influx of visitors enabled the\nGun Club to pocket nearly five hundred thousand dollars!\n\nIt is needless to say that the first visitors of the Columbiad\nwere the members of the Gun Club.  This privilege was justly\nreserved for that illustrious body.  The ceremony took place on\nthe 25th of September.  A basket of honor took down the\npresident, J. T. Maston, Major Elphinstone, General Morgan,\nColonel Blomsberry, and other members of the club, to the number\nof ten in all.  How hot it was at the bottom of that long tube\nof metal!  They were half suffocated.  But what delight!\nWhat ecstasy!  A table had been laid with six covers on the\nmassive stone which formed the bottom of the Columbiad, and\nlighted by a jet of electric light resembling that of day itself.\nNumerous exquisite dishes, which seemed to descend from heaven,\nwere placed successively before the guests, and the richest wines\nof France flowed in profusion during this splendid repast, served\nnine hundred feet beneath the surface of the earth!\n\nThe festival was animated, not to say somewhat noisy.  Toasts flew\nbackward and forward.  They drank to the earth and to her satellite,\nto the Gun Club, the Union, the Moon, Diana, Phoebe, Selene, the\n\"peaceful courier of the night!\"  All the hurrahs, carried upward\nupon the sonorous waves of the immense acoustic tube, arrived with\nthe sound of thunder at its mouth; and the multitude ranged round\nStones Hill heartily united their shouts with those of the ten\nrevelers hidden from view at the bottom of the gigantic Columbiad.\n\nJ. T. Maston was no longer master of himself.  Whether he\nshouted or gesticulated, ate or drank most, would be a difficult\nmatter to determine.  At all events, he would not have given his\nplace up for an empire, \"not even if the cannon-- loaded,\nprimed, and fired at that very moment--were to blow him in\npieces into the planetary world.\"\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The cannon is finally completed in September, just months before the proposed launch date. Meanwhile, Tampa has gone through quite the transformation since the Gun Club arrived, with new roads and railways springing up all over the place. Overall, the project has resulted in an economic stimulus and \"considerable increase in population\" for Florida. Finally, Barbicane opens Stone's Hill up to the adoring public. The Gun Club spends the night celebrating, eating, and drinking. Consider us jelly."}, {"": "341", "document": "One night, about eleven o'clock, a man of Mr. Riach's watch (which was\non deck) came below for his jacket; and instantly there began to go\na whisper about the forecastle that \"Shuan had done for him at last.\"\nThere was no need of a name; we all knew who was meant; but we had\nscarce time to get the idea rightly in our heads, far less to speak of\nit, when the scuttle was again flung open, and Captain Hoseason came\ndown the ladder. He looked sharply round the bunks in the tossing light\nof the lantern; and then, walking straight up to me, he addressed me, to\nmy surprise, in tones of kindness.\n\n\"My man,\" said he, \"we want ye to serve in the round-house. You and\nRansome are to change berths. Run away aft with ye.\"\n\nEven as he spoke, two seamen appeared in the scuttle, carrying Ransome\nin their arms; and the ship at that moment giving a great sheer into the\nsea, and the lantern swinging, the light fell direct on the boy's face.\nIt was as white as wax, and had a look upon it like a dreadful smile.\nThe blood in me ran cold, and I drew in my breath as if I had been\nstruck.\n\n\"Run away aft; run away aft with ye!\" cried Hoseason.\n\nAnd at that I brushed by the sailors and the boy (who neither spoke nor\nmoved), and ran up the ladder on deck.\n\nThe brig was sheering swiftly and giddily through a long, cresting\nswell. She was on the starboard tack, and on the left hand, under the\narched foot of the foresail, I could see the sunset still quite bright.\nThis, at such an hour of the night, surprised me greatly; but I was too\nignorant to draw the true conclusion--that we were going north-about\nround Scotland, and were now on the high sea between the Orkney and\nShetland Islands, having avoided the dangerous currents of the Pentland\nFirth. For my part, who had been so long shut in the dark and knew\nnothing of head-winds, I thought we might be half-way or more across the\nAtlantic. And indeed (beyond that I wondered a little at the lateness of\nthe sunset light) I gave no heed to it, and pushed on across the decks,\nrunning between the seas, catching at ropes, and only saved from going\noverboard by one of the hands on deck, who had been always kind to me.\n\nThe round-house, for which I was bound, and where I was now to sleep and\nserve, stood some six feet above the decks, and considering the size of\nthe brig, was of good dimensions. Inside were a fixed table and bench,\nand two berths, one for the captain and the other for the two mates,\nturn and turn about. It was all fitted with lockers from top to bottom,\nso as to stow away the officers' belongings and a part of the ship's\nstores; there was a second store-room underneath, which you entered by a\nhatchway in the middle of the deck; indeed, all the best of the meat and\ndrink and the whole of the powder were collected in this place; and all\nthe firearms, except the two pieces of brass ordnance, were set in a\nrack in the aftermost wall of the round-house. The most of the cutlasses\nwere in another place.\n\nA small window with a shutter on each side, and a skylight in the roof,\ngave it light by day; and after dark there was a lamp always burning.\nIt was burning when I entered, not brightly, but enough to show Mr.\nShuan sitting at the table, with the brandy bottle and a tin pannikin\nin front of him. He was a tall man, strongly made and very black; and he\nstared before him on the table like one stupid.\n\nHe took no notice of my coming in; nor did he move when the captain\nfollowed and leant on the berth beside me, looking darkly at the mate.\nI stood in great fear of Hoseason, and had my reasons for it; but\nsomething told me I need not be afraid of him just then; and I whispered\nin his ear: \"How is he?\" He shook his head like one that does not know\nand does not wish to think, and his face was very stern.\n\nPresently Mr. Riach came in. He gave the captain a glance that meant the\nboy was dead as plain as speaking, and took his place like the rest\nof us; so that we all three stood without a word, staring down at Mr.\nShuan, and Mr. Shuan (on his side) sat without a word, looking hard upon\nthe table.\n\nAll of a sudden he put out his hand to take the bottle; and at that Mr.\nRiach started forward and caught it away from him, rather by surprise\nthan violence, crying out, with an oath, that there had been too much of\nthis work altogether, and that a judgment would fall upon the ship.\nAnd as he spoke (the weather sliding-doors standing open) he tossed the\nbottle into the sea.\n\nMr. Shuan was on his feet in a trice; he still looked dazed, but he\nmeant murder, ay, and would have done it, for the second time that\nnight, had not the captain stepped in between him and his victim.\n\n\"Sit down!\" roars the captain. \"Ye sot and swine, do ye know what ye've\ndone? Ye've murdered the boy!\"\n\nMr. Shuan seemed to understand; for he sat down again, and put up his\nhand to his brow.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"he brought me a dirty pannikin!\"\n\nAt that word, the captain and I and Mr. Riach all looked at each other\nfor a second with a kind of frightened look; and then Hoseason walked\nup to his chief officer, took him by the shoulder, led him across to his\nbunk, and bade him lie down and go to sleep, as you might speak to a bad\nchild. The murderer cried a little, but he took off his sea-boots and\nobeyed.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Mr. Riach, with a dreadful voice, \"ye should have interfered\nlong syne. It's too late now.\"\n\n\"Mr. Riach,\" said the captain, \"this night's work must never be kennt\nin Dysart. The boy went overboard, sir; that's what the story is; and I\nwould give five pounds out of my pocket it was true!\" He turned to the\ntable. \"What made ye throw the good bottle away?\" he added. \"There was\nnae sense in that, sir. Here, David, draw me another. They're in the\nbottom locker;\" and he tossed me a key. \"Ye'll need a glass yourself,\nsir,\" he added to Riach. \"Yon was an ugly thing to see.\"\n\nSo the pair sat down and hob-a-nobbed; and while they did so, the\nmurderer, who had been lying and whimpering in his berth, raised himself\nupon his elbow and looked at them and at me.\n\nThat was the first night of my new duties; and in the course of the next\nday I had got well into the run of them. I had to serve at the meals,\nwhich the captain took at regular hours, sitting down with the officer\nwho was off duty; all the day through I would be running with a dram\nto one or other of my three masters; and at night I slept on a blanket\nthrown on the deck boards at the aftermost end of the round-house, and\nright in the draught of the two doors. It was a hard and a cold bed;\nnor was I suffered to sleep without interruption; for some one would be\nalways coming in from deck to get a dram, and when a fresh watch was\nto be set, two and sometimes all three would sit down and brew a bowl\ntogether. How they kept their health, I know not, any more than how I\nkept my own.\n\nAnd yet in other ways it was an easy service. There was no cloth to lay;\nthe meals were either of oatmeal porridge or salt junk, except twice a\nweek, when there was duff: and though I was clumsy enough and (not being\nfirm on my sealegs) sometimes fell with what I was bringing them, both\nMr. Riach and the captain were singularly patient. I could not but fancy\nthey were making up lee-way with their consciences, and that they\nwould scarce have been so good with me if they had not been worse with\nRansome.\n\nAs for Mr. Shuan, the drink or his crime, or the two together, had\ncertainly troubled his mind. I cannot say I ever saw him in his proper\nwits. He never grew used to my being there, stared at me continually\n(sometimes, I could have thought, with terror), and more than once drew\nback from my hand when I was serving him. I was pretty sure from the\nfirst that he had no clear mind of what he had done, and on my second\nday in the round-house I had the proof of it. We were alone, and he had\nbeen staring at me a long time, when all at once, up he got, as pale as\ndeath, and came close up to me, to my great terror. But I had no cause\nto be afraid of him.\n\n\"You were not here before?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said I.\"\n\n\"There was another boy?\" he asked again; and when I had answered him,\n\"Ah!\" says he, \"I thought that,\" and went and sat down, without another\nword, except to call for brandy.\n\nYou may think it strange, but for all the horror I had, I was still\nsorry for him. He was a married man, with a wife in Leith; but whether\nor no he had a family, I have now forgotten; I hope not.\n\nAltogether it was no very hard life for the time it lasted, which (as\nyou are to hear) was not long. I was as well fed as the best of them;\neven their pickles, which were the great dainty, I was allowed my share\nof; and had I liked I might have been drunk from morning to night, like\nMr. Shuan. I had company, too, and good company of its sort. Mr. Riach,\nwho had been to the college, spoke to me like a friend when he was not\nsulking, and told me many curious things, and some that were informing;\nand even the captain, though he kept me at the stick's end the most part\nof the time, would sometimes unbuckle a bit, and tell me of the fine\ncountries he had visited.\n\nThe shadow of poor Ransome, to be sure, lay on all four of us, and on\nme and Mr. Shuan in particular, most heavily. And then I had another\ntrouble of my own. Here I was, doing dirty work for three men that I\nlooked down upon, and one of whom, at least, should have hung upon a\ngallows; that was for the present; and as for the future, I could only\nsee myself slaving alongside of negroes in the tobacco fields. Mr.\nRiach, perhaps from caution, would never suffer me to say another word\nabout my story; the captain, whom I tried to approach, rebuffed me like\na dog and would not hear a word; and as the days came and went, my heart\nsank lower and lower, till I was even glad of the work which kept me\nfrom thinking.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "One night, Shuan kills Ransome. Ransome's body is carried into the forecastle. Hoseason orders David to be the new cabin boy, and sends David to the round-house, the officers' quarters, where he will work and sleep. The round-house is where the best food and drink, and the firearms, gunpowder and cutlasses are stored. David and Hoseason enter the round-house, where Shuan is sitting with a bottle in front of him, looking stunned. Riach enters and confirms that Ransome is dead. Shuan goes to drink from his bottle, but Riach snatches the bottle from him and throws it overboard. Shuan tries to attack Riach, but Hoseason intervenes and tells Shuan that he has murdered the boy. Shuan excuses himself by saying that Ransome brought him a dirty cup. Hoseason tells Riach that the truth must never emerge back on land about how Ransome died: they must all say that he fell overboard. David quickly gets used to his duties, which are not too hard. Hoseason and Riach treat him well, and David thinks this is out of guilt that they treated Ransome harshly. Shuan seems to lose his sanity altogether after the murder. David tries to talk to Hoseason and Riach about his own situation, but neither will listen"}, {"": "342", "document": "Chapter XXVI. The Last Adieux.\n\n\nRaoul uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and\nAthos embraced like old men; and this embrace itself being a question\nfor Aramis, he immediately said, \"My friend, we have not long to remain\nwith you.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the comte.\n\n\"Only time to tell you of my good fortune,\" interrupted Porthos.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Raoul.\n\nAthos looked silently at Aramis, whose somber air had already appeared\nto him very little in harmony with the good news Porthos hinted.\n\n\"What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,\"\nsaid Raoul, with a smile.\n\n\"The king has made me a duke,\" said the worthy Porthos, with an air of\nmystery, in the ear of the young man, \"a duke by _brevet_.\"\n\nBut the _asides_ of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by\neverybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos\nheard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The\nlatter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos's\npermission to say a word to his friend in private, \"My dear Athos,\" he\nbegan, \"you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble.\"\n\n\"With grief and trouble, my dear friend?\" cried the comte; \"oh, what?\"\n\n\"In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has\nfailed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued.\"\n\n\"You are pursued!--a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?\"\n\n\"The saddest truth. I am entirely ruined.\"\n\n\"Well, but Porthos--this title of duke--what does all that mean?\"\n\n\"That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my\nwounds. I have, believing in infallible success, drawn Porthos into my\nconspiracy. He threw himself into it, as you know he would do, with all\nhis strength, without knowing what he was about; and now he is as much\ncompromised as myself--as completely ruined as I am.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" And Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling\ncomplacently.\n\n\"I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me,\" continued\nAramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the\nrecital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. \"It was a\ngreat idea,\" said he, \"but a great error.\"\n\n\"For which I am punished, Athos.\"\n\n\"Therefore, I will not tell you my entire thought.\"\n\n\"Tell it, nevertheless.\"\n\n\"It is a crime.\"\n\n\"A capital crime; I know it is. _Lese majeste_.\"\n\n\"Porthos! poor Porthos!\"\n\n\"What would you advise me to do? Success, as I have told you, was\ncertain.\"\n\n\"M. Fouquet is an honest man.\"\n\n\"And I a fool for having so ill-judged him,\" said Aramis. \"Oh, the\nwisdom of man! Oh, millstone that grinds the world! and which is one day\nstopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no one knows how, between\nits wheels.\"\n\n\"Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is done. How do you think of\nacting?\"\n\n\"I am taking away Porthos. The king will never believe that that worthy\nman has acted innocently. He never can believe that Porthos has thought\nhe was serving the king, whilst acting as he has done. His head would\npay my fault. It shall not, must not, be so.\"\n\n\"You are taking him away, whither?\"\n\n\"To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of refuge. Then,\nI have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I have\nmany relations.\"\n\n\"You? in England?\"\n\n\"Yes, or else in Spain, where I have still more.\"\n\n\"But, our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the king will confiscate\nall his property.\"\n\n\"All is provided for. I know how, when once in Spain, to reconcile\nmyself with Louis XIV., and restore Porthos to favor.\"\n\n\"You have credit, seemingly, Aramis!\" said Athos, with a discreet air.\n\n\"Much; and at the service of my friends.\"\n\nThese words were accompanied by a warm pressure of the hand.\n\n\"Thank you,\" replied the comte.\n\n\"And while we are on this head,\" said Aramis, \"you also are a\nmalcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay to the king. Follow our\nexample; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see, I guarantee upon\nmy honor, that in a month there will be war between France and Spain on\nthe subject of this son of Louis XIII., who is an Infante likewise,\nand whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV. would have no\ninclination for a war on that subject, I will answer for an arrangement,\nthe result of which must bring greatness to Porthos and to me, and a\nduchy in France to you, who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you\njoin us?\"\n\n\"No; for my part I prefer having something to reproach the king with;\nit is a pride natural to my race to pretend to a superiority over royal\nraces. Doing what you propose, I should become the obliged of the king;\nI should certainly be the gainer on that ground, but I should be a loser\nin my conscience.--No, thank you!\"\n\n\"Then give me two things, Athos,--your absolution.\"\n\n\"Oh! I give it you if you really wished to avenge the weak and oppressed\nagainst the oppressor.\"\n\n\"That is sufficient for me,\" said Aramis, with a blush which was lost\nin the obscurity of the night. \"And now, give me your two best horses\nto gain the second post, as I have been refused any under the pretext of\nthe Duc de Beaufort being traveling in this country.\"\n\n\"You shall have the two best horses, Aramis; and again I recommend poor\nPorthos strongly to your care.\"\n\n\"Oh! I have no fear on that score. One word more: do you think I am\nmaneuvering for him as I ought?\"\n\n\"The evil being committed, yes; for the king would not pardon him, and\nyou have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who\nwill not abandon you, he being himself compromised, notwithstanding his\nheroic action.\"\n\n\"You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once,\nwhich would proclaim my fear and guilt, that is why I remain upon French\nground. But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it to be,\nEnglish, Spanish, or Roman; all will depend, with me, on the standard I\nshall think proper to unfurl.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and, so long as I defend it, nobody\ncan take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M.\nFouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the signature\nof M. Fouquet.\"\n\n\"That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The king is both cunning and\nstrong.\" Aramis smiled.\n\n\"I again recommend Porthos to you,\" repeated the count, with a sort of\ncold persistence.\n\n\"Whatever becomes of me, count,\" replied Aramis, in the same tone, \"our\nbrother Porthos will fare as I do--or _better_.\"\n\nAthos bowed whilst pressing the hand of Aramis, and turned to embrace\nPorthos with emotion.\n\n\"I was born lucky, was I not?\" murmured the latter, transported with\nhappiness, as he folded his cloak round him.\n\n\"Come, my dear friend,\" said Aramis.\n\nRaoul had gone out to give orders for the saddling of the horses. The\ngroup was already divided. Athos saw his two friends on the point of\ndeparture, and something like a mist passed before his eyes and weighed\nupon his heart.\n\n\"It is strange,\" thought he, \"whence comes the inclination I feel to\nembrace Porthos once more?\" At that moment Porthos turned round, and\nhe came towards his old friend with open arms. This last endearment was\ntender as in youth, as in times when hearts were warm--life happy. And\nthen Porthos mounted his horse. Aramis came back once more to throw\nhis arms round the neck of Athos. The latter watched them along the\nhigh-road, elongated by the shade, in their white cloaks. Like phantoms\nthey seemed to enlarge on their departure from the earth, and it was not\nin the mist, but in the declivity of the ground that they disappeared.\nAt the end of the perspective, both seemed to have given a spring with\ntheir feet, which made them vanish as if evaporated into cloud-land.\n\nThen Athos, with a very heavy heart, returned towards the house, saying\nto Bragelonne, \"Raoul, I don't know what it is that has just told me\nthat I have seen those two for the last time.\"\n\n\"It does not astonish me, monsieur, that you should have such a\nthought,\" replied the young man, \"for I have at this moment the same,\nand think also that I shall never see Messieurs du Vallon and d'Herblay\nagain.\"\n\n\"Oh! you,\" replied the count, \"you speak like a man rendered sad by a\ndifferent cause; you see everything in black; you are young, and if you\nchance never to see those old friends again, it will because they no\nlonger exist in the world in which you have yet many years to pass. But\nI--\"\n\nRaoul shook his head sadly, and leaned upon the shoulder of the count,\nwithout either of them finding another word in their hearts, which were\nready to overflow.\n\nAll at once a noise of horses and voices, from the extremity of the road\nto Blois, attracted their attention that way. Flambeaux-bearers shook\ntheir torches merrily among the trees of their route, and turned round,\nfrom time to time, to avoid distancing the horsemen who followed them.\nThese flames, this noise, this dust of a dozen richly caparisoned\nhorses, formed a strange contrast in the middle of the night with the\nmelancholy and almost funereal disappearance of the two shadows of\nAramis and Porthos. Athos went towards the house; but he had hardly\nreached the parterre, when the entrance gate appeared in a blaze; all\nthe flambeaux stopped and appeared to enflame the road. A cry was heard\nof \"M. le Duc de Beaufort\"--and Athos sprang towards the door of his\nhouse. But the duke had already alighted from his horse, and was looking\naround him.\n\n\"I am here, monseigneur,\" said Athos.\n\n\"Ah! good evening, dear count,\" said the prince, with that frank\ncordiality which won him so many hearts. \"Is it too late for a friend?\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear prince, come in!\" said the count.\n\nAnd, M. de Beaufort leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the\nhouse, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the\nofficers of the prince, with several of whom he was acquainted.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Porthos is cheerful and Aramis looks stressed. Porthos brags that he will soon be a duke. Aramis asks to speak to Athos in private, then tells him the whole story. Aramis is convinced that he can salvage the situation through his allies in Spain. He invites Athos to join them. Athos refuses. He asks Aramis to promise to look after Porthos, and loans his two best horses to his friends. As Aramis and Porthos saddle up for their departure, Athos is overcome with grief and hugs his two friends good-bye. He tells Raoul he believes it will be the last time he will see his friends. Raoul replies that he had the same thought. The two men are sad. Athos's friend the Duke de Beaufort shows up for a welcome visit."}, {"": "343", "document": "\n\nIn the course of time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active and\nhealthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and when he was confined to\nthe chimney-corner he grew grievously irritable. A nothing vexed him;\nand suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into fits. This\nwas especially to be remarked if any one attempted to impose upon, or\ndomineer over, his favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a word\nshould be spoken amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head the\nnotion that, because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to do\nhim an ill-turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder among\nus did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his partiality; and\nthat humouring was rich nourishment to the child's pride and black\ntempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice, or thrice,\nHindley's manifestation of scorn, while his father was near, roused the\nold man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and shook with\nrage that he could not do it.\n\nAt last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by\nteaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land\nhimself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr.\nEarnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said--'Hindley was\nnought, and would never thrive as where he wandered.'\n\nI hoped heartily we should have peace now.  It hurt me to think the\nmaster should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed.  I fancied the\ndiscontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as he\nwould have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his sinking\nframe.  We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for two\npeople--Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay, up\nyonder.  He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest self-righteous\nPharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the promises to himself and\nfling the curses to his neighbours.  By his knack of sermonising and\npious discoursing, he contrived to make a great impression on Mr.\nEarnshaw; and the more feeble the master became, the more influence he\ngained.  He was relentless in worrying him about his soul's concerns, and\nabout ruling his children rigidly.  He encouraged him to regard Hindley\nas a reprobate; and, night after night, he regularly grumbled out a long\nstring of tales against Heathcliff and Catherine: always minding to\nflatter Earnshaw's weakness by heaping the heaviest blame on the latter.\n\nCertainly she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up\nbefore; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener\nin a day: from the hour she came down-stairs till the hour she went to\nbed, we had not a minute's security that she wouldn't be in mischief.  Her\nspirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always going--singing,\nlaughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the same.  A wild,\nwicked slip she was--but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile,\nand lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I believe she meant no\nharm; for when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened\nthat she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet that you\nmight comfort her.  She was much too fond of Heathcliff.  The greatest\npunishment we could invent for her was to keep her separate from him: yet\nshe got chided more than any of us on his account.  In play, she liked\nexceedingly to act the little mistress; using her hands freely, and\ncommanding her companions: she did so to me, but I would not bear\nslapping and ordering; and so I let her know.\n\nNow, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had\nalways been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had\nno idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing\ncondition than he was in his prime.  His peevish reproofs wakened in her\na naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were\nall scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look,\nand her ready words; turning Joseph's religious curses into ridicule,\nbaiting me, and doing just what her father hated most--showing how her\npretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over\nHeathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do _her_ bidding in\nanything, and _his_ only when it suited his own inclination.  After\nbehaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to\nmake it up at night.  'Nay, Cathy,' the old man would say, 'I cannot love\nthee, thou'rt worse than thy brother.  Go, say thy prayers, child, and\nask God's pardon.  I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared\nthee!'  That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed continually\nhardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry for her\nfaults, and beg to be forgiven.\n\nBut the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw's troubles on earth.\nHe died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the\nfire-side.  A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the\nchimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were all\ntogether--I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting, and\nJoseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally sat\nin the house then, after their work was done).  Miss Cathy had been sick,\nand that made her still; she leant against her father's knee, and\nHeathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap.  I remember\nthe master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair--it\npleased him rarely to see her gentle--and saying, 'Why canst thou not\nalways be a good lass, Cathy?'  And she turned her face up to his, and\nlaughed, and answered, 'Why cannot you always be a good man, father?'  But\nas soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she\nwould sing him to sleep.  She began singing very low, till his fingers\ndropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast.  Then I told her to\nhush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him.  We all kept as mute as\nmice a full half-hour, and should have done so longer, only Joseph,\nhaving finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse the\nmaster for prayers and bed.  He stepped forward, and called him by name,\nand touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the candle\nand looked at him.  I thought there was something wrong as he set down\nthe light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to\n'frame up-stairs, and make little din--they might pray alone that\nevening--he had summut to do.'\n\n'I shall bid father good-night first,' said Catherine, putting her arms\nround his neck, before we could hinder her.  The poor thing discovered\nher loss directly--she screamed out--'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's\ndead!'  And they both set up a heart-breaking cry.\n\nI joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we\ncould be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven.  He told\nme to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson.\nI could not guess the use that either would be of, then.  However, I\nwent, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor, back with me;\nthe other said he would come in the morning.  Leaving Joseph to explain\nmatters, I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they\nhad never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer,\nand did not need me to console them.  The little souls were comforting\neach other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in\nthe world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their\ninnocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing\nwe were all there safe together.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "As Mr. Earnshaw's health begins to fail, he becomes less tolerant of complaints about Heathcliff, and as a result, sends Hindley away to school. As Mr. Earnshaw moves closer to death, Joseph begins to have a greater influence over his master, particularly in regard to religion. Catherine continues to tease her father about her exploits with Heathcliff, never really conscious of how sick her father really is. When Mr. Earnshaw dies, Catherine and Heathcliff console one another with talk of heaven."}, {"": "344", "document": "V. The Jackal\n\nThose were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is\nthe improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate\nstatement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow\nin the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a\nperfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.\nThe learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other\nlearned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.\nStryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative\npractice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the\ndrier parts of the legal race.\n\nA favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had\nbegun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which\nhe mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,\nspecially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the\nvisage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the\nflorid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of\nthe bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from\namong a rank garden-full of flaring companions.\n\nIt had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib\nman, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that\nfaculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is\namong the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.\nBut, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more\nbusiness he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its\npith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney\nCarton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.\n\nSydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great\nally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,\nmight have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,\nanywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring\nat the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there\nthey prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was\nrumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily\nto his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,\namong such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton\nwould never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he\nrendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.\n\n\"Ten o'clock, sir,\" said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to\nwake him--\"ten o'clock, sir.\"\n\n\"_What's_ the matter?\"\n\n\"Ten o'clock, sir.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.\"\n\n\"Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.\"\n\nAfter a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man\ndexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,\nhe got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,\nand, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's\nBench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.\n\nThe Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone\nhome, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,\nand a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He\nhad that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which\nmay be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of\nJeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of\nArt, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.\n\n\"You are a little late, Memory,\" said Stryver.\n\n\"About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.\"\n\nThey went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,\nwhere there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in\nthe midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon\nit, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.\n\n\"You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.\"\n\n\"Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or\nseeing him dine--it's all one!\"\n\n\"That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the\nidentification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?\"\n\n\"I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have\nbeen much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.\"\n\nMr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.\n\n\"You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.\"\n\nSullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining\nroom, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel\nor two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them\nout, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down\nat the table, and said, \"Now I am ready!\"\n\n\"Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,\" said Mr. Stryver,\ngaily, as he looked among his papers.\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"Only two sets of them.\"\n\n\"Give me the worst first.\"\n\n\"There they are, Sydney. Fire away!\"\n\nThe lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the\ndrinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table\nproper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to\nhis hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in\na different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in\nhis waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some\nlighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,\nso deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he\nstretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or\nmore, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the\nmatter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on\nhim to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the\njug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as\nno words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious\ngravity.\n\nAt length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and\nproceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,\nmade his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal\nassisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his\nhands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then\ninvigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application\nto his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;\nthis was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not\ndisposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.\n\n\"And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,\" said Mr.\nStryver.\n\nThe jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming\nagain, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.\n\n\"You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses\nto-day. Every question told.\"\n\n\"I always am sound; am I not?\"\n\n\"I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to\nit and smooth it again.\"\n\nWith a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.\n\n\"The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,\" said Stryver, nodding\nhis head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, \"the\nold seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and\nnow in despondency!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" returned the other, sighing: \"yes! The same Sydney, with the same\nluck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.\"\n\n\"And why not?\"\n\n\"God knows. It was my way, I suppose.\"\n\nHe sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before\nhim, looking at the fire.\n\n\"Carton,\" said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,\nas if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour\nwas forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney\nCarton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, \"your way\nis, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look\nat me.\"\n\n\"Oh, botheration!\" returned Sydney, with a lighter and more\ngood-humoured laugh, \"don't _you_ be moral!\"\n\n\"How have I done what I have done?\" said Stryver; \"how do I do what I\ndo?\"\n\n\"Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth\nyour while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to\ndo, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.\"\n\n\"I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?\"\n\n\"I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,\" said\nCarton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.\n\n\"Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,\"\npursued Carton, \"you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into\nmine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,\npicking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we\ndidn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always\nnowhere.\"\n\n\"And whose fault was that?\"\n\n\"Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always\ndriving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree\nthat I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy\nthing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.\nTurn me in some other direction before I go.\"\n\n\"Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,\" said Stryver, holding up\nhis glass. \"Are you turned in a pleasant direction?\"\n\nApparently not, for he became gloomy again.\n\n\"Pretty witness,\" he muttered, looking down into his glass. \"I have had\nenough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?\"\n\n\"The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.\"\n\n\"_She_ pretty?\"\n\n\"Is she not?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!\"\n\n\"Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge\nof beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!\"\n\n\"Do you know, Sydney,\" said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,\nand slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: \"do you know, I rather\nthought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,\nand were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?\"\n\n\"Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a\nyard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.\nI pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;\nI'll get to bed.\"\n\nWhen his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light\nhim down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy\nwindows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the\ndull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a\nlifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round\nbefore the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and\nthe first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.\n\nWaste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still\non his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the\nwilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and\nperseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries\nfrom which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the\nfruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.\nA moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of\nhouses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its\npillow was wet with wasted tears.\n\nSadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of\ngood abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,\nincapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight\non him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Jackal Mr. Stryver is prone to alcoholism, and he is a drinking companion of Mr. Carton's--they had been fellow students in Paris. Mr. Stryver, despite all of his capacity to push himself ahead, became a much more successful lawyer when Mr. Carton began working on and helping summarize his documents for him. Thus Carton became Stryver's jackal. When Stryver talks about how pretty Miss Manette is, Carton denies it, claiming she is nothing but a blond \"doll. Carton leaves Stryver's house and returns to his own, crying himself to sleep. He is haunted by the honorable glories that once were available to him but are now out of his reach"}, {"": "345", "document": "\nThe youth went slowly toward the fire indicated by his departed friend.\nAs he reeled, he bethought him of the welcome his comrades would give\nhim.  He had a conviction that he would soon feel in his sore heart the\nbarbed missiles of ridicule.  He had no strength to invent a tale; he\nwould be a soft target.\n\nHe made vague plans to go off into the deeper darkness and hide, but\nthey were all destroyed by the voices of exhaustion and pain from his\nbody.  His ailments, clamoring, forced him to seek the place of food\nand rest, at whatever cost.\n\nHe swung unsteadily toward the fire.  He could see the forms of men\nthrowing black shadows in the red light, and as he went nearer it\nbecame known to him in some way that the ground was strewn with\nsleeping men.\n\nOf a sudden he confronted a black and monstrous figure.  A rifle barrel\ncaught some glinting beams.  \"Halt! halt!\"  He was dismayed for a\nmoment, but he presently thought that he recognized the nervous voice.\nAs he stood tottering before the rifle barrel, he called out: \"Why,\nhello, Wilson, you--you here?\"\n\nThe rifle was lowered to a position of caution and the loud soldier\ncame slowly forward.  He peered into the youth's face.  \"That you,\nHenry?\"\n\n\"Yes, it's--it's me.\"\n\n\"Well, well, ol' boy,\" said the other, \"by ginger, I'm glad t' see yeh!\nI give yeh up fer a goner.  I thought yeh was dead sure enough.\"  There\nwas husky emotion in his voice.\n\nThe youth found that now he could barely stand upon his feet.  There\nwas a sudden sinking of his forces.  He thought he must hasten to\nproduce his tale to protect him from the missiles already at the lips\nof his redoubtable comrades. So, staggering before the loud soldier, he\nbegan: \"Yes, yes.  I've--I've had an awful time.  I've been all over.\nWay over on th' right.  Ter'ble fightin' over there.  I had an awful\ntime.  I got separated from th' reg'ment.  Over on th' right, I got\nshot.  In th' head.  I never see sech fightin'.  Awful time.  I don't\nsee how I could 'a got separated from th' reg'ment.  I got shot, too.\"\n\nHis friend had stepped forward quickly. \"What?  Got shot?  Why didn't\nyeh say so first?  Poor ol' boy, we must--hol' on a minnit; what am I\ndoin'.  I'll call Simpson.\"\n\nAnother figure at that moment loomed in the gloom.  They could see that\nit was the corporal. \"Who yeh talkin' to, Wilson?\" he demanded. His\nvoice was anger-toned.  \"Who yeh talkin' to?  Yeh th' derndest\nsentinel--why--hello, Henry, you here?  Why, I thought you was dead\nfour hours ago!  Great Jerusalem, they keep turnin' up every ten\nminutes or so!  We thought we'd lost forty-two men by straight count,\nbut if they keep on a-comin' this way, we'll git th' comp'ny all back\nby mornin' yit.  Where was yeh?\"\n\n\"Over on th' right.  I got separated\"--began the youth with\nconsiderable glibness.\n\nBut his friend had interrupted hastily.  \"Yes, an' he got shot in th'\nhead an' he's in a fix, an' we must see t' him right away.\"  He rested\nhis rifle in the hollow of his left arm and his right around the\nyouth's shoulder.\n\n\"Gee, it must hurt like thunder!\" he said.\n\nThe youth leaned heavily upon his friend. \"Yes, it hurts--hurts a good\ndeal,\" he replied. There was a faltering in his voice.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the corporal.  He linked his arm in the youth's and drew him\nforward.  \"Come on, Henry.  I'll take keer 'a yeh.\"\n\nAs they went on together the loud private called out after them: \"Put\n'im t' sleep in my blanket, Simpson.  An'--hol' on a minnit--here's my\ncanteen.  It's full 'a coffee.  Look at his head by th' fire an' see\nhow it looks.  Maybe it's a pretty bad un.  When I git relieved in a\ncouple 'a minnits, I'll be over an' see t' him.\"\n\nThe youth's senses were so deadened that his friend's voice sounded\nfrom afar and he could scarcely feel the pressure of the corporal's\narm. He submitted passively to the latter's directing strength.  His\nhead was in the old manner hanging forward upon his breast.  His knees\nwobbled.\n\nThe corporal led him into the glare of the fire.  \"Now, Henry,\" he\nsaid, \"let's have look at yer ol' head.\"\n\nThe youth sat down obediently and the corporal, laying aside his rifle,\nbegan to fumble in the bushy hair of his comrade.  He was obliged to\nturn the other's head so that the full flush of the fire light would\nbeam upon it.  He puckered his mouth with a critical air.  He drew back\nhis lips and whistled through his teeth when his fingers came in\ncontact with the splashed blood and the rare wound.\n\n\"Ah, here we are!\" he said.  He awkwardly made further investigations.\n\"Jest as I thought,\" he added, presently.  \"Yeh've been grazed by a\nball.  It's raised a queer lump jest as if some feller had lammed yeh\non th' head with a club. It stopped a-bleedin' long time ago.  Th' most\nabout it is that in th' mornin' yeh'll feel that a number ten hat\nwouldn't fit yeh.  An' your head'll be all het up an' feel as dry as\nburnt pork. An' yeh may git a lot 'a other sicknesses, too, by mornin'.\nYeh can't never tell.  Still, I don't much think so.  It's jest a damn'\ngood belt on th' head, an' nothin' more.  Now, you jest sit here an'\ndon't move, while I go rout out th' relief. Then I'll send Wilson t'\ntake keer 'a yeh.\"\n\nThe corporal went away.  The youth remained on the ground like a\nparcel.  He stared with a vacant look into the fire.\n\nAfter a time he aroused, for some part, and the things about him began\nto take form.  He saw that the ground in the deep shadows was cluttered\nwith men, sprawling in every conceivable posture.  Glancing narrowly\ninto the more distant darkness, he caught occasional glimpses of\nvisages that loomed pallid and ghostly, lit with a phosphorescent glow.\nThese faces expressed in their lines the deep stupor of the tired\nsoldiers.  They made them appear like men drunk with wine.  This bit of\nforest might have appeared to an ethereal wanderer as a scene of the\nresult of some frightful debauch.\n\nOn the other side of the fire the youth observed an officer asleep,\nseated bolt upright, with his back against a tree.  There was something\nperilous in his position.  Badgered by dreams, perhaps, he swayed with\nlittle bounces and starts, like an old toddy-stricken grandfather in a\nchimney corner.  Dust and stains were upon his face.  His lower jaw\nhung down as if lacking strength to assume its normal position.  He was\nthe picture of an exhausted soldier after a feast of war.\n\nHe had evidently gone to sleep with his sword in his arms.  These two\nhad slumbered in an embrace, but the weapon had been allowed in time to\nfall unheeded to the ground.  The brass-mounted hilt lay in contact\nwith some parts of the fire.\n\nWithin the gleam of rose and orange light from the burning sticks were\nother soldiers, snoring and heaving, or lying deathlike in slumber.  A\nfew pairs of legs were stuck forth, rigid and straight.  The shoes\ndisplayed the mud or dust of marches and bits of rounded trousers,\nprotruding from the blankets, showed rents and tears from hurried\npitchings through the dense brambles.\n\nThe fire crackled musically.  From it swelled light smoke.  Overhead\nthe foliage moved softly.  The leaves, with their faces turned toward\nthe blaze, were colored shifting hues of silver, often edged with red.\nFar off to the right, through a window in the forest could be seen a\nhandful of stars lying, like glittering pebbles, on the black level of\nthe night.\n\nOccasionally, in this low-arched hall, a soldier would arouse and turn\nhis body to a new position, the experience of his sleep having taught\nhim of uneven and objectionable places upon the ground under him.  Or,\nperhaps, he would lift himself to a sitting posture, blink at the fire\nfor an unintelligent moment, throw a swift glance at his prostrate\ncompanion, and then cuddle down again with a grunt of sleepy content.\n\nThe youth sat in a forlorn heap until his friend the loud young soldier\ncame, swinging two canteens by their light strings.  \"Well, now, Henry,\nol' boy,\" said the latter, \"we'll have yeh fixed up in jest about a\nminnit.\"\n\nHe had the bustling ways of an amateur nurse.  He fussed around the\nfire and stirred the sticks to brilliant exertions.  He made his\npatient drink largely from the canteen that contained the coffee.  It\nwas to the youth a delicious draught. He tilted his head afar back and\nheld the canteen long to his lips.  The cool mixture went caressingly\ndown his blistered throat.  Having finished, he sighed with comfortable\ndelight.\n\nThe loud young soldier watched his comrade with an air of satisfaction.\nHe later produced an extensive handkerchief from his pocket.  He folded\nit into a manner of bandage and soused water from the other canteen\nupon the middle of it.  This crude arrangement he bound over the\nyouth's head, tying the ends in a queer knot at the back of the neck.\n\n\"There,\" he said, moving off and surveying his deed, \"yeh look like th'\ndevil, but I bet yeh feel better.\"\n\nThe youth contemplated his friend with grateful eyes.  Upon his aching\nand swelling head the cold cloth was like a tender woman's hand.\n\n\"Yeh don't holler ner say nothin',\" remarked his friend approvingly. \"I\nknow I'm a blacksmith at takin' keer 'a sick folks, an' yeh never\nsqueaked.  Yer a good un, Henry.  Most 'a men would a' been in th'\nhospital long ago.  A shot in th' head ain't foolin' business.\"\n\nThe youth made no reply, but began to fumble with the buttons of his\njacket.\n\n\"Well, come, now,\" continued his friend, \"come on.  I must put yeh t'\nbed an' see that yeh git a good night's rest.\"\n\nThe other got carefully erect, and the loud young soldier led him among\nthe sleeping forms lying in groups and rows.  Presently he stooped and\npicked up his blankets.  He spread the rubber one upon the ground and\nplaced the woolen one about the youth's shoulders.\n\n\"There now,\" he said, \"lie down an' git some sleep.\"\n\nThe youth, with his manner of doglike obedience, got carefully down\nlike a crone stooping.  He stretched out with a murmur of relief and\ncomfort.  The ground felt like the softest couch.\n\nBut of a sudden he ejaculated: \"Hol' on a minnit!  Where you goin' t'\nsleep?\"\n\nHis friend waved his hand impatiently. \"Right down there by yeh.\"\n\n\"Well, but hol' on a minnit,\" continued the youth.  \"What yeh goin' t'\nsleep in?  I've got your--\"\n\nThe loud young soldier snarled: \"Shet up an' go on t' sleep.  Don't be\nmakin' a damn' fool 'a yerself,\" he said severely.\n\nAfter the reproof the youth said no more. An exquisite drowsiness had\nspread through him. The warm comfort of the blanket enveloped him and\nmade a gentle languor.  His head fell forward on his crooked arm and\nhis weighted lids went softly down over his eyes.  Hearing a splatter\nof musketry from the distance, he wondered indifferently if those men\nsometimes slept.  He gave a long sigh, snuggled down into his blanket,\nand in a moment was like his comrades.\n\n\n", "summary": "Henry reels toward the fire and tents of his own regiment and is greeted warmly, especially when he tells everyone that he was SHOT IN THE HEAD. Wilson looks after Henry quite tenderly. He comments that Henry's injury looks somewhat odd for a bullet wound. Well, yes... Henry sleeps the sleep of the guilty and the lying ."}, {"": "346", "document": "SADLY discursive as I have already been, I must still further entreat\nthe reader's patience, as I am about to string together, without any\nattempt at order, a few odds and ends of things not hitherto mentioned,\nbut which are either curious in themselves or peculiar to the Typees.\n\nThere was one singular custom observed in old Marheyo's domestic\nestablishment, which often excited my surprise. Every night, before\nretiring, the inmates of the house gathered together on the mats, and\nso squatting upon their haunches, after the universal practice of\nthese islanders, would commence a low, dismal and monotonous chant,\naccompanying the voice with the instrumental melody produced by two\nsmall half-rotten sticks tapped slowly together, a pair of which\nwere held in the hands of each person present. Thus would they employ\nthemselves for an hour or two, sometimes longer. Lying in the gloom\nwhich wrapped the further end of the house, I could not avoid looking\nat them, although the spectacle suggested nothing but unpleasant\nreflection. The flickering rays of the 'armor' nut just served to reveal\ntheir savage lineaments, without dispelling the darkness that hovered\nabout them.\n\nSometimes when, after falling into a kind of doze, and awaking suddenly\nin the midst of these doleful chantings, my eye would fall upon the\nwild-looking group engaged in their strange occupation, with their naked\ntattooed limbs, and shaven heads disposed in a circle, I was almost\ntempted to believe that I gazed upon a set of evil beings in the act of\nworking at a frightful incantation.\n\nWhat was the meaning or purpose of this custom, whether it was practiced\nmerely as a diversion, or whether it was a religious exercise, a sort of\nfamily prayers, I never could discover.\n\nThe sounds produced by the natives on these occasions were of a most\nsingular description; and had I not actually been present, I never would\nhave believed that such curious noises could have been produced by human\nbeings.\n\nTo savages generally is imputed a guttural articulation. This however,\nis not always the case, especially among the inhabitants of the\nPolynesian Archipelago. The labial melody with which the Typee girls\ncarry on an ordinary conversation, giving a musical prolongation to the\nfinal syllable of every sentence, and chirping out some of the words\nwith a liquid, bird-like accent, was singularly pleasing.\n\nThe men however, are not quite so harmonious in their utterance, and\nwhen excited upon any subject, would work themselves up into a sort of\nwordy paroxysm, during which all descriptions of rough-sided sounds\nwere projected from their mouths, with a force and rapidity which was\nabsolutely astonishing.\n\n      . . . . .  .  .  .\n\nAlthough these savages are remarkably fond of chanting, still they\nappear to have no idea whatever of singing, at least as the art is\npractised in other nations.\n\nI shall never forget the first time I happened to roar out a stave\nin the presence of noble Mehevi. It was a stanza from the 'Bavarian\nbroom-seller'. His Typeean majesty, with all his court, gazed upon me in\namazement, as if I had displayed some preternatural faculty which Heaven\nhad denied to them. The King was delighted with the verse; but the\nchorus fairly transported him. At his solicitation I sang it again and\nagain, and nothing could be more ludicrous than his vain attempts to\ncatch the air and the words. The royal savage seemed to think that by\nscrewing all the features of his face into the end of his nose he\nmight possibly succeed in the undertaking, but it failed to answer the\npurpose; and in the end he gave it up, and consoled himself by listening\nto my repetition of the sounds fifty times over.\n\nPrevious to Mehevi's making the discovery, I had never been aware that\nthere was anything of the nightingale about me; but I was now promoted\nto the place of court-minstrel, in which capacity I was afterwards\nperpetually called upon to officiate.\n\n      . . . . .  .  .  .\n\nBesides the sticks and the drums, there are no other musical instruments\namong the Typees, except one which might appropriately be denominated a\nnasal flute. It is somewhat longer than an ordinary fife; is made of\na beautiful scarlet-coloured reed; and has four or five stops, with\na large hole near one end, which latter is held just beneath the left\nnostril. The other nostril being closed by a peculiar movement of the\nmuscles about the nose, the breath is forced into the tube, and produces\na soft dulcet sound which is varied by the fingers running at random\nover the stops. This is a favourite recreation with the females and one\nin which Fayaway greatly excelled. Awkward as such an instrument may\nappear, it was, in Fayaway's delicate little hands, one of the most\ngraceful I have ever seen. A young lady, in the act of tormenting a\nguitar strung about her neck by a couple of yards of blue ribbon, is not\nhalf so engaging.\n\n      . . . . .  .  .  .\n\nSinging was not the only means I possessed of diverting the royal Mehevi\nand his easy-going subject. Nothing afforded them more pleasure than to\nsee me go through the attitude of pugilistic encounter. As not one of\nthe natives had soul enough in him to stand up like a man, and allow me\nto hammer away at him, for my own personal gratification and that of\nthe king, I was necessitated to fight with an imaginary enemy, whom I\ninvariably made to knock under to my superior prowess. Sometimes when\nthis sorely battered shadow retreated precipitately towards a group of\nthe savages, and, following him up, I rushed among them dealing my\nblows right and left, they would disperse in all directions much to the\nenjoyment of Mehevi, the chiefs, and themselves.\n\nThe noble art of self-defence appeared to be regarded by them as the\npeculiar gift of the white man; and I make little doubt that they\nsupposed armies of Europeans were drawn up provided with nothing else\nbut bony fists and stout hearts, with which they set to in column, and\npummelled one another at the word of command.\n\n      . . . . .  .  .  .\n\nOne day, in company with Kory-Kory, I had repaired to the stream for the\npurpose of bathing, when I observed a woman sitting upon a rock in\nthe midst of the current, and watching with the liveliest interest the\ngambols of something, which at first I took to be an uncommonly large\nspecies of frog that was sporting in the water near her. Attracted by\nthe novelty of the sight, I waded towards the spot where she sat, and\ncould hardly credit the evidence of my senses when I beheld a little\ninfant, the period of whose birth could not have extended back many\ndays, paddling about as if it had just risen to the surface, after being\nhatched into existence at the bottom. Occasionally, the delighted parent\nreached out her hand towards it, when the little thing, uttering a faint\ncry, and striking out its tiny limbs, would sidle for the rock, and the\nnext moment be clasped to its mother's bosom. This was repeated again\nand again, the baby remaining in the stream about a minute at a time.\nOnce or twice it made wry faces at swallowing a mouthful of water, and\nchoked a spluttered as if on the point of strangling. At such times\nhowever, the mother snatched it up and by a process scarcely to be\nmentioned obliged it to eject the fluid. For several weeks afterwards\nI observed this woman bringing her child down to the stream regularly\nevery day, in the cool of the morning and evening and treating it to a\nbath. No wonder that the South Sea Islanders are so amphibious a race,\nwhen they are thus launched into the water as soon as they see the\nlight. I am convinced that it is as natural for a human being to swim as\nit is for a duck. And yet in civilized communities how many able-bodied\nindividuals die, like so many drowning kittens, from the occurrence of\nthe most trivial accidents!\n\n       . . . . .  .  .  .\n\nThe long luxuriant and glossy tresses of the Typee damsels often\nattracted my admiration. A fine head of hair is the pride and joy of\nevery woman's heart. Whether against the express will of Providence, it\nis twisted upon the crown of the head and there coiled away like a rope\non a ship's deck; whether it be stuck behind the ears and hangs down\nlike the swag of a small window-curtain; or whether it be permitted to\nflow over the shoulders in natural ringlets, it is always the pride of\nthe owner, and the glory of the toilette.\n\nThe Typee girls devote much of their time to the dressing of their fair\nand redundant locks. After bathing, as they sometimes do five or six\ntimes every day, the hair is carefully dried, and if they have been in\nthe sea, invariably washed in fresh water, and anointed with a highly\nscented oil extracted from the meat of the cocoanut. This oil is\nobtained in great abundance by the following very simple process:\n\nA large vessel of wood, with holes perforated in the bottom, is filled\nwith the pounded meat, and exposed to the rays of the sun. As the\noleaginous matter exudes, it falls in drops through the apertures into a\nwide-mouthed calabash placed underneath. After a sufficient quantity has\nthus been collected, the oil undergoes a purifying process, and is then\npoured into the small spherical shells of the nuts of the moo-tree,\nwhich are hollowed out to receive it. These nuts are then hermetically\nsealed with a resinous gum, and the vegetable fragrance of their green\nrind soon imparts to the oil a delightful odour. After the lapse of a\nfew weeks the exterior shell of the nuts becomes quite dry and hard, and\nassumes a beautiful carnation tint; and when opened they are found to\nbe about two-thirds full of an ointment of a light yellow colour and\ndiffusing the sweetest perfume. This elegant little odorous globe would\nnot be out of place even upon the toilette of a queen. Its merits as a\npreparation for the hair are undeniable--it imparts to it a superb gloss\nand a silky fineness.\n\n\n", "summary": "Tommo knows he's been going on and on, but he wants just a bit more time to talk about the customs of the Typee. At Marheyo's, for instance, the whole household gathers to chant before bed, drumming with sticks. While the women are melodic, the men are more guttural. One night, Tommo sings an old folk song at the Ti, and Mehevi and the others are astounded by his voice, which is notable for its melody by Typee standards. After this, Mehevi often calls upon Tommo to sing, and also to shadow box with an invisible opponent, for his own delight. Walking by the lake one day, Tommo sees a mother dipping her infant into a stream, acclimating it to the water, teaching it to swim over several weeks. Tommo then goes on to talk about how Typee gals do their hair."}, {"": "347", "document": "HOUSEKEEPING\n\n\nThe next morning Jess was up before the others, as was fitting for a\nlittle housekeeper. That is, she was first if we except the dog, who had\nopened one eye instantly every time his little mistress stirred in her\nsleep. He sat watching gravely in the door of the car as Jess descended\nto get breakfast. She walked from the little waterfall quite a distance\ndown the brook, looking at it with critical eyes.\n\n\"This will be the well,\" she said to herself, regarding a small but deep\nand quiet basin just below the falls. Below that she found a larger\nbasin, lined with gravel, with flat stones surrounding it.\n\n\"This will be the washtub,\" she decided. \"And now I must go back to the\nrefrigerator.\" This was the strangest spot of all, for behind the little\nwaterfall was a small quiet pool in which Jess had set the milk bottles\nthe night before. Not a drop of water could get in, but all night long\nthe cool running water had surrounded the bottles. They were now fairly\nicy to the touch. Jess smiled as she drew them out.\n\n\"Is it good?\" asked Benny's voice. There he sat in the door of the car,\nswinging his legs, his arm around the shaggy dog.\n\n\"It's delicious!\" declared Jess. \"Cold as ice.\" She climbed up beside\nhim as she spoke, bringing the breakfast with her. The other two\nchildren sat up and looked at it.\n\n\"Today, Jess,\" began Henry, \"I will go back to town and try to get a job\nmowing lawns or something. Then we can afford to have something besides\nmilk for breakfast.\"\n\nMilk suited Benny very well, however, so the older children allowed him\nto drink rather more than his share. Henry did not waste any time\ntalking. He brushed his hair as well as he could without a brush, rolled\ndown his sleeves, and started for town with the second dollar.\n\n\"Glad you've got a dog, Jess,\" he called back, as he waved his straw\nhat.\n\nThe children watched him disappear around the curve and then turned to\nJess expectantly. They were not mistaken. Jess had a plan.\n\n\"We'll explore,\" she began mysteriously. \"We'll begin here at the car,\nand hunt all over these woods until we find a dump!\"\n\n\"What's a dump?\" inquired Benny.\n\n\"O Benny!\" answered Violet. \"You know what a dump is. All old bottles\nand papers and broken dishes.\"\n\n\"And wheels?\" asked Benny interestedly. \"Will there be any old wheels?\"\n\n\"Yes, maybe,\" assented Violet. \"But cups, Benny! Think of drinking milk\nout of a cup again!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Benny, politely. But it was clear that his mind was\ncentered on wheels rather than cups.\n\nThe exploring party started slowly down the rusty track, with the dog\nhopping happily on three legs. The fourth paw, nicely bandaged with\nJess' handkerchief, he held up out of harm's way.\n\n\"I think this is a spur track,\" said Jess. \"They built it in here so\nthey could load wood on the cars, and then when they had cut all the\nwood they didn't need the track any more.\"\n\nThis explanation seemed very likely, for here and there were stumps of\ntrees and decaying chips. Violet took note of these chips, and\nremembered them some days later. In fact, both girls kept their eyes\nopen, and pointed out things of interest to each other.\n\n\"Remember these logs, Violet, if we should ever need any,\" said Jess\npointing.\n\n\"Blackberry blossoms!\" returned Violet briefly, turning one over gently\nwith her foot.\n\n\"Big flat stones!\" remarked Jess, later on, as they came upon a great\nheap of them.\n\nHere the track came out into the open sunshine, and broken pieces of\nrail showed clearly where it had joined the main track at some time in\nthe past. And here from the top of the wooded hill the children could\nplainly see the city in the valley. They walked along the track, picking\nout a church steeple here and there, forgetting for a moment the object\nof their search.\n\n\"There's a wheel!\" Benny cried triumphantly from behind.\n\nThe girls looked down, and with a glad cry of surprise Jess recognized a\ndump at the foot of the hill. They found it not composed entirely of\nashes and tin cans, either, although both of these were there in great\nprofusion. It was a royal dump, containing both cups and wheels.\n\n\"O Benny!\" cried Jess, \"if it hadn't been for you!\" She hugged him,\nwheel and all, and began turning over the rubbish with great delight.\n\n\"Here's a white pitcher, Jess,\" Violet called, holding up a perfect\nspecimen with a tiny chip in its nose.\n\n\"Here's a big white cup,\" said Jess delightedly, laying it aside.\n\n\"Want a teapot, Jessy?\" inquired Benny, offering her an enormous blue\nenameled affair without a handle.\n\n\"Yes, _indeed_!\" cried Jess. \"We can use that for water. I've found two\ncups and a bowl already. And Violet, we ought to be looking for spoons,\ntoo.\"\n\nViolet pointed without speaking to her little pile of treasures. There\nwere five iron spoons covered with rust.\n\n\"Wonderful!\" pronounced Jess with rapture. Indeed, it is doubtful if\ncollectors of rare and beautiful bits of porcelain ever enjoyed a search\nas much as did these adventurers in the dump heap.\n\nBenny actually found four wheels, exactly alike, probably from the same\ncart, and insisted upon carrying them back. To please him, Jess allowed\nhim to add them to the growing pile.\n\n\"Here's a big iron kettle,\" observed Violet. \"But we won't really cook\nwith a fire, will we, Jess?\"\n\n\"We'll take it back, though,\" replied Jess with a knowing look. \"We can\npile lots of dishes in it.\"\n\nThey could, and did, but not until after Benny had discovered his\nbeloved \"pink cup.\" It was a tea-party cup of bright rose-color with a\nwreath of gorgeous roses on it, and a little shepherdess giving her lamb\na drink from a pale blue brook. It had a perfectly good handle, gold\ninto the bargain. Its only flaw was a dangerous crack through the lamb's\nnose and front feet. Jess made a cushion for it out of grass and laid it\non top of the kettle full of treasures. All the things, even the wheels,\nwere laid on a wide board which the two girls carried between them.\n\n[Illustration: _Benny discovered his beloved \"pink cup\"_]\n\nCan you imagine the dishwashing when the gay party returned to the\nfreight car? Children do not usually care for dishwashing. But never did\na little boy hand dishes to his sister so carefully as Benny did. On\ntheir hands and knees beside the clear, cool little \"washtub,\" the\nthree children soaped and rinsed and dried their precious store of\ndishes. Jess scoured the rust from the spoons with sand. \"There!\" she\nsaid, drying the last polished spoon. The children sat back and looked\nadmiringly at their own handiwork. But they did not look long. There was\ntoo much to be done.\n\n\"Jess,\" exclaimed Violet, \"I'll tell you!\" Violet seldom spoke so\nexcitedly. Even Benny turned around and looked at her.\n\n\"Come and see what I noticed inside the car last night!\"\n\nBoth children followed her, and peered in at the door.\n\n\"See, on the wall, right over on the other door, Jess.\" Now, all Jess\ncould see were two thick chunks of wood nailed securely to the closed\ndoor opposite the open one. But she whirled around and around as fast as\nshe could, clapping her hands. When she could get her breath, however,\nshe skipped over to the board they had carried, dusted it nicely, and\nlaid it carefully across the two wooden projections. It was a perfect\nshelf.\n\n\"There!\" said Jess.\n\nThe children could hardly wait to arrange the shining new dishes on the\nshelf. Violet quietly gathered some feathery white flowers, a daisy or\ntwo, and some maidenhair ferns, which she arranged in a glass vase\nfilled with water from the \"well.\" This she put in the middle, with the\nbroken edge hidden.\n\n\"There!\" said Jess.\n\n\"You said 'there' three times, Jessy,\" remarked Benny, contentedly.\n\n\"So I did,\" replied Jess laughing, \"but I'm going to say it again.\" She\npointed and said, \"There!\"\n\nHenry was coming up the path.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jessie is up bright and early to tidy up. She goes to retrieve the milk from the \"refrigerator,\" which is a cold nook in the waterfall. The nook worked, and the milk is ready to drink. Over breakfast, Henry tells the group he plans to go into town and find work. Henry sets off for town, promising to be back by lunchtime. Jessie leads the other two children on a treasure hunt, and with that, they set off to find a dump. Benny wants to know if the stuff at the dump really qualifies as treasure. Good question, Benny. Benny also wants to know if there will be wheels at the dump. This seems oddly specific, but Violet thinks there probably will be. Watch is still hopping around on three legs, but he's in high spirits. He likes the Boxcar Children. The kids walk for a while and finally find a dump, which is conveniently filled with wheels and dishes. The kids gather some of the dishes. Benny has four wheels and a pink cup that he declares as his. Everyone makes their way back to camp, where Jessie washes the dishes using soap and sand. When Henry returns, they'll boil some water to rinse everything a final time. Violet has spotted some pegs in the boxcar on which they can build a shelf. Once they do, Jessie arranges the dishes and some flowers on the new shelf to make the boxcar more homey. She's very pleased with herself. Here's Henry. He's carrying all sorts of stuff, but he won't reveal what he has yet. The children tell Henry about their big day at the dump, and then Henry builds a fire so they can boil water to rinse the dishes."}, {"": "348", "document": "STURGE HOUSE, BOW ROAD\n\n\n\nThis branch of the Men's Social Work of the Salvation Army is a home\nfor poor and destitute boys. The house, which once belonged to the\nlate Dr. Barnardo, has been recently hired on a short lease. One of\nthe features of the Army work is the reclamation of lads, of whom\nabout 2,400 have passed through its hands in London during the course\nof the last eight years.\n\nSturge House has been fitted up for this special purpose, and\naccommodates about fifty boys. The Officer in charge informed me that\nsome boys apply to them for assistance when they are out of work,\nwhile others come from bad homes, and yet others through the Shelters,\nwhich pass on suitable lads. Each case is strictly investigated when\nit arrives, with the result that about one-third of their number are\nrestored to their parents, from whom often enough they have run away,\nsometimes upon the most flimsy pretexts.\n\nNot unfrequently these boys are bad characters, who tell false tales\nof their past. Thus, recently, two who arrived at the Headquarters at\nWhitechapel, alleged that they were farm-labourers from Norfolk. As\nthey did not in the least look the part, inquiries were made, when it\nwas found that they had never been nearer to Norfolk than Hampstead,\nwhere both of them had been concerned in the stealing of L10 from a\nbusiness firm. The matter was patched up with the intervention of the\nArmy, and the boys were restored to their parents.\n\nOccasionally, too, lads are brought here by kind folk, who find them\nstarving. They are taken in, kept for a while, taught and fed, and\nwhen their characters are re-established--for many of them have none\nleft--put out into the world. Some of them, indeed, work daily at\nvarious employments in London, and pay 5s. a week for their board and\nlodging at the Home. A good proportion of these lads also are sent to\nthe collieries in Wales, where, after a few years, they earn good\nwages.\n\nIn these collieries a man and a boy generally work together. A while\nago such a man applied to the Army for a boy, and the applicant,\nproving respectable, the boy was sent, and turned out extremely well.\nIn due course he became a collier himself, and, in his turn, sent for\na boy. So the thing spread, till up to the present time the Army has\nsupplied fifty or sixty lads to colliers in South Wales, all of whom\nseem to be satisfactory and prosperous.\n\nAs the Manager explained, it is not difficult to place out a lad as\nsoon as his character can be more or less guaranteed. The difficulty\ncomes with a man who is middle-aged or old. He added that this Home\ndoes not in any sense compete with those of Dr. Barnardo; in fact, in\ncertain ways they work hand in hand. The Barnardo Homes will not\nreceive lads who are over sixteen, whereas the Army takes them up to\neighteen. So it comes about that Barnardo's sometimes send on cases\nwhich are over their age limit to Sturge House.\n\nI saw the boys at their dinner, and although many of them had a bad\nrecord, certainly they looked very respectable, and likely to make\ngood and useful men. The experience of the Army is that most of them\nare quite capable of reformation, and that, when once their hearts\nhave been changed, they seldom fall back into the ways of dishonesty.\n\nThis Home, like all those managed by the Salvation Army, is spotlessly\nclean, and the dormitories are very pleasant rooms. Also, there is a\ngarden, and in it I saw a number of pots of flowers, which had just\nbeen sent as a present by a boy whom the Army helped three years ago,\nand who is now, I understand, a gardener.\n\nSturge House struck me as a most useful Institution; and as there is\nabout it none of the depressing air of the adult Shelters, my visit\nhere was a pleasant change. The reclamation or the helping of a lad is\na very different business from that of restoring the adult or the old\nman to a station in life which he seems to have lost for ever.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Rivers is in a session with Prior. Prior tells the doctor in detail what it is like to attack from a trench. He talks about climbing up and walking slowly, in broad daylight, right toward the machine guns. He is emotionally detached from the story he is telling, describing it as both \"ridiculous\" and \"sexy. Prior assumes that he and Rivers are on different sides and one of them has to win. That day, a man named Wilfred Owen, another patient in the hospital, comes to visit Sassoon and asks him to sign books for him. Sassoon happily agrees, and is surprised that Owen has brought five copies for him to sign. Owen is impressed and intimidated by Sassoon, a tall man, a published poet, and a soldier with a reputation for courage. Yet he finds they have a lot in common; they are both poets; they both oppose the war but do not consider themselves pacifists; and they both look at life reflectively. Sassoon offers Owen the invitation to bring his poems over anytime he would like someone to read them Sassoon goes out with Anderson to play golf. Anderson loses his temper after missing a shot and threatens to kill Sassoon with his club. Anderson is mortified at his behavior, but they both try to laugh it off. They talk about nothing but golf in an attempt to avoid any intimate discussion of the war. Anderson disagrees with Sassoon; though he knows the war is horrible, he believes that it must continue until the end. Prior goes to a sleazy pub in Edinburgh to get some food and beer. There he meets some girls who work in a munitions factory. He seems to \"click\" with one girl, named Sarah Lumb, and he takes her to a hotel to buy her some drinks. When they talk, he finds out that she had a boyfriend who was killed by English gas in the Battle of Loos. Sarah could not believe that he had died; she did not know what to do, so she left her family and moved to Edinburgh to work in a munitions factory. She makes plenty of money and she likes the work, though it means long hours. Sarah stays in a boarding house and is not allowed to bring men back home, so they go for a walk. Prior takes Sarah to a graveyard and they come very close to having sex among the gravestones, but she pushes him away at the last minute. Prior gives in and decides to walk her to her door. He kisses her goodnight and promises to see her again."}, {"": "349", "document": "\n\nTHE morning postman brought Mrs. Lapham a letter from Irene, which was\nchiefly significant because it made no reference whatever to the writer\nor her state of mind.  It gave the news of her uncle's family; it told\nof their kindness to her; her cousin Will was going to take her and his\nsisters ice-boating on the river, when it froze.\n\nBy the time this letter came, Lapham had gone to his business, and the\nmother carried it to Penelope to talk over.  \"What do you make out of\nit?\" she asked; and without waiting to be answered she said, \"I don't\nknow as I believe in cousins marrying, a great deal; but if Irene and\nWill were to fix it up between 'em----\" She looked vaguely at Penelope.\n\n\"It wouldn't make any difference as far as I was concerned,\" replied\nthe girl listlessly.\n\nMrs. Lapham lost her patience.\n\n\"Well, then, I'll tell you what, Penelope!\" she exclaimed.  \"Perhaps\nit'll make a difference to you if you know that your father's in REAL\ntrouble.  He's harassed to death, and he was awake half the night,\ntalking about it.  That abominable Rogers has got a lot of money away\nfrom him; and he's lost by others that he's helped,\"--Mrs. Lapham put\nit in this way because she had no time to be explicit,--\"and I want you\nshould come out of your room now, and try to be of some help and\ncomfort to him when he comes home to-night.  I guess Irene wouldn't\nmope round much, if she was here,\" she could not help adding.\n\nThe girl lifted herself on her elbow.  \"What's that you say about\nfather?\" she demanded eagerly.  \"Is he in trouble? Is he going to lose\nhis money? Shall we have to stay in this house?\"\n\n\"We may be very GLAD to stay in this house,\" said Mrs. Lapham, half\nangry with herself for having given cause for the girl's conjectures,\nand half with the habit of prosperity in her child, which could\nconceive no better of what adversity was.  \"And I want you should get\nup and show that you've got some feeling for somebody in the world\nbesides yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'll get UP!\" said the girl promptly, almost cheerfully.\n\n\"I don't say it's as bad now as it looked a little while ago,\" said her\nmother, conscientiously hedging a little from the statement which she\nhad based rather upon her feelings than her facts.  \"Your father thinks\nhe'll pull through all right, and I don't know but what he will.  But I\nwant you should see if you can't do something to cheer him up and keep\nhim from getting so perfectly down-hearted as he seems to get, under\nthe load he's got to carry.  And stop thinking about yourself a while,\nand behave yourself like a sensible girl.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said the girl; \"I will.  You needn't be troubled about me\nany more.\"\n\nBefore she left her room she wrote a note, and when she came down she\nwas dressed to go out-of-doors and post it herself.  The note was to\nCorey:--\n\n\"Do not come to see me any more till you hear from me.  I have a reason\nwhich I cannot give you now; and you must not ask what it is.\"\n\nAll day she went about in a buoyant desperation, and she came down to\nmeet her father at supper.\n\n\"Well, Persis,\" he said scornfully, as he sat down, \"we might as well\nsaved our good resolutions till they were wanted.  I guess those\nEnglish parties have gone back on Rogers.\"\n\n\"Do you mean he didn't come?\"\n\n\"He hadn't come up to half-past five,\" said Lapham.\n\n\"Tchk!\" uttered his wife.  \"But I guess I shall pull through without\nMr. Rogers,\" continued Lapham.  \"A firm that I didn't think COULD\nweather it is still afloat, and so far forth as the danger goes of\nbeing dragged under with it, I'm all right.\" Penelope came in.  \"Hello,\nPen!\" cried her father.  \"It ain't often I meet YOU nowadays.\" He put\nup his hand as she passed his chair, and pulled her down and kissed her.\n\n\"No,\" she said; \"but I thought I'd come down to-night and cheer you up\na little.  I shall not talk; the sight of me will be enough.\"\n\nHer father laughed out.  \"Mother been telling you? Well, I WAS pretty\nblue last night; but I guess I was more scared than hurt.  How'd you\nlike to go to the theatre to-night?  Sellers at the Park.  Heigh?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know.  Don't you think they could get along without me\nthere?\"\n\n\"No; couldn't work it at all,\" cried the Colonel.  \"Let's all go.\nUnless,\" he added inquiringly, \"there's somebody coming here?\"\n\n\"There's nobody coming,\" said Penelope.\n\n\"Good! Then we'll go.  Mother, don't you be late now.\"\n\n\"Oh, I shan't keep you waiting,\" said Mrs. Lapham.  She had thought of\ntelling what a cheerful letter she had got from Irene; but upon the\nwhole it seemed better not to speak of Irene at all just then.  After\nthey returned from the theatre, where the Colonel roared through the\ncomedy, with continual reference of his pleasure to Penelope, to make\nsure that she was enjoying it too, his wife said, as if the whole\naffair had been for the girl's distraction rather than his, \"I don't\nbelieve but what it's going to come out all right about the children;\"\nand then she told him of the letter, and the hopes she had founded upon\nit.\n\n\"Well, perhaps you're right, Persis,\" he consented.\n\n\"I haven't seen Pen so much like herself since it happened.  I declare,\nwhen I see the way she came out to-night, just to please you, I don't\nknow as I want you should get over all your troubles right away.\"\n\n\"I guess there'll be enough to keep Pen going for a while yet,\" said\nthe Colonel, winding up his watch.\n\nBut for a time there was a relief, which Walker noted, in the\natmosphere at the office, and then came another cold wave, slighter\nthan the first, but distinctly felt there, and succeeded by another\nrelief.  It was like the winter which was wearing on to the end of the\nyear, with alternations of freezing weather, and mild days stretching\nto weeks, in which the snow and ice wholly disappeared.  It was none\nthe less winter, and none the less harassing for these fluctuations,\nand Lapham showed in his face and temper the effect of like\nfluctuations in his affairs.  He grew thin and old, and both at home\nand at his office he was irascible to the point of offence.  In these\ndays Penelope shared with her mother the burden of their troubled home,\nand united with her in supporting the silence or the petulance of the\ngloomy, secret man who replaced the presence of jolly prosperity there.\nLapham had now ceased to talk of his troubles, and savagely resented\nhis wife's interference.  \"You mind your own business, Persis,\" he said\none day, \"if you've got any;\" and after that she left him mainly to\nPenelope, who did not think of asking him questions.\n\n\"It's pretty hard on you, Pen,\" she said.\n\n\"That makes it easier for me,\" returned the girl, who did not otherwise\nrefer to her own trouble.\n\nIn her heart she had wondered a little at the absolute obedience of\nCorey, who had made no sign since receiving her note.  She would have\nliked to ask her father if Corey was sick; she would have liked him to\nask her why Corey did not come any more.  Her mother went on--\n\n\"I don't believe your father knows WHERE he stands.  He works away at\nthose papers he brings home here at night, as if he didn't half know\nwhat he was about.  He always did have that close streak in him, and I\ndon't suppose but what he's been going into things he don't want\nanybody else to know about, and he's kept these accounts of his own.\"\n\nSometimes he gave Penelope figures to work at, which he would not\nsubmit to his wife's nimbler arithmetic.  Then she went to bed and left\nthem sitting up till midnight, struggling with problems in which they\nwere both weak.  But she could see that the girl was a comfort to her\nfather, and that his troubles were a defence and shelter to her.  Some\nnights she could hear them going out together, and then she lay awake\nfor their return from their long walk.  When the hour or day of respite\ncame again, the home felt it first.  Lapham wanted to know what the\nnews from Irene was; he joined his wife in all her cheerful\nspeculations, and tried to make her amends for his sullen reticence and\nirritability.  Irene was staying on at Dubuque.  There came a letter\nfrom her, saying that her uncle's people wanted her to spend the winter\nthere.  \"Well, let her,\" said Lapham.  \"It'll be the best thing for\nher.\"\n\nLapham himself had letters from his brother at frequent intervals.  His\nbrother was watching the G. L. & P., which as yet had made no offer for\nthe mills.  Once, when one of these letters came, he submitted to his\nwife whether, in the absence of any positive information that the road\nwanted the property, he might not, with a good conscience, dispose of\nit to the best advantage to anybody who came along.\n\nShe looked wistfully at him; it was on the rise from a season of deep\ndepression with him.  \"No, Si,\" she said; \"I don't see how you could do\nthat.\"\n\nHe did not assent and submit, as he had done at first, but began to\nrail at the unpracticality of women; and then he shut some papers he\nhad been looking over into his desk, and flung out of the room.\n\nOne of the papers had slipped through the crevice of the lid, and lay\nupon the floor.  Mrs. Lapham kept on at her sewing, but after a while\nshe picked the paper up to lay it on the desk.  Then she glanced at it,\nand saw that it was a long column of dates and figures, recording\nsuccessive sums, never large ones, paid regularly to \"Wm. M.\" The dates\ncovered a year, and the sum amounted at least to several hundreds.\n\nMrs. Lapham laid the paper down on the desk, and then she took it up\nagain and put it into her work-basket, meaning to give it to him.  When\nhe came in she saw him looking absent-mindedly about for something, and\nthen going to work upon his papers, apparently without it.  She thought\nshe would wait till he missed it definitely, and then give him the\nscrap she had picked up.  It lay in her basket, and after some days it\nfound its way under the work in it, and she forgot it.\n\n\n", "summary": "Mrs. Lapham tells Penelope of her father's problems, and the girl immediately regains her composure and begins to think about something besides her problems with Tom Corey and Irene. She writes Tom a note and tells him not to visit her until she asks him. Silas enjoys a period of respite, as the English parties do not show up. During this impasse, to divert their minds, the family attends the theater. On another evening, Silas and Penelope work out business problems together to determine the actual state of affairs. Mrs. Lapham, who is actually better with the problems, is excluded because Silas does not wish her to know about all his business details. After Silas and Penelope finish, Mrs. Lapham finds a slip of paper listing payments made to a \"Wm. M.\" Intending to give it to Silas later, she puts it into her sewing box but forgets it."}, {"": "350", "document": "\n    \"Now, I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended their\n    talk, they drew nigh to a very miry slough, that was in the\n    midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did both fall\n    suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough was\n    Despond.\"--BUNYAN.\n\n\nWhen Rosamond was quiet, and Lydgate had left her, hoping that she\nmight soon sleep under the effect of an anodyne, he went into the\ndrawing-room to fetch a book which he had left there, meaning to spend\nthe evening in his work-room, and he saw on the table Dorothea's letter\naddressed to him.  He had not ventured to ask Rosamond if Mrs. Casaubon\nhad called, but the reading of this letter assured him of the fact, for\nDorothea mentioned that it was to be carried by herself.\n\nWhen Will Ladislaw came in a little later Lydgate met him with a\nsurprise which made it clear that he had not been told of the earlier\nvisit, and Will could not say, \"Did not Mrs. Lydgate tell you that I\ncame this morning?\"\n\n\"Poor Rosamond is ill,\" Lydgate added immediately on his greeting.\n\n\"Not seriously, I hope,\" said Will.\n\n\"No--only a slight nervous shock--the effect of some agitation.  She\nhas been overwrought lately.  The truth is, Ladislaw, I am an unlucky\ndevil.  We have gone through several rounds of purgatory since you\nleft, and I have lately got on to a worse ledge of it than ever.  I\nsuppose you are only just come down--you look rather battered--you\nhave not been long enough in the town to hear anything?\"\n\n\"I travelled all night and got to the White Hart at eight o'clock this\nmorning. I have been shutting myself up and resting,\" said Will,\nfeeling himself a sneak, but seeing no alternative to this evasion.\n\nAnd then he heard Lydgate's account of the troubles which Rosamond had\nalready depicted to him in her way.  She had not mentioned the fact of\nWill's name being connected with the public story--this detail not\nimmediately affecting her--and he now heard it for the first time.\n\n\"I thought it better to tell you that your name is mixed up with the\ndisclosures,\" said Lydgate, who could understand better than most men\nhow Ladislaw might be stung by the revelation.  \"You will be sure to\nhear it as soon as you turn out into the town.  I suppose it is true\nthat Raffles spoke to you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Will, sardonically.  \"I shall be fortunate if gossip does\nnot make me the most disreputable person in the whole affair.  I should\nthink the latest version must be, that I plotted with Raffles to murder\nBulstrode, and ran away from Middlemarch for the purpose.\"\n\nHe was thinking \"Here is a new ring in the sound of my name to\nrecommend it in her hearing; however--what does it signify now?\"\n\nBut he said nothing of Bulstrode's offer to him.  Will was very open\nand careless about his personal affairs, but it was among the more\nexquisite touches in nature's modelling of him that he had a delicate\ngenerosity which warned him into reticence here.  He shrank from saying\nthat he had rejected Bulstrode's money, in the moment when he was\nlearning that it was Lydgate's misfortune to have accepted it.\n\nLydgate too was reticent in the midst of his confidence.  He made no\nallusion to Rosamond's feeling under their trouble, and of Dorothea he\nonly said, \"Mrs. Casaubon has been the one person to come forward and\nsay that she had no belief in any of the suspicions against me.\"\nObserving a change in Will's face, he avoided any further mention of\nher, feeling himself too ignorant of their relation to each other not\nto fear that his words might have some hidden painful bearing on it.\nAnd it occurred to him that Dorothea was the real cause of the present\nvisit to Middlemarch.\n\nThe two men were pitying each other, but it was only Will who guessed\nthe extent of his companion's trouble.  When Lydgate spoke with\ndesperate resignation of going to settle in London, and said with a\nfaint smile, \"We shall have you again, old fellow.\" Will felt\ninexpressibly mournful, and said nothing.  Rosamond had that morning\nentreated him to urge this step on Lydgate; and it seemed to him as if\nhe were beholding in a magic panorama a future where he himself was\nsliding into that pleasureless yielding to the small solicitations of\ncircumstance, which is a commoner history of perdition than any single\nmomentous bargain.\n\nWe are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our\nfuture selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into\ninsipid misdoing and shabby achievement.  Poor Lydgate was inwardly\ngroaning on that margin, and Will was arriving at it.  It seemed to him\nthis evening as if the cruelty of his outburst to Rosamond had made an\nobligation for him, and he dreaded the obligation: he dreaded Lydgate's\nunsuspecting good-will: he dreaded his own distaste for his spoiled\nlife, which would leave him in motiveless levity.\n\n\n", "summary": "Lydgate puts Rosamond to bed, still not totally aware of what has caused her distress. Will comes over, but Rosamond has not mentioned Will's visit earlier in the day; Will makes no mention of it to Lydgate either. Lydgate tells Will a bit of what has been going on, and that his name has also been mixed up in the proceedings. Will is not surprised, and almost does not care, because he thinks that Dorothea has already given up on him. When Lydgate mentions Dorothea's name, he notices that Will has a very peculiar reaction; he suspects that there is something between the two, and in this, he is correct."}, {"": "351", "document": "THE EMIGRATION DEPARTMENT\n\n\n\nSome years ago I was present one night in the Board-room at Euston\nStation and addressed a shipload of emigrants who were departing to\nCanada under the auspices of the Salvation Army. I forget their exact\nnumber, but I think it was not less than 500. What I do not forget,\nhowever, is the sorrow that I felt at seeing so many men in the prime\nof life leaving the shores of their country for ever, especially as\nmost of them were not married. This meant, amongst other things, that\nan equal number of women who remained behind were deprived of the\npossibility of obtaining a husband in a country in which the females\nalready outnumber the males by more than a million. I said as much in\nthe little speech I made on this occasion, and I think that some one\nanswered me with the pertinent remark that if there was no work at\nhome, it must be sought abroad.\n\n[Illustration: INMATES OF A MEN'S INDUSTRIAL HOME.]\n\nThere lies the whole problem in a nutshell--men must live. As for the\naged and the incompetent and the sick and the unattached women, these\nare left behind for the community to support, while young and active\nmen of energy move off to endow new lands with their capacities and\nstrength. The results of this movement, carried out upon a great\nscale, can be seen in the remoter parts of Ireland, which, as the\nvisitor will observe, appear to be largely populated by very young\nchildren and by persons getting on in years. Whether or no this is a\nsatisfactory state of affairs is not for me to say, although the\nmatter, too large to discuss here, is one upon which I may have my own\nopinion.\n\nColonel Lamb, the head of the Salvation Army Emigration Department,\ninformed me that during the past seven years the Army has emigrated\nabout 50,000 souls, of whom 10,000 were assisted out of its funds, the\nrest paying their own way or being paid for from one source or\nanother. From 8,000 to 10,000 people have been sent during the present\nyear, 1910, most of them to Canada, which is the Mecca of the\nSalvation Army Emigration policy. So carefully have all these people\nbeen selected, that not 1 per cent have ever been returned to this\ncountry by the Canadian Authorities as undesirable. The truth is that\nthose Authorities have the greatest confidence in the discretion of\nthe Army, and in its ability to handle this matter to the advantage of\nall concerned.\n\nThat this is true I know from personal experience, since when, some\nyears ago, I was a Commissioner from the British Government and had\nauthority to formulate a scheme of Colonial land-settlement, the Prime\nMinister of Canada, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, told me so himself in the\nplainest language. Indeed, he did more, formally offering a huge block\nof territory to be selected anywhere I might choose in the Dominion,\nwith the aid of its Officers, for the purposes of settlement by poor\nfolk and their children under the auspices of the Salvation Army.\nAlso, he added the promise of as much more land as might be required\nin the future for the same purpose.[3]\n\nMost unhappily, as I hold, that offer was not accepted by the British\nGovernment. If this had been done, by now hundreds of English families\nwould have been transferred from conditions of want at home in the\nEnglish towns, into those of peace and plenty upon the land abroad.\nMoreover, the recent rise in the value of Canadian land has been so\ngreat that the scheme would not have cost the British taxpayer a\nhalfpenny, or so I most firmly believe.\n\nUnfortunately, however, my scheme was too novel in its character to\nappeal to the official mind, especially as its working would have\ninvolved a loan repayable by instalments, the administration of which\nmust have been entrusted to the Salvation Army or to other charitable\nOrganizations. So this priceless opportunity was lost, probably for\never, as the new and stricter emigration regulations adopted by\nCanada, as I understand, would make it extremely difficult to emigrate\nthe class I hoped to help, namely, indigent people of good character,\nresident in English cities, with growing families of children.\n\nYoung men, especially if they have been bred on the land, and young\nmarriageable women are eagerly desired in the Colonies, including\nAustralia; but at families, as we have read in recent correspondence\nin the newspapers, they look askance.\n\n'Why do they not want families in Australia? I asked Colonel Lamb.\n\n'Because the trouble of housing comes in. It is the same thing in\nCanada, it is the same thing all through the Colonies. They do not\nwant too much trouble,' he answered.\n\nThese words define the position very accurately. 'Give us your best,'\nsay the Colonies. 'Give us your adult, healthy men and women whom you\nhave paid to rear and educate, but don't bother us with families of\nchildren whom we have to house. Above all send us no damaged articles.\nYou are welcome to keep those at home.'\n\nTo my mind this attitude, natural as it may be, creates a serious\nproblem so far as Great Britain and Ireland are concerned, for the\nquestion will arise, Can we afford to go on parting with the good and\nretaining the less desirable?\n\nOn this subject I had a long argument with Colonel Lamb, and his\nanswer to the question was in the affirmative, although I must admit\nthat his reasons did not at all convince me. He seemed to believe that\nwe could send out 250,000 people, chosen people, per annum for the\nnext ten years without harm to ourselves. Well, it may be so, and, as\nhe added, 'we are in their (that is, the Colonies') hands, and have to\ndo what they choose to allow.'\n\nAlso his opinion was that 'the best thing possible for this country is\nwholesale emigration,' of course of those whom the Colonies will\naccept. He said, 'People here are dissatisfied with their present\ncondition and want a change. If we had money to assist them, there is\npractically no limit to the number who want to go. There are tens of\nthousands who would conform to the Canadian regulations. One of the\nthings we advise the man who has been forced out of the country is\nthat rather than come into the town he should go to the Colonies.'\n\nOn the matter of the complaints which have been made in Canada of the\nemigrant from London, Colonel Lamb said, 'The Londoner, it is alleged,\nis not wanted. The Canadian is full of self-assertiveness, and the\nCockney has some of that too; he does not hesitate to express his\nviews, and you have conflicting spirits at once. The Cockney will\narrive at the conclusion in about twenty-four hours that he could run\nCanada better than it is now being run. The Scotchman will take a week\nto arrive at the same conclusion, and holds his tongue about it. The\nCockney says what he thinks on the first day of arrival, and the\nresult is--fireworks. He and the Canadians do not agree to begin with;\nbut when they get over the first passage of arms they settle down\namicably. The Cockney is finally appreciated, and, being industrious\nand amenable to law and order, if he has got a bit of humour he gets\non all right, but not at first.'\n\nColonel Lamb informed me that in Australia the Labour Party is afraid\nof the Army because it believes 'we will send in people to bring down\nwages.' Therefore, the Labour Party has sidetracked General Booth's\nproposals. Now, however, it alleges that it is not opposed to\nemigration, if not on too large a scale. 'They don't mind a few girls;\nbut they say the condition that must precede emigration is the\nbreaking up of the land.'\n\nColonel Lamb appeared to desire that an Emigration Board should be\nappointed in England, with power and funds to deal with the\ndistribution of the population of the Empire and to systematize\nemigration. To this Imperial Board, individuals or Societies, such as\nthe Salvation Army, should, he thought, be able to submit their\nschemes, which schemes would receive assistance according to their\nmerits under such limitations as the Board might see fit to impose. To\nsuch a Board he would even give power to carry out land-settlement\nschemes in the British Isles.\n\nThis is a great proposal, but one wonders whence the money is to come.\nAlso how long will it be before the Labour Parties in the various\nColonies, including Canada, gain so much power that they will refuse\nto accept emigrants at all, except young women, or agriculturalists\nwho bring capital with them?\n\nBut all these problems are for the future. Meanwhile it is evident\nthat the Salvation Army manages its emigration work with extraordinary\nsuccess and business skill. Those whom it sends from these shores for\ntheir own benefit are invariably accepted, at any rate in Canada, and\nprovided with work on their arrival in the chosen Colony. That the\nselection is sound and careful is shown, also, by the fact that the\nArmy recovers from those emigrants to whom it gives assistance a\nconsiderable percentage of the sums advanced to enable them to start\nlife in a new land.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Owen comes to visit Sassoon, interrupting the lieutenant while he is reading a letter from H. G. Wells, the famous science-fiction author. Owen and Sassoon continue discussing poetry and Sassoon gives Owen one of his poems to publish in the Hydra. He tells Owen about how Dr. Rivers has been pushing him to envision the future in order to make him feel guilty about being at Craiglockhart. Sassoon admits to being intimidated by the psychologist, who has more education than he does. Owen shares that he imagines himself becoming a pig farmer after the war, but then feels embarrassed about his humble ambition in front of the aristocratic Sassoon. Owen nervously hands over a sheaf of his poems. He explains that his own psychologist believes that the war disconnects men from society and nature. In order to reconnect, Owen explains, the doctor encourages his patients to find jobs that involve working with the land and with each other. Sassoon helps Owen edit some of his poems line by line, patiently encouraging the younger man to spend more time honing his craft. Before Owen leaves, the lieutenant convinces him to publish the best of his own poems in the next edition of the Hydra"}, {"": "352", "document": "Cyrano, Christian.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Oh! win for me that kiss. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  No!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Soon or late!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Tis true!  The moment of intoxication--\n  Of madness,--when your mouths are sure to meet\n  Thanks to your fair mustache--and her rose lips!\n(To himself):\n  I'd fainer it should come thanks to. . .\n\n(A sound of shutters reopening.  Christian goes in again under the balcony.)\n\n\n\n\nCyrano, Christian, Roxane.\n\nROXANE (coming out on the balcony):\n  Still there?\n  We spoke of a. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  A kiss!  The word is sweet.\n  I see not why your lip should shrink from it;\n  If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do?\n  Oh! let it not your bashfulness affright;\n  Have you not, all this time, insensibly,\n  Left badinage aside, and unalarmed\n  Glided from smile to sigh,--from sigh to weeping?\n  Glide gently, imperceptibly, still onward--\n  From tear to kiss,--a moment's thrill!--a heartbeat!\n\nROXANE:\n  Hush! hush!\n\nCYRANO:\n  A kiss, when all is said,--what is it?\n  An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise,\n  A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,--\n  A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'--\n  A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,--\n  Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,--\n  Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,--\n  The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing,\n  When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming!\n\nROXANE:\n  Hush! hush!\n\nCYRANO:\n  A kiss, Madame, is honorable:\n  The Queen of France, to a most favored lord\n  Did grant a kiss--the Queen herself!\n\nROXANE:\n  What then?\n\nCYRANO (speaking more warmly):\n  Buckingham suffered dumbly,--so have I,--\n  Adored his Queen, as loyally as I,--\n  Was sad, but faithful,--so am I. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  And you\n  Are fair as Buckingham!\n\nCYRANO (aside--suddenly cooled):\n  True,--I forgot!\n\nROXANE:\n  Must I then bid thee mount to cull this flower?\n\nCYRANO (pushing Christian toward the balcony):\n  Mount!\n\nROXANE:\n  This heart-breathing!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Mount!\n\nROXANE:\n  This brush of bee's wing!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Mount!\n\nCHRISTIAN (hesitating):\n  But I feel now, as though 'twere ill done!\n\nROXANE:\n  This moment infinite!. . .\n\nCYRANO (still pushing him):\n  Come, blockhead, mount!\n\n(Christian springs forward, and by means of the bench, the branches, and the\npillars, climbs to the balcony and strides over it.)\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ah, Roxane!\n\n(He takes her in his arms, and bends over her lips.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Aie!  Strange pain that wrings my heart!\n  The kiss, love's feast, so near!  I, Lazarus,\n  Lie at the gate in darkness.  Yet to me\n  Falls still a crumb or two from the rich man's board--\n  Ay, 'tis my heart receives thee, Roxane--mine!\n  For on the lips you press you kiss as well\n  The words I spoke just now!--my words--my words!\n(The lutes play):\n  A sad air,--a gay air: the monk!\n(He begins to run as if he came from a long way off, and cries out):\n  Hola!\n\nROXANE:\n  Who is it?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I--I was but passing by. . .\n  Is Christian there?\n\nCHRISTIAN (astonished):\n  Cyrano!\n\nROXANE:\n  Good-day, cousin!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Cousin, good-day!\n\nROXANE:\n  I'm coming!\n\n(She disappears into the house.  At the back re-enter the friar.)\n\nCHRISTIAN (seeing him):\n  Back again!\n\n(He follows Roxane.)\n\n\n\n\nCyrano, Christian, Roxane, the friar, Ragueneau.\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  'Tis here,--I'm sure of it--Madame Madeleine Robin.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Why, you said Ro-LIN.\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  No, not I.\n  B,I,N,BIN!\n\nROXANE (appearing on the threshold, followed by Ragueneau, who carries a\nlantern, and Christian):\n  What is't?\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  A letter.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What?\n\nTHE FRIAR (to Roxane):\n  Oh, it can boot but a holy business!\n  'Tis from a worthy lord. . .\n\nROXANE (to Christian):\n  De Guiche!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  He dares. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh, he will not importune me forever!\n(Unsealing the letter):\n  I love you,--therefore--\n(She reads in a low voice by the aid of Ragueneau's lantern):\n  'Lady,\n  The drums beat;\n  My regiment buckles its harness on\n  And starts; but I,--they deem me gone before--\n  But I stay.  I have dared to disobey\n  Your mandate.  I am here in convent walls.\n  I come to you to-night.  By this poor monk--\n  A simple fool who knows not what he bears--\n  I send this missive to apprise your ear.\n  Your lips erewhile have smiled on me, too sweet:\n  I go not ere I've seen them once again!\n  I would be private; send each soul away,\n  Receive alone him,--whose great boldness you\n  Have deigned, I hope, to pardon, ere he asks,--\n  He who is ever your--et cetera.'\n(To the monk):\n  Father, this is the matter of the letter:--\n(All come near her, and she reads aloud):\n  'Lady,\n  The Cardinal's wish is law; albeit\n  It be to you unwelcome.  For this cause\n  I send these lines--to your fair ear addressed--\n  By a holy man, discreet, intelligent:\n  It is our will that you receive from him,\n  In your own house, the marriage\n(She turns the page):\n      benediction\n  Straightway, this night.  Unknown to all the world\n  Christian becomes your husband.  Him we send.\n  He is abhorrent to your choice.  Let be.\n  Resign yourself, and this obedience\n  Will be by Heaven well recompensed.  Receive,\n  Fair lady, all assurance of respect,\n  From him who ever was, and still remains,\n  Your humble and obliged--et cetera.'\n\nTHE FRIAR (with great delight):\n  O worthy lord!  I knew naught was to fear;\n  It could be but holy business!\n\nROXANE (to Christian, in a low voice):\n  Am I not apt at reading letters?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Hum!\n\nROXANE (aloud, with despair):\n  But this is horrible!\n\nTHE FRIAR (who has turned his lantern on Cyrano):\n  'Tis you?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  'Tis I!\n\nTHE FRIAR (turning the light on to him, and as if a doubt struck him on seeing\nhis beauty):\n  But. . .\n\nROXANE (quickly):\n  I have overlooked the postscript--see:--\n  'Give twenty pistoles for the Convent.'\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  . . .Oh!\n  Most worthy lord!\n(To Roxane):\n  Submit you?\n\nROXANE (with a martyr's look):\n  I submit!\n(While Ragueneau opens the door, and Christian invites the friar to enter, she\nwhispers to Cyrano):\n  Oh, keep De Guiche at bay!  He will be here!\n  Let him not enter till. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  I understand!\n(To the friar):\n  What time need you to tie the marriage-knot?\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  A quarter of an hour.\n\nCYRANO (pushing them all toward the house):\n  Go!  I stay.\n\nROXANE (to Christian):\n  Come!. . .\n\n(They enter.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Now, how to detain De Guiche so long?\n(He jumps on the bench, climbs to the balcony by the wall):\n  Come!. . .up I go!. . .I have my plan!. . .\n(The lutes begin to play a very sad air):\n  What, ho!\n(The tremolo grows more and more weird):\n  It is a man! ay! 'tis a man this time!\n(He is on the balcony, pulls his hat over his eyes, takes off his sword, wraps\nhimself in his cloak, then leans over):\n  'Tis not too high!\n(He strides across the balcony, and drawing to him a long branch of one of the\ntrees that are by the garden wall, he hangs on to it with both hands, ready to\nlet himself fall):\n  I'll shake this atmosphere!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "A monk comes by, looking for Roxane's house, and Cyrano misdirects him. Christian wants Roxane's kiss, climbs the balcony, and kisses her. The monk returns. He is delivering a letter from De Guiche to Roxane. De Guiche has sent his regiment on but has stayed behind himself. The letter instructs her that he is coining to see her. She tells the monk that De Guiche's letter orders that she and Christian be married immediately. She pretends that this is against her will and the monk is completely convinced. The monk, Christian, and Roxane go inside for the ceremony, while Cyrano waits outside to divert De Guiche."}, {"": "353", "document": "Ragueneau, the duenna.  Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  --And then, off she went, with a musketeer!  Deserted and ruined too, I\nwould make an end of all, and so hanged myself.  My last breath was drawn:--\nthen in comes Monsieur de Bergerac!  He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to\ntake me for her steward.\n\nTHE DUENNA:\n  Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Oh!  Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets!  What cakes there were\nthat Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars.  Thus ruin was\nnot long a-coming.\n\nTHE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window):\n  Roxane, are you ready?  They wait for us!\n\nROXANE'S VOICE (from the window):\n  I will but put me on a cloak!\n\nTHE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite):\n  They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house.  She receives them all\nthere to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender\nPassion.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  The Tender Passion?\n\nTHE DUENNA (in a mincing voice):\n  Ay, indeed!\n(Calling up to the window):\n  Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the\nTender Passion!\n\nROXANE'S VOICE:\n  I come!  I come!\n\n(A sound of stringed instruments approaching.)\n\nCYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing):\n  La, la, la, la!\n\nTHE DUENNA (surprised):\n  They serenade us?\n\nCYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes):\n  I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool!\n\nFIRST PAGE (ironically):\n  You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi-\nquavers?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician?\n\nTHE PAGE (playing and singing):\n  La, la!\n\nCYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase):\n  In proof of which, I can continue!  La, la, la, la!\n\nROXANE (appearing on the balcony):\n  What?  'Tis you?\n\nCYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it):\n  'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o-\noses!\n\nROXANE:\n  I am coming down!\n\n(She leaves the balcony.)\n\nTHE DUENNA (pointing to the pages):\n  How come these two virtuosi here?\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy.  We were disputing a nice point in\ngrammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!'  'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly\nhe shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort,\nand who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws!  'I\nwill wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it!  Thus, see you, till\nPhoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels,\nseeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody.  'Twas\npleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already!\n(To the musicians):\n  Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me!  Play a dance to him!\n(The pages go toward the door.  To the duenna):\n  I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . .\n(To the pages, who are going out):\n  Play a long time,--and play out of tune!\n(To the duenna):\n  . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless!\n\nROXANE (coming out of the house):\n  Ah!  How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit!  And--how well I love him!\n\nCYRANO (smiling):\n  Christian has so brilliant a wit?\n\nROXANE:\n  Brighter than even your own, cousin!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Be it so, with all my heart!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth\nskilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much--\nthat mean all!  At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and\nthen, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly!\n\nCYRANO (incredulously):\n  No, no!\n\nROXANE:\n  Fie!  That is ill said!  But lo! men are ever thus!  Because he is fair to\nsee, you would have it that he must be dull of speech.\n\nCYRANO:\n  He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love?\n\nROXANE:\n  In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis\nanalysis!\n\nCYRANO:\n  How is he with the pen?\n\nROXANE:\n  Still better!  Listen,--here:--\n(Reciting):\n  'The more of my poor heart you take\n    The larger grows my heart!'\n(Triumphantly to Cyrano):\n  How like you those lines?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Pooh!\n\nROXANE:\n  And thus it goes on. . .\n  'And, since some target I must show\n    For Cupid's cruel dart,\n  Oh, if mine own you deign to keep,\n    Then give me your sweet heart!'\n\nCYRANO:\n  Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough!  How much heart does the\nfellow want?\n\nROXANE:\n  You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy.\n\nCYRANO (starting):\n  What mean you?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, your poet's jealousy!  Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?--\n  'My heart to yours sounds but one cry:\n    If kisses fast could flee\n  By letter, then with your sweet lips\n    My letters read should be!\n  If kisses could be writ with ink,\n    If kisses fast could flee!'\n\nCYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself):\n  Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . .\n(Correcting himself--contemptuously):\n  --They are paltry enough!\n\nROXANE:\n  And this. . .\n\nCYRANO (enchanted):\n  Then you have his letters by heart?\n\nROXANE:\n  Every one of them!\n\nCYRANO:\n  By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering!\n\nROXANE:\n  They are the lines of a master!\n\nCYRANO (modestly):\n  Come, nay. . .a master?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, I say it--a master!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Good--be it so.\n\nTHE DUENNA (coming down quickly):\n  Here comes Monsieur de Guiche!\n(To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house):\n  In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the\nscent. . .\n\nROXANE (to Cyrano):\n  Ay, of my own dear secret!  He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew,\nthen all were lost!  Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love!\n\nCYRANO (entering the house):\n  Good! good!\n\n(De Guiche appears.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Roxane and the duenna return. Roxane and Christian sit outdoors, and Roxane asks Christian to tell her how he loves her. He tries, but all he can say is \"I love you,\" \"I adore you,\" \"I love you very much,\" and other simple variations. Angry, Roxane goes into the house. Cyrano returns, ironically congratulating Christian on his great success"}, {"": "354", "document": "\n\nWe had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance spectres seemed to\nrise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be\nafraid of one's native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I\nhastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and\nimproving at her school; but Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been\nleft at a good place to learn a trade, and for several months every thing\nworked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favorite with his\nfellow-apprentices; but one day they accidentally discovered a fact they\nhad never before suspected--that he was colored! This at once transformed\nhim into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans, others\nAmerican-born Irish; and it was offensive to their dignity to have a\n\"nigger\" among them, after they had been told that he _was_ a \"nigger.\"\nThey began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned\nthe same, they resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to\nstand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support\nhimself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a whaling voyage.\nWhen I received these tidings I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached\nmyself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now\nall I could do was to pray to the heavenly Father to guide and protect him.\n\nNot long after my return, I received the following letter from Miss Emily\nFlint, now Mrs. Dodge:--\n\n   In this you will recognize the hand of your friend and mistress.\n   Having heard that you had gone with a family to Europe, I have\n   waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have\n   answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could\n   not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be\n   nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who\n   were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this\n   I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and\n   would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind\n   treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband\n   expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of\n   settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with\n   me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself;\n   but I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you\n   may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and\n   friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Think this over,\n   and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion.\n   Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and\n   mistress.\n\nOf course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I\nfelt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions.\n\n   \"Come up into my parlor,\" said the spider to the fly;\n   \"Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.\"\n\nIt was plain that Dr. Flint's family were apprised of my movements, since\nthey knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from\nthem; but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in\nfuture. The money I had earned, I was desirous to devote to the education\nof my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but\nunjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of\nproperty. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that\ntime had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts in food\nand clothing. My children certainly belonged to me; but though Dr. Flint\nhad incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of\nmoney for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and\nwould probably still give his daughter a claim to my children; but I\nregarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I\nwas bound to respect.\n\nThe Fugitive Slave Law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had\nnot then stooped under chains to enter her courts of justice, so called. I\nknew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her\nlove of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honored\nthe old Commonwealth beyond her deserts.\n\n\n", "summary": "Dr. Flint's recently married daughter writes Linda, asking her to come back to the South. Or, if Linda would rather, she can buy herself. As long as she just comes back. Linda doesn't respond because she's not stupid enough to fall for that trick, and even if she could buy herself free, it's totally ridiculous that she would have to spend her hard-earned money on that rather than paying for her children's education and future."}, {"": "355", "document": "THE GREAT PETER STREET SHELTER\n\n\n\nWESTMINSTER\n\nThis fine building is the most up-to-date Men's Shelter that the\nSalvation Army possesses in London. It was once the billiard works of\nMessrs. Burroughes and Watts, and is situated in Westminster, quite\nnear to the Houses of Parliament. I visited it about eight o'clock in\nthe evening, and at its entrance was confronted with the word 'Full,'\ninscribed in chalk upon its portals, at which poor tramps, deprived of\ntheir hope of a night's lodging, were staring disconsolately. It\nreminded me of a playhouse upon a first-night of importance, but,\nalas! the actors here play in a tragedy more dreadful in its\ncumulative effect than any that was ever put upon the stage.\n\nThis Shelter is wonderfully equipped and organized. It contains\nsitting or resting-rooms, smoking-rooms, huge dormitories capable of\naccommodating about 600 sleepers; bathrooms, lavatories, extensive\nhot-water and warming apparatus, great kitchens, and butteries, and so\nforth. In the sitting and smoking-rooms, numbers of derelict men were\nseated. Some did nothing except stare before them vacantly. Some\nevidently were suffering from the effects of drink or fatigue; some\nwere reading newspapers which they had picked up in the course of\ntheir day's tramp. One, I remember, was engaged in sorting out and\ncrumpling up a number of cigar and cigarette ends which he had\ncollected from the pavements, carefully grading the results in\ndifferent heaps, according to the class of the tobacco (how strong it\nmust be!) either for his own consumption or for sale to other\nunfortunates. In another place, men were eating the 1d. or 1/2d.\nsuppers that they had purchased.\n\nEarly as it was, however, the great dormitories were crowded with\nhundreds of the lodgers, either in bed or in process of getting there.\nI noticed that they all undressed themselves, wrapping up their rags\nin bundles, and, for the most part slept quite naked. Many of them\nstruck me as very fine fellows physically, and the reflection crossed\nmy mind, seeing them thus _in puris naturalibus_, that there was\nlittle indeed to distinguish them from a crowd of males of the upper\nclass engaged, let us say, in bathing. It is the clothes that make the\ndifference to the eye.\n\nIn this Shelter I was told, by the way, that there exists a code of\nrough honour among these people, who very rarely attempt to steal\nanything from each other. Having so little property, they sternly\nrespect its rights. I should add that the charge made for\naccommodation and food is 3d. per night for sleeping, and 1d. or 1/2d.\nper portion of food.\n\nThe sight of this Institution crowded with human derelicts struck me\nas most sad, more so indeed than many others that I have seen, though,\nperhaps, this may have been because I was myself tired out with a long\nday of inspection.\n\nThe Staff-Captain in charge here told me his history, which is so\ntypical and interesting that I will repeat it briefly. Many years ago\n(he is now an elderly man) he was a steward on board a P. and O.\nliner, and doing well. Then a terrible misfortune overwhelmed him.\nSuddenly his wife and child died, and, as a result of the shock, he\ntook to drink. He attempted to cut his throat (the scar remains to\nhim), and was put upon his trial for the offence. Subsequently he\ndrifted on to the streets, where he spent eight years. During all this\ntime his object was to be rid of life, the methods he adopted being to\nmake himself drunk with methylated spirits, or any other villainous\nand fiery liquor, and when that failed, to sleep at night in wet grass\nor ditches. Once he was picked up suffering from inflammation of the\nlungs and carried to an infirmary, where he lay senseless for three\ndays. The end of it was that a Salvation Army Officer found him in\nOxford Street, and took him to a Shelter in Burne Street, where he was\nbathed and put to bed.\n\nThat was many years ago, and now he is to a great extent responsible\nfor the management of this Westminster Refuge. Commissioner Sturgess,\none of the head Officers of the Army, told me that their great\ndifficulty was to prevent him from overdoing himself at this\ncharitable task. I think the Commissioner said that sometimes he would\nwork eighteen or twenty hours out of the twenty-four.\n\nOne day this Staff-Captain played a grim little trick upon me. I was\nseated at luncheon in a Salvation Army building, when the door opened,\nand there entered as dreadful a human object as I have ever seen. The\nman was clad in tatters, his bleeding feet were bound up with filthy\nrags; he wore a dingy newspaper for a shirt. His face was cut and\nplastered over roughly; he was a disgusting sight. He told me, in\nhusky accents, that drink had brought him down, and that he wanted\nhelp. I made a few appropriate remarks, presented him with a small\ncoin, and sent him to the Officers downstairs.\n\nA quarter of an hour later the Staff-Captain appeared in his uniform\nand explained that he and the 'object' were the same person. Again it\nwas the clothes that made the difference. Those which he had worn when\nhe appeared at the luncheon-table were the same in which he had been\npicked up on the streets of London. Also he thanked me for my good\nadvice which he said he hoped to follow, and for the sixpence that he\nannounced his intention of wearing on his watch-chain. For my part I\nfelt that the laugh was against me. Perhaps if I had thought the\nSalvation Army capable of perpetrating a joke, I should not have been\nso easily deceived.\n\nThis Staff-Captain gave me much information as to the class of\nwanderers who frequent these Shelters, He estimated that about 50 per\ncent of them sink to that level through the effects of drink. That is\nto say, if by the waving of some magic wand intoxicants and harmful\ndrugs should cease to be obtainable in this country, the bulk of\nextreme misery which needs such succour, and it may be added of crime\nat large, would be lessened by one-half. This is a terrible statement,\nand one that seems to excuse a great deal of what is called 'teetotal\nfanaticism.' The rest, in his view, owe their fall to misfortune of\nvarious kinds, which often in its turn leads to flight to the delusive\nand destroying solace of drink. Thus about 25 per cent of the total\nhave been afflicted with sickness or acute domestic troubles. Or\nperhaps they are 'knocked out' by shock, such as is brought on by the\nloss of a dearly-loved wife or child, and have never been able to\nrecover from that crushing blow. The remainder are the victims of\nadvancing age and of the cruel commercial competition of our day. Thus\nhe said that the large business firms destroy and devour the small\nshopkeepers, as a hawk devours sparrows; and these little people or\ntheir employes, if they are past middle age, can find no other work.\nEspecially is this the case since the Employers' Liability Acts came\ninto operation, for now few will take on hands who are not young and\nvery strong, as older folk must naturally be more liable to sickness\nand accident.\n\nAgain, he told me that it has become the custom in large businesses of\nwhich the dividends are falling, to put in a man called an\n'Organizer,' who is often an American.\n\nThis Organizer goes through the whole staff and mercilessly dismisses\nthe elderly or the least efficient, dividing up their work among those\nwho remain. So these discarded men fall to rise no more and drift to\nthe poorhouse or the Shelters or the jails, and finally into the river\nor a pauper's grave. First, however, many spend what may be called a\nperiod of probation on the streets, where they sleep at night under\narches or on stairways, or on the inhospitable flagstones and benches\nof the Embankment, even in winter.\n\nThe Staff-Captain informed me that on one night during the previous\nNovember he counted no less than 120 men, women, and children sleeping\nin the wet on or in the neighbourhood of the Embankment. Think of\nit--in this one place! Think of it, you whose women and children, to\nsay nothing of yourselves, do not sleep on the Embankment in the wet\nin November. It may be answered that they might have gone to the\ncasual ward, where there are generally vacancies. I suppose that they\nmight, but so perverse are many of them that they do not. Indeed,\noften they declare bluntly that they would rather go to prison than to\nthe casual ward, as in prison they are more kindly treated.\n\nThe reader may have noted as he drove along the Embankment or other\nLondon thoroughfares at night in winter, long queues of people waiting\ntheir turn to get something. What they are waiting for is a cup of\nsoup and, perhaps, an opportunity of sheltering till the dawn, which\nsoup and shelter are supplied by the Salvation Army, and sometimes by\nother charitable Organizations. I asked whether this provision of\ngratis food did in fact pauperize the population, as has been alleged.\nThe Staff-Captain answered that men do not as a rule stop out in the\nmiddle of the winter till past midnight to get a pint of soup and a\npiece of bread. Of course, there might be exceptions; but for the most\npart those who take this charity, do so because if is sorely needed.\n\nThe cost of these midnight meals is reckoned by the Salvation Army at\nabout L8 per 1,000, including the labour involved in cooking and\ndistribution. This money is paid from the Army's Central Fund, which\ncollects subscriptions for that special purpose.\n\n'Of course, our midnight soup has its critics,' said one of the\nOfficers who has charge of its distribution; 'but all I know is that\nit saves many from jumping into the river.'\n\nDuring the past winter, that is from November 3, 1909, to March 24,\n1910, 163,101 persons received free accommodation and food at the\nhands of the Salvation Army in connexion with its Embankment Soup\nDistribution Charity.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Rivers meets with Anderson, a former surgeon in the war who is now a patient at Craiglockhart. Anderson tells Rivers about one of his dreams, in which his father-in-law waved a snake at him and he was tied down with corsets. He offers that this dream might mean that he considers the hospital an emasculating experience. Anderson's breakdown occurred when he was treating a French soldier who had escaped from the German lines; he treated the soldier's minor wounds but missed the major one, and he watched as the man bled to death on the table. Days later, Anderson broke down and collapsed on the floor in a pool of his own urine. Since then, he has been having horrible nightmares that keep him and his entire floor awake during the night. Anderson now has a disinclination for the practice of medicine, although he realizes that when he returns home, he must practice medicine to support his family. Sassoon and Graves go swimming in the pool. Sassoon has a wound in his shoulder and Graves has a wound in his thigh. Sassoon reflects on how lucky he is when he thinks of the boy in the bed next to him in the military hospital who had a horrible \"hole between the legs. With no privacy in the hospital, all the patients had to watch his dressings be changed every day. Later that afternoon, Sassoon meets with Rivers for their scheduled session. He explains that he never meant he really wanted to kill Lloyd George  as Graves implied; that comment was merely for rhetorical effect. Sassoon tells Rivers that both his brother and father are dead. He never knew his father well, as he left home when Sassoon was five, and died when he was eight. Sassoon never went to the funeral, though he was told that it was Jewish, and foreign to him. Sassoon was educated at Marlborough and Cambridge, but he never felt able to catch up on his education. Most importantly, Rivers discovers from this session that Sassoon is extremely uncomfortable being safe and out of danger. He feels contempt for those who live in safety while others fight for them. That night, Burns looks outside the window. It is pouring rain, but he feels the need to go out, so he puts on his coat and boards a bus heading away from the city. He rides as far into the Scottish countryside as the bus will take him, uncertain of where to go. He stumbles along a field and comes across a tree that feels slimy. When he looks up, he sees that dead animals are hanging from all the branches. He starts to run, but then he turns around to face his fear. One by one, he unties the animals and arranges them in a circle around the tree. Then he removes his clothes and lies down naked in the middle of the circle. He feels that, despite the rain and the cold, this is the right place. Later, he returns to the hospital to the patience and comfort of Dr. Rivers."}, {"": "356", "document": "AWAKENING\n\n\nWhen Siddhartha left the grove, where the Buddha, the perfected one,\nstayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt that in this\ngrove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him.  He pondered\nabout this sensation, which filled him completely, as he was slowly\nwalking along.  He pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water he\nlet himself sink down to the ground of the sensation, down to the place\nwhere the causes lie, because to identify the causes, so it seemed to\nhim, is the very essence of thinking, and by this alone sensations turn\ninto realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start to\nemit like rays of light what is inside of them.\n\nSlowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered.  He realized that he was no\nyouth any more, but had turned into a man.  He realized that one thing\nhad left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that one thing no\nlonger existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youth\nand used to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen to\nteachings.  He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on his\npath, even him, the highest and wisest teacher, the most holy one,\nBuddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was not able to accept\nhis teachings.\n\nSlower, he walked along in his thoughts and asked himself:  \"But what\nis this, what you have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers,\nand what they, who have taught you much, were still unable to teach\nyou?\"  And he found:  \"It was the self, the purpose and essence of which\nI sought to learn.  It was the self, I wanted to free myself from, which\nI sought to overcome.  But I was not able to overcome it, could only\ndeceive it, could only flee from it, only hide from it.  Truly, no\nthing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy, as this my very own\nself, this mystery of me being alive, of me being one and being\nseparated and isolated from all others, of me being Siddhartha!  And\nthere is no thing in this world I know less about than about me, about\nSiddhartha!\"\n\nHaving been pondering while slowly walking along, he now stopped as\nthese thoughts caught hold of him, and right away another thought sprang\nforth from these, a new thought, which was:  \"That I know nothing about\nmyself, that Siddhartha has remained thus alien and unknown to me, stems\nfrom one cause, a single cause:  I was afraid of myself, I was fleeing\nfrom myself!  I searched Atman, I searched Brahman, I was willing to\ndissect my self and peel off all of its layers, to find the core of\nall peels in its unknown interior, the Atman, life, the divine part, the\nultimate part.  But I have lost myself in the process.\"\n\nSiddhartha opened his eyes and looked around, a smile filled his face\nand a feeling of awakening from long dreams flowed through him from his\nhead down to his toes.  And it was not long before he walked again,\nwalked quickly like a man who knows what he has got to do.\n\n\"Oh,\" he thought, taking a deep breath, \"now I would not let Siddhartha\nescape from me again!  No longer, I want to begin my thoughts and my\nlife with Atman and with the suffering of the world.  I do not want to\nkill and dissect myself any longer, to find a secret behind the ruins.\nNeither Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva-Veda, nor the\nascetics, nor any kind of teachings.  I want to learn from myself, want\nto be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha.\"\n\nHe looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time.\nBeautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious\nwas the world!  Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky\nand the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it\nwas beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was\nhe, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself.  All of this,\nall this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the\nfirst time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no\nlonger the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental\ndiversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman,\nwho scorns diversity, who seeks unity.  Blue was blue, river was river,\nand if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and\ndivine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and\npurpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here\nSiddhartha.  The purpose and the essential properties were not somewhere\nbehind the things, they were in them, in everything.\n\n\"How deaf and stupid have I been!\" he thought, walking swiftly along.\n\"When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not\nscorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence,\nand worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them,\nletter by letter.  But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and\nthe book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had\nanticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters, I called the\nvisible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental\nand worthless forms without substance.  No, this is over, I have\nawakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this\nvery day.\"\n\nIn thinking these thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as\nif there was a snake lying in front of him on the path.\n\nBecause suddenly, he had also become aware of this:  He, who was indeed\nlike someone who had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had to\nstart his life anew and start again at the very beginning.  When he had\nleft in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that\nexalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself,\nhe had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, that\nhe, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father.\nBut now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on\nhis path, he also awoke to this realization:  \"But I am no longer the\none I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no\nBrahman any more.  Whatever should I do at home and at my father's\nplace?  Study?  Make offerings?  Practise meditation?  But all this is\nover, all of this is no longer alongside my path.\"\n\nMotionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of\none moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest,\nas a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he\nwas.  For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing.\nNow, he felt it.  Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been\nhis father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric.  Now,\nhe was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left.\nDeeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered.\nNobody was thus alone as he was.  There was no nobleman who did not\nbelong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers,\nand found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language.\nNo Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them,\nno ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas,\nand even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and\nalone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to, he also\nbelonged to a caste, in which he was at home.  Govinda had become a\nmonk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he,\nbelieved in his faith, spoke his language.  But he, Siddhartha, where\ndid he belong to?  With whom would he share his life?  Whose language\nwould he speak?\n\nOut of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he\nstood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and\ndespair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly\nconcentrated.  He felt:  This had been the last tremor of the awakening,\nthe last struggle of this birth.  And it was not long until he walked\nagain in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently,\nheading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "As he walks away from Govinda, Siddhartha realizes that he is embarking on a new stage of life. He has walked away from all his teachers, even Buddha, because they cannot teach the nature of the self. Siddhartha decides to learn from himself alone. As he walks, Siddhartha sees his surroundings as real and beautiful, rather than an illusion that causes suffering. For the first time, Siddhartha is experiencing the world on its own terms, rather than scorning what it has to teach him. This is his awakening. Siddhartha decides he has to start anew on his quest for enlightenment. Concurrent to this decision is the realization that he is completely alone. He has left his father, he has left the Samanas, and he has left Govinda with the Yellow-Robed Men. He can no longer define himself in relation to other men because he has no community."}, {"": "357", "document": "SCENE VI.\nNear the camp of COMINIUS\n\nEnter COMINIUS, as it were in retire, with soldiers\n\n  COMINIUS. Breathe you, my friends. Well fought; we are come off\n    Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands\n    Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs,\n    We shall be charg'd again. Whiles we have struck,\n    By interims and conveying gusts we have heard\n    The charges of our friends. The Roman gods,\n    Lead their successes as we wish our own,\n    That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount'ring,\n    May give you thankful sacrifice!\n\n                         Enter A MESSENGER\n\n    Thy news?\n  MESSENGER. The citizens of Corioli have issued\n    And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle;\n    I saw our party to their trenches driven,\n    And then I came away.\n  COMINIUS. Though thou speak'st truth,\n    Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is't since?\n  MESSENGER. Above an hour, my lord.\n  COMINIUS. 'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums.\n    How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,\n    And bring thy news so late?\n  MESSENGER. Spies of the Volsces\n    Held me in chase, that I was forc'd to wheel\n    Three or four miles about; else had I, sir,\n    Half an hour since brought my report.\n\n                           Enter MARCIUS\n\n  COMINIUS. Who's yonder\n    That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods!\n    He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have\n    Before-time seen him thus.\n  MARCIUS. Come I too late?\n  COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor\n    More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue\n    From every meaner man.\n  MARCIUS. Come I too late?\n  COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others,\n    But mantled in your own.\n  MARCIUS. O! let me clip ye\n    In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart\n    As merry as when our nuptial day was done,\n    And tapers burn'd to bedward.\n  COMINIUS. Flower of warriors,\n    How is't with Titus Lartius?\n  MARCIUS. As with a man busied about decrees:\n    Condemning some to death and some to exile;\n    Ransoming him or pitying, threat'ning th' other;\n    Holding Corioli in the name of Rome\n    Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash,\n    To let him slip at will.\n  COMINIUS. Where is that slave\n    Which told me they had beat you to your trenches?\n    Where is he? Call him hither.\n  MARCIUS. Let him alone;\n    He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen,\n    The common file- a plague! tribunes for them!\n    The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge\n    From rascals worse than they.\n  COMINIUS. But how prevail'd you?\n  MARCIUS. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think.\n    Where is the enemy? Are you lords o' th' field?\n    If not, why cease you till you are so?\n  COMINIUS. Marcius,\n    We have at disadvantage fought, and did\n    Retire to win our purpose.\n  MARCIUS. How lies their battle? Know you on which side\n    They have plac'd their men of trust?\n  COMINIUS. As I guess, Marcius,\n    Their bands i' th' vaward are the Antiates,\n    Of their best trust; o'er them Aufidius,\n    Their very heart of hope.\n  MARCIUS. I do beseech you,\n    By all the battles wherein we have fought,\n    By th' blood we have shed together, by th' vows\n    We have made to endure friends, that you directly\n    Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates;\n    And that you not delay the present, but,\n    Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts,\n    We prove this very hour.\n  COMINIUS. Though I could wish\n    You were conducted to a gentle bath\n    And balms applied to you, yet dare I never\n    Deny your asking: take your choice of those\n    That best can aid your action.\n  MARCIUS. Those are they\n    That most are willing. If any such be here-\n    As it were sin to doubt- that love this painting\n    Wherein you see me smear'd; if any fear\n    Lesser his person than an ill report;\n    If any think brave death outweighs bad life\n    And that his country's dearer than himself;\n    Let him alone, or so many so minded,\n    Wave thus to express his disposition,\n    And follow Marcius.           [They all shout and wave their\n\n       swords, take him up in their arms and cast up their caps]\n    O, me alone! Make you a sword of me?\n    If these shows be not outward, which of you\n    But is four Volsces? None of you but is\n    Able to bear against the great Aufidius\n    A shield as hard as his. A certain number,\n    Though thanks to all, must I select from all; the rest\n    Shall bear the business in some other fight,\n    As cause will be obey'd. Please you to march;\n    And four shall quickly draw out my command,\n    Which men are best inclin'd.\n  COMINIUS. March on, my fellows;\n    Make good this ostentation, and you shall\n    Divide in all with us.                                Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cominius leads his men in a tactical retreat back to their camp. Caius Martius arrives, and the two men embrace. Caius Martius reports that Titus Lartius is holding Corioli for Rome. He also complains to Cominius about the cowardice of the Roman soldiers. He asks Cominius to send him to fight Aufidius in the battlefield. Cominius agrees, and gives Caius Martius his choice of men to accompany him. In a rousing speech, Caius Martius rallies the men, who cheer him and eagerly follow him to seek Aufidius"}, {"": "358", "document": "SCENE 3.\n\n                      The plains near Rouen\n\n        Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD, ALENCON, LA PUCELLE,\n                          and forces\n\n  PUCELLE. Dismay not, Princes, at this accident,\n    Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered.\n    Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,\n    For things that are not to be remedied.\n    Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while\n    And like a peacock sweep along his tail;\n    We'll pull his plumes and take away his train,\n    If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul'd.\n  CHARLES. We have guided by thee hitherto,\n    And of thy cunning had no diffidence;\n    One sudden foil shall never breed distrust\n  BASTARD. Search out thy wit for secret policies,\n    And we will make thee famous through the world.\n    ALENCON. We'll set thy statue in some holy place,\n    And have thee reverenc'd like a blessed saint.\n    Employ thee, then, sweet virgin, for our good.\n  PUCELLE. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise:\n    By fair persuasions, mix'd with sug'red words,\n    We will entice the Duke of Burgundy\n    To leave the Talbot and to follow us.\n  CHARLES. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,\n    France were no place for Henry's warriors;\n    Nor should that nation boast it so with us,\n    But be extirped from our provinces.\n  ALENCON. For ever should they be expuls'd from France,\n    And not have tide of an earldom here.\n  PUCELLE. Your honours shall perceive how I will work\n    To bring this matter to the wished end.\n                                          [Drum sounds afar off]\n    Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive\n    Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward.\n\n          Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over\n                at a distance, TALBOT and his forces\n\n    There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread,\n    And all the troops of English after him.\n\n            French march. Enter the DUKE OF BURGUNDY and\n                         his forces\n\n    Now in the rearward comes the Duke and his.\n    Fortune in favour makes him lag behind.\n    Summon a parley; we will talk with him.\n                                       [Trumpets sound a parley]\n  CHARLES. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!\n  BURGUNDY. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy?\n  PUCELLE. The princely Charles of France, thy countryman.\n  BURGUNDY. What say'st thou, Charles? for I am marching\n    hence.\n  CHARLES. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words.\n  PUCELLE. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France!\n    Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.\n  BURGUNDY. Speak on; but be not over-tedious.\n  PUCELLE. Look on thy country, look on fertile France,\n    And see the cities and the towns defac'd\n    By wasting ruin of the cruel foe;\n    As looks the mother on her lowly babe\n    When death doth close his tender dying eyes,\n    See, see the pining malady of France;\n    Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,\n    Which thou thyself hast given her woeful breast.\n    O, turn thy edged sword another way;\n    Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help!\n    One drop of blood drawn from thy country's bosom\n    Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore.\n    Return thee therefore with a flood of tears,\n    And wash away thy country's stained spots.\n  BURGUNDY. Either she hath bewitch'd me with her words,\n    Or nature makes me suddenly relent.\n  PUCELLE. Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee,\n    Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny.\n    Who join'st thou with but with a lordly nation\n    That will not trust thee but for profit's sake?\n    When Talbot hath set footing once in France,\n    And fashion'd thee that instrument of ill,\n    Who then but English Henry will be lord,\n    And thou be thrust out like a fugitive?\n    Call we to mind-and mark but this for proof:\n    Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe?\n    And was he not in England prisoner?\n    But when they heard he was thine enemy\n    They set him free without his ransom paid,\n    In spite of Burgundy and all his friends.\n    See then, thou fight'st against thy countrymen,\n    And join'st with them will be thy slaughtermen.\n    Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord;\n    Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.\n  BURGUNDY. I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers\n    Have batt'red me like roaring cannon-shot\n    And made me almost yield upon my knees.\n    Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen\n    And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace.\n    My forces and my power of men are yours;\n    So, farewell, Talbot; I'll no longer trust thee.\n  PUCELLE. Done like a Frenchman-  [Aside]  turn and turn\n    again.\n  CHARLES. Welcome, brave Duke! Thy friendship makes us\n    fresh.\n  BASTARD. And doth beget new courage in our breasts.\n  ALENCON. Pucelle hath bravely play'd her part in this,\n    And doth deserve a coronet of gold.\n  CHARLES. Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers,\n    And seek how we may prejudice the foe.                Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "When the next scene opens, Joan is telling the French nobles that it's really not so bad--she says if they'll just listen to her, she'll straighten it all out. Charles says one small setback won't keep him from trusting Joan, and the others agree; Alencon even says they'll honor her like a saint. Joan unfolds her plan. More spy stuff going down. She thinks they can convince Burgundy to come over to their side, with a little persuasion and some \"sugared words\" . Everyone agrees that the plan is a good one. Joan says you can hear the English drums as they march toward Paris. The Duke of Burgundy is in the back, so they can talk to him alone. They manage to get an audience with Burgundy. He seems skeptical at first, but Joan gives a pretty awesome speech about how he has wounded France by helping the English. She begs him to turn his sword against the invading English and protect his country. Burgundy is impressed. He can't tell if Joan is bewitching him with words, or if by nature he should be supporting France and he is now just coming to realize it. Joan presses her advantage. She says when English Henry is lord of France, they'll shove Burgundy out of power--England has recently failed to do what Burgundy wants, and it will hardly get better when the English have more power. She welcomes Burgundy back and pleads with him to return to the French side. Burgundy says her words have battered him like shots from a cannon, and he can't hold out against them. He'll come back to the French side. The French have a big group hug to celebrate. The others welcome him back and Alencon praises Joan for getting Burgundy to change sides. According to Alencon, Joan deserves a coronet of gold. Charles encourages them all to battle."}, {"": "359", "document": "SCENE V\n\n  TARTUFFE, ELMIRE; ORGON (under the table)\n\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  They told me that you wished to see me here.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Yes. I have secrets for your ear alone.\n  But shut the door first, and look everywhere\n  For fear of spies.\n\n  (Tartuffe goes and closes the door, and comes back.)\n  We surely can't afford\n  Another scene like that we had just now;\n  Was ever anyone so caught before!\n  Damis did frighten me most terribly\n  On your account; you saw I did my best\n  To baffle his design, and calm his anger.\n  But I was so confused, I never thought\n  To contradict his story; still, thank Heaven,\n  Things turned out all the better, as it happened,\n  And now we're on an even safer footing.\n  The high esteem you're held in, laid the storm;\n  My husband can have no suspicion of you,\n  And even insists, to spite the scandal-mongers,\n  That we shall be together constantly;\n  So that is how, without the risk of blame,\n  I can be here locked up with you alone,\n  And can reveal to you my heart, perhaps\n  Only too ready to allow your passion.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Your words are somewhat hard to understand,\n  Madam; just now you used a different style.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  If that refusal has offended you,\n  How little do you know a woman's heart!\n  How ill you guess what it would have you know,\n  When it presents so feeble a defence!\n  Always, at first, our modesty resists\n  The tender feelings you inspire us with.\n  Whatever cause we find to justify\n  The love that masters us, we still must feel\n  Some little shame in owning it; and strive\n  To make as though we would not, when we would.\n  But from the very way we go about it\n  We let a lover know our heart surrenders,\n  The while our lips, for honour's sake, oppose\n  Our heart's desire, and in refusing promise.\n  I'm telling you my secret all too freely\n  And with too little heed to modesty.\n  But--now that I've made bold to speak--pray tell me.\n  Should I have tried to keep Damis from speaking,\n  Should I have heard the offer of your heart\n  So quietly, and suffered all your pleading,\n  And taken it just as I did--remember--\n  If such a declaration had not pleased me,\n  And, when I tried my utmost to persuade you\n  Not to accept the marriage that was talked of,\n  What should my earnestness have hinted to you\n  If not the interest that you've inspired,\n  And my chagrin, should such a match compel me\n  To share a heart I want all to myself?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  'Tis, past a doubt, the height of happiness,\n  To hear such words from lips we dote upon;\n  Their honeyed sweetness pours through all my senses\n  Long draughts of suavity ineffable.\n  My heart employs its utmost zeal to please you,\n  And counts your love its one beatitude;\n  And yet that heart must beg that you allow it\n  To doubt a little its felicity.\n  I well might think these words an honest trick\n  To make me break off this approaching marriage;\n  And if I may express myself quite plainly,\n  I cannot trust these too enchanting words\n  Until the granting of some little favour\n  I sigh for, shall assure me of their truth\n  And build within my soul, on firm foundations,\n  A lasting faith in your sweet charity.\n\n  ELMIRE (coughing to draw her husband's attention)\n  What! Must you go so fast?--and all at once\n  Exhaust the whole love of a woman's heart?\n  She does herself the violence to make\n  This dear confession of her love, and you\n  Are not yet satisfied, and will not be\n  Without the granting of her utmost favours?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  The less a blessing is deserved, the less\n  We dare to hope for it; and words alone\n  Can ill assuage our love's desires. A fate\n  Too full of happiness, seems doubtful still;\n  We must enjoy it ere we can believe it.\n  And I, who know how little I deserve\n  Your goodness, doubt the fortunes of my daring;\n  So I shall trust to nothing, madam, till\n  You have convinced my love by something real.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Ah! How your love enacts the tyrant's role,\n  And throws my mind into a strange confusion!\n  With what fierce sway it rules a conquered heart,\n  And violently will have its wishes granted!\n  What! Is there no escape from your pursuit?\n  No respite even?--not a breathing space?\n  Nay, is it decent to be so exacting,\n  And so abuse by urgency the weakness\n  You may discover in a woman's heart?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  But if my worship wins your gracious favour,\n  Then why refuse me some sure proof thereof?\n\n  ELMIRE\n  But how can I consent to what you wish,\n  Without offending Heaven you talk so much of?\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  If Heaven is all that stands now in my way,\n  I'll easily remove that little hindrance;\n  Your heart need not hold back for such a trifle.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  But they affright us so with Heaven's commands!\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  I can dispel these foolish fears, dear madam;\n  I know the art of pacifying scruples\n  Heaven forbids, 'tis true, some satisfactions;\n  But we find means to make things right with Heaven.\n\n  ('Tis a scoundrel speaking.) [5]\n\n  [Footnote 5: Moliere's note, in the original edition.]\n\n  There is a science, madam, that instructs us\n  How to enlarge the limits of our conscience\n  According to our various occasions,\n  And rectify the evil of the deed\n  According to our purity of motive.\n  I'll duly teach you all these secrets, madam;\n  You only need to let yourself be guided.\n  Content my wishes, have no fear at all;\n  I answer for't, and take the sin upon me.\n\n  (Elmire coughs still louder.)\n  Your cough is very bad.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Yes, I'm in torture.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Would you accept this bit of licorice?\n\n  ELMIRE\n  The case is obstinate, I find; and all\n  The licorice in the world will do no good.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  'Tis very trying.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  More than words can say.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  In any case, your scruple's easily\n  Removed. With me you're sure of secrecy,\n  And there's no harm unless a thing is known.\n  The public scandal is what brings offence,\n  And secret sinning is not sin at all.\n\n  ELMIRE (after coughing again)\n  So then, I see I must resolve to yield;\n  I must consent to grant you everything,\n  And cannot hope to give full satisfaction\n  Or win full confidence, at lesser cost.\n  No doubt 'tis very hard to come to this;\n  'Tis quite against my will I go so far;\n  But since I must be forced to it, since nothing\n  That can be said suffices for belief,\n  Since more convincing proof is still demanded,\n  I must make up my mind to humour people.\n  If my consent give reason for offence,\n  So much the worse for him who forced me to it;\n  The fault can surely not be counted mine.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  It need not, madam; and the thing itself ...\n\n  ELMIRE\n  Open the door, I pray you, and just see\n  Whether my husband's not there, in the hall.\n\n  TARTUFFE\n  Why take such care for him? Between ourselves,\n  He is a man to lead round by the nose.\n  He's capable of glorying in our meetings;\n  I've fooled him so, he'd see all, and deny it.\n\n  ELMIRE\n  No matter; go, I beg you, look about,\n  And carefully examine every corner.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Tartuffe strolls into the room. Elmire gets right to the point...but not before telling Tartuffe to close the door and \"look about for spies\" . He apparently doesn't look very well, as he fails to find Orgon. Elmire tells Tartuffe that she only acted the way she did earlier in the day because she was caught off guard. Now that everything has blown over, she tells him, they can get busy without fear of interference. Tartuffe is justifiably confused by this turn of events. Elmire tells him to chill out. If he didn't see what was going on, it's only because he doesn't understand what women want. Women, according to Elmire always act coy; even when they say no, or perhaps especially when they say no, they really mean yes. Would I have listened to your whole confession of love, she asks, if I didn't, you know, want you? Would I have asked you to convince Orgon to let Mariane marry Valere if I didn't want to keep you all for myself? Despite the persuasiveness of her arguments - at least compared to those of Tartuffe - the trickster is still wary of being tricked. He won't believe her, he says, until she demonstrates her love \"somewhat more concretely.\" At this point, Elmire is getting a little creeped out. She coughs to let Orgon know that she's a bit uncomfortable. Elmire tries to buy herself a little time, but Tartuffe won't let up. She tries again - but no luck. He's a veritable animal. When Elmire pulls the whole \"Isn't this a sin?\" card, Tartuffe promises that he can clear the whole thing up with the Man Upstairs. When she acts surprises, Tartuffe promises to teach her all his tricks, let's call it Hypocrisy 101. He also tells her that, if anything goes down, the fault will be his. This prompts Elmire to cough again. Tartuffe comments upon it and offers a piece of licorice to help her feel better. She declines. Tartuffe tries to reassure Elmire again, telling her that, really, no one will know about what happens. Elmire coughs again and then finally gives up. She tells Tartuffe that yes, clearly she has to \"demonstrate\" her love. Before anything happens, though, she asks Tartuffe to open the door and check for her husband. Tartuffe tells her to chill out; he's got stupid Orgon wrapped around his finger, he says, and she needn't worry. Still, she insists, and Tartuffe leaves the room."}, {"": "360", "document": "\nThe next morning Angelique, Amedee's wife, was in the kitchen baking\npies, assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing-board\nand the stove stood the old cradle that had been Amedee's, and in\nit was his black-eyed son. As Angelique, flushed and excited, with\nflour on her hands, stopped to smile at the baby, Emil Bergson rode\nup to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted.\n\n\"'Medee is out in the field, Emil,\" Angelique called as she ran\nacross the kitchen to the oven. \"He begins to cut his wheat to-day;\nthe first wheat ready to cut anywhere about here. He bought a new\nheader, you know, because all the wheat's so short this year. I\nhope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so much. He and his\ncousins bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out and\nsee that header work. I watched it an hour this morning, busy as\nI am with all the men to feed. He has a lot of hands, but he's\nthe only one that knows how to drive the header or how to run the\nengine, so he has to be everywhere at once. He's sick, too, and\nought to be in his bed.\"\n\nEmil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round,\nbead-like black eyes. \"Sick? What's the matter with your daddy,\nkid? Been making him walk the floor with you?\"\n\nAngelique sniffed. \"Not much! We don't have that kind of babies.\nIt was his father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be\ngetting up and making mustard plasters to put on his stomach. He\nhad an awful colic. He said he felt better this morning, but I\ndon't think he ought to be out in the field, overheating himself.\"\n\nAngelique did not speak with much anxiety, not because she was\nindifferent, but because she felt so secure in their good fortune.\nOnly good things could happen to a rich, energetic, handsome young\nman like Amedee, with a new baby in the cradle and a new header in\nthe field.\n\nEmil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste's head. \"I say, Angelique,\none of 'Medee's grandmothers, 'way back, must have been a squaw.\nThis kid looks exactly like the Indian babies.\"\n\nAngelique made a face at him, but old Mrs. Chevalier had been\ntouched on a sore point, and she let out such a stream of fiery\nPATOIS that Emil fled from the kitchen and mounted his mare.\n\nOpening the pasture gate from the saddle, Emil rode across the field\nto the clearing where the thresher stood, driven by a stationary\nengine and fed from the header boxes. As Amedee was not on the\nengine, Emil rode on to the wheatfield, where he recognized, on\nthe header, the slight, wiry figure of his friend, coatless, his\nwhite shirt puffed out by the wind, his straw hat stuck jauntily\non the side of his head. The six big work-horses that drew, or\nrather pushed, the header, went abreast at a rapid walk, and as they\nwere still green at the work they required a good deal of management\non Amedee's part; especially when they turned the corners, where\nthey divided, three and three, and then swung round into line again\nwith a movement that looked as complicated as a wheel of artillery.\nEmil felt a new thrill of admiration for his friend, and with it\nthe old pang of envy at the way in which Amedee could do with his\nmight what his hand found to do, and feel that, whatever it was,\nit was the most important thing in the world. \"I'll have to bring\nAlexandra up to see this thing work,\" Emil thought; \"it's splendid!\"\n\nWhen he saw Emil, Amedee waved to him and called to one of his\ntwenty cousins to take the reins. Stepping off the header without\nstopping it, he ran up to Emil who had dismounted. \"Come along,\"\nhe called. \"I have to go over to the engine for a minute. I gotta\ngreen man running it, and I gotta to keep an eye on him.\"\n\nEmil thought the lad was unnaturally flushed and more excited than\neven the cares of managing a big farm at a critical time warranted.\nAs they passed behind a last year's stack, Amedee clutched at his\nright side and sank down for a moment on the straw.\n\n\"Ouch! I got an awful pain in me, Emil. Something's the matter\nwith my insides, for sure.\"\n\nEmil felt his fiery cheek. \"You ought to go straight to bed,\n'Medee, and telephone for the doctor; that's what you ought to do.\"\n\nAmedee staggered up with a gesture of despair. \"How can I? I got\nno time to be sick. Three thousand dollars' worth of new machinery\nto manage, and the wheat so ripe it will begin to shatter next\nweek. My wheat's short, but it's gotta grand full berries. What's\nhe slowing down for? We haven't got header boxes enough to feed\nthe thresher, I guess.\"\n\nAmedee started hot-foot across the stubble, leaning a little to the\nright as he ran, and waved to the engineer not to stop the engine.\n\nEmil saw that this was no time to talk about his own affairs. He\nmounted his mare and rode on to Sainte-Agnes, to bid his friends\nthere good-bye. He went first to see Raoul Marcel, and found him\ninnocently practising the \"Gloria\" for the big confirmation service\non Sunday while he polished the mirrors of his father's saloon.\n\nAs Emil rode homewards at three o'clock in the afternoon, he saw\nAmedee staggering out of the wheatfield, supported by two of his\ncousins. Emil stopped and helped them put the boy to bed.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "On the next morning, Emil rides over to visit his friend Amedee. He finds Angelique, his wife, baking pies in the kitchen with old Mrs.Chevalier, Amedee's mother, and the baby boy, Hector Baptiste. She tells Emil that Amedee is out working in the fields. He's driving a new wheat header, a machine to harvest wheat. She also tells him that Amedee was up all night with stomach pains and should be in bed. Still, she doesn't sound at all worried. As the narrator tells us, she couldn't be more confident in the youth and strength of her husband and her baby boy. Emil plays for a bit with the baby, and remarks jokingly that he looks like a little Indian. His grandmother is not pleased. Emil rides out to the fields. He's really impressed by his friend and his new machine, but it quickly becomes clear that his friend is really sick. He doubles over with stomach pain and appears to have a fever. When Emil tells him to get some rest, Amedee seems anxious about harvesting all the wheat on time. Emil can see that he's too busy to talk, so he heads over to the French church to say goodbye to another friend. When he passes by the field again, he helps some men carry Amedee off and put him to bed."}, {"": "361", "document": "SCENE 5.\n\n                         London. The palace\n\n            Enter SUFFOLK, in conference with the KING,\n                     GLOUCESTER and EXETER\n\n  KING HENRY. Your wondrous rare description, noble Earl,\n    Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish'd me.\n    Her virtues, graced with external gifts,\n    Do breed love's settled passions in my heart;\n    And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts\n    Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,\n    So am I driven by breath of her renown\n    Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive\n    Where I may have fruition of her love.\n  SUFFOLK. Tush, my good lord! This superficial tale\n    Is but a preface of her worthy praise.\n    The chief perfections of that lovely dame,\n    Had I sufficient skill to utter them,\n    Would make a volume of enticing lines,\n    Able to ravish any dull conceit;\n    And, which is more, she is not so divine,\n    So full-replete with choice of all delights,\n    But with as humble lowliness of mind\n    She is content to be at your command\n    Command, I mean, of virtuous intents,\n    To love and honour Henry as her lord.\n  KING HENRY. And otherwise will Henry ne'er presume.\n    Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent\n    That Margaret may be England's royal Queen.\n  GLOUCESTER. So should I give consent to flatter sin.\n    You know, my lord, your Highness is betroth'd\n    Unto another lady of esteem.\n    How shall we then dispense with that contract,\n    And not deface your honour with reproach?\n  SUFFOLK. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths;\n    Or one that at a triumph, having vow'd\n    To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists\n    By reason of his adversary's odds:\n    A poor earl's daughter is unequal odds,\n    And therefore may be broke without offence.\n  GLOUCESTER. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than\n    that?\n    Her father is no better than an earl,\n    Although in glorious titles he excel.\n  SUFFOLK. Yes, my lord, her father is a king,\n    The King of Naples and Jerusalem;\n    And of such great authority in France\n    As his alliance will confirm our peace,\n    And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.\n  GLOUCESTER. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do,\n    Because he is near kinsman unto Charles.\n  EXETER. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower;\n    Where Reignier sooner will receive than give.\n  SUFFOLK. A dow'r, my lords! Disgrace not so your king,\n    That he should be so abject, base, and poor,\n    To choose for wealth and not for perfect love.\n    Henry is able to enrich his queen,\n    And not to seek a queen to make him rich.\n    So worthless peasants bargain for their wives,\n    As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse.\n    Marriage is a matter of more worth\n    Than to be dealt in by attorneyship;\n    Not whom we will, but whom his Grace affects,\n    Must be companion of his nuptial bed.\n    And therefore, lords, since he affects her most,\n    It most of all these reasons bindeth us\n    In our opinions she should be preferr'd;\n    For what is wedlock forced but a hell,\n    An age of discord and continual strife?\n    Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss,\n    And is a pattern of celestial peace.\n    Whom should we match with Henry, being a king,\n    But Margaret, that is daughter to a king?\n    Her peerless feature, joined with her birth,\n    Approves her fit for none but for a king;\n    Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit,\n    More than in women commonly is seen,\n    Will answer our hope in issue of a king;\n    For Henry, son unto a conqueror,\n    Is likely to beget more conquerors,\n    If with a lady of so high resolve\n    As is fair Margaret he be link'd in love.\n    Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me\n    That Margaret shall be Queen, and none but she.\n  KING HENRY. Whether it be through force of your report,\n    My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that\n    My tender youth was never yet attaint\n    With any passion of inflaming love,\n    I cannot tell; but this I am assur'd,\n    I feel such sharp dissension in my breast,\n    Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear,\n    As I am sick with working of my thoughts.\n    Take therefore shipping; post, my lord, to France;\n    Agree to any covenants; and procure\n    That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come\n    To cross the seas to England, and be crown'd\n    King Henry's faithful and anointed queen.\n    For your expenses and sufficient charge,\n    Among the people gather up a tenth.\n    Be gone, I say; for till you do return\n    I rest perplexed with a thousand cares.\n    And you, good uncle, banish all offence:\n    If you do censure me by what you were,\n    Not what you are, I know it will excuse\n    This sudden execution of my will.\n    And so conduct me where, from company,\n    I may revolve and ruminate my grief.                    Exit\n  GLOUCESTER. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last.\n                                    Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EXETER\n  SUFFOLK. Thus Suffolk hath prevail'd; and thus he goes,\n    As did the youthful Paris once to Greece,\n    With hope to find the like event in love\n    But prosper better than the Troyan did.\n    Margaret shall now be Queen, and rule the King;\n    But I will rule both her, the King, and realm.          Exit\n\n\n\nTHE END\n", "summary": "Suffolk enters the scene of the battle with a prisoner in tow. The prisoner is the lovely young Margaret, whose beauty enthralls her captor. She says she is the daughter of the king of Naples, otherwise known as Rene. Suffolk wants to free her but cannot bear to part with the sight of her. She asks him what ransom she must pay before she can leave. Suffolk mutters to himself that she must submit to being wooed, since \"she is a woman, and therefore to be won\". Margaret continues to ask him if she can go, while Suffolk ruminates that he has a wife and, thus, cannot woo the girl for himself. Yet he cannot resist the delightful challenge of winning her; finally, he decides to woo her for the king. He thinks he can cleverly legitimate such a move: for after all, Margaret is technically the daughter of a \"king\"--the king of Naples--even though her father has no money. Meanwhile, Margaret grows annoyed that Suffolk, lost in his schemes, is ignoring her questions of him. Finally Suffolk speaks to her and asks her if she would like to be a wife to a king. She says she would prefer to be a queen in bondage than a servant, so she agrees if Henry and her father also desire the match. The French generals enter, and Suffolk calls to Rene. Rene is upset to learn of his daughter's imprisonment, since he has no money to ransom her. But Suffolk offers him an alternative: his daughter will be married to the king of England! Rene asks if Suffolk speaks for the king, and Suffolk assures him he does. Rene says that he will give his consent to the marriage in exchange for permission to keep control of his French territories. Suffolk agrees and prepares to go to England to complete the deal. Rene and Margaret prepare to depart, but Suffolk asks Margaret for a kiss first. When they are gone, Suffolk expresses the wish that he could woo Margaret for himself. But he determines to go to Henry and speak of Margaret's virtues and convince him to marry her."}, {"": "362", "document": "\n\n\nIf this astounding news, instead of flying through the electric\nwires, had simply arrived by post in the ordinary sealed envelope,\nBarbicane would not have hesitated a moment.  He would have held\nhis tongue about it, both as a measure of prudence, and in order\nnot to have to reconsider his plans.  This telegram might be a\ncover for some jest, especially as it came from a Frenchman.\nWhat human being would ever have conceived the idea of such\na journey? and, if such a person really existed, he must be an\nidiot, whom one would shut up in a lunatic ward, rather than\nwithin the walls of the projectile.\n\nThe contents of the dispatch, however, speedily became known;\nfor the telegraphic officials possessed but little discretion,\nand Michel Ardan's proposition ran at once throughout the\nseveral States of the Union.  Barbicane, had, therefore, no\nfurther motives for keeping silence.  Consequently, he called\ntogether such of his colleagues as were at the moment in Tampa\nTown, and without any expression of his own opinions simply read\nto them the laconic text itself.  It was received with every\npossible variety of expressions of doubt, incredulity, and\nderision from every one, with the exception of J. T. Maston, who\nexclaimed, \"It is a grand idea, however!\"\n\nWhen Barbicane originally proposed to send a shot to the moon\nevery one looked upon the enterprise as simple and practicable\nenough-- a mere question of gunnery; but when a person,\nprofessing to be a reasonable being, offered to take passage\nwithin the projectile, the whole thing became a farce, or, in\nplainer language a humbug.\n\nOne question, however, remained.  Did such a being exist?\nThis telegram flashed across the depths of the Atlantic, the\ndesignation of the vessel on board which he was to take his\npassage, the date assigned for his speedy arrival, all combined\nto impart a certain character of reality to the proposal.\nThey must get some clearer notion of the matter.  Scattered groups\nof inquirers at length condensed themselves into a compact crowd,\nwhich made straight for the residence of President Barbicane.\nThat worthy individual was keeping quiet with the intention of\nwatching events as they arose.  But he had forgotten to take\ninto account the public impatience; and it was with no pleasant\ncountenance that he watched the population of Tampa Town\ngathering under his windows.  The murmurs and vociferations\nbelow presently obliged him to appear.  He came forward,\ntherefore, and on silence being procured, a citizen put\npoint-blank to him the following question:  \"Is the person\nmentioned in the telegram, under the name of Michel Ardan, on\nhis way here?  Yes or no.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" replied Barbicane, \"I know no more than you do.\"\n\n\"We must know,\" roared the impatient voices.\n\n\"Time will show,\" calmly replied the president.\n\n\"Time has no business to keep a whole country in suspense,\"\nreplied the orator.  \"Have you altered the plans of the\nprojectile according to the request of the telegram?\"\n\n\"Not yet, gentlemen; but you are right! we must have better\ninformation to go by.  The telegraph must complete its information.\"\n\n\"To the telegraph!\" roared the crowd.\n\nBarbicane descended; and heading the immense assemblage, led the\nway to the telegraph office.  A few minutes later a telegram was\ndispatched to the secretary of the underwriters at Liverpool,\nrequesting answers to the following queries:\n\n\"About the ship Atlanta-- when did she leave Europe?  Had she on\nboard a Frenchman named Michel Ardan?\"\n\nTwo hours afterward Barbicane received information too exact to\nleave room for the smallest remaining doubt.\n\n\"The steamer Atlanta from Liverpool put to sea on the 2nd of\nOctober, bound for Tampa Town, having on board a Frenchman borne\non the list of passengers by the name of Michel Ardan.\"\n\nThat very evening he wrote to the house of Breadwill and Co.,\nrequesting them to suspend the casting of the projectile until\nthe receipt of further orders.  On the 10th of October, at nine\nA.M., the semaphores of the Bahama Canal signaled a thick smoke\non the horizon.  Two hours later a large steamer exchanged\nsignals with them.  the name of the Atlanta flew at once over\nTampa Town.  At four o'clock the English vessel entered the Bay\nof Espiritu Santo.  At five it crossed the passage of\nHillisborough Bay at full steam.  At six she cast anchor at\nPort Tampa.  The anchor had scarcely caught the sandy bottom when\nfive hundred boats surrounded the Atlanta, and the steamer was\ntaken by assault.  Barbicane was the first to set foot on deck,\nand in a voice of which he vainly tried to conceal the emotion,\ncalled \"Michel Ardan.\"\n\n\"Here!\" replied an individual perched on the poop.\n\nBarbicane, with arms crossed, looked fixedly at the passenger of\nthe Atlanta.\n\nHe was a man of about forty-two years of age, of large build,\nbut slightly round-shouldered.  His massive head momentarily\nshook a shock of reddish hair, which resembled a lion's mane.\nHis face was short with a broad forehead, and furnished with a\nmoustache as bristly as a cat's, and little patches of yellowish\nwhiskers upon full cheeks.  Round, wildish eyes, slightly\nnear-sighted, completed a physiognomy essentially feline.\nHis nose was firmly shaped, his mouth particularly sweet in\nexpression, high forehead, intelligent and furrowed with\nwrinkles like a newly-plowed field.  The body was powerfully\ndeveloped and firmly fixed upon long legs.  Muscular arms,\nand a general air of decision gave him the appearance of a hardy,\njolly, companion.  He was dressed in a suit of ample dimensions,\nloose neckerchief, open shirtcollar, disclosing a robust neck;\nhis cuffs were invariably unbuttoned, through which appeared\na pair of red hands.\n\nOn the bridge of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd, he\nbustled to and fro, never still for a moment, \"dragging his\nanchors,\" as the sailors say, gesticulating, making free with\neverybody, biting his nails with nervous avidity.  He was one of\nthose originals which nature sometimes invents in the freak of\na moment, and of which she then breaks the mould.\n\nAmong other peculiarities, this curiosity gave himself out for\na sublime ignoramus, \"like Shakespeare,\" and professed supreme\ncontempt for all scientific men.  Those \"fellows,\" as he called\nthem, \"are only fit to mark the points, while we play the game.\"\nHe was, in fact, a thorough Bohemian, adventurous, but not an\nadventurer; a hare-brained fellow, a kind of Icarus, only\npossessing relays of wings.  For the rest, he was ever in\nscrapes, ending invariably by falling on his feet, like those\nlittle figures which they sell for children's toys.  In a few\nwords, his motto was \"I have my opinions,\" and the love of the\nimpossible constituted his ruling passion.\n\nSuch was the passenger of the Atlanta, always excitable, as if\nboiling under the action of some internal fire by the character\nof his physical organization.  If ever two individuals offered\na striking contrast to each other, these were certainly Michel\nArdan and the Yankee Barbicane; both, moreover, being equally\nenterprising and daring, each in his own way.\n\nThe scrutiny which the president of the Gun Club had instituted\nregarding this new rival was quickly interrupted by the shouts\nand hurrahs of the crowd.  The cries became at last so\nuproarious, and the popular enthusiasm assumed so personal a\nform, that Michel Ardan, after having shaken hands some\nthousands of times, at the imminent risk of leaving his fingers\nbehind him, was fain at last to make a bolt for his cabin.\n\nBarbicane followed him without uttering a word.\n\n\"You are Barbicane, I suppose?\" said Michel Ardan, in a tone\nof voice in which he would have addressed a friend of twenty\nyears' standing.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the president of the Gun Club.\n\n\"All right! how d'ye do, Barbicane? how are you getting on--\npretty well? that's right.\"\n\n\"So,\" said Barbicane without further preliminary, \"you are quite\ndetermined to go.\"\n\n\"Quite decided.\"\n\n\"Nothing will stop you?\"\n\n\"Nothing.  Have you modified your projectile according to my telegram.\"\n\n\"I waited for your arrival.  But,\" asked Barbicane again, \"have\nyou carefully reflected?\"\n\n\"Reflected? have I any time to spare?  I find an opportunity of\nmaking a tour in the moon, and I mean to profit by it.  There is\nthe whole gist of the matter.\"\n\nBarbicane looked hard at this man who spoke so lightly of his\nproject with such complete absence of anxiety.  \"But, at least,\"\nsaid he, \"you have some plans, some means of carrying your\nproject into execution?\"\n\n\"Excellent, my dear Barbicane; only permit me to offer one remark:\nMy wish is to tell my story once for all, to everybody, and then\nhave done with it; then there will be no need for recapitulation.\nSo, if you have no objection, assemble your friends, colleagues,\nthe whole town, all Florida, all America if you like, and\nto-morrow I shall be ready to explain my plans and answer any\nobjections whatever that may be advanced.  You may rest assured\nI shall wait without stirring.  Will that suit you?\"\n\n\"All right,\" replied Barbicane.\n\nSo saying, the president left the cabin and informed the crowd of\nthe proposal of Michel Ardan.  His words were received with clappings\nof hands and shouts of joy.  They had removed all difficulties.\nTo-morrow every one would contemplate at his ease this European hero.\nHowever, some of the spectators, more infatuated than the rest,\nwould not leave the deck of the Atlanta.  They passed the night\non board.  Among others J. T. Maston got his hook fixed in the\ncombing of the poop, and it pretty nearly required the capstan to\nget it out again.\n\n\"He is a hero! a hero!\" he cried, a theme of which he was never\ntired of ringing the changes; \"and we are only like weak, silly\nwomen, compared with this European!\"\n\nAs to the president, after having suggested to the visitors it\nwas time to retire, he re-entered the passenger's cabin, and\nremained there till the bell of the steamer made it midnight.\n\nBut then the two rivals in popularity shook hands heartily and\nparted on terms of intimate friendship.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "News of this telegram spreads immediately. Most of the Gun Club is skeptical, except for the every-effusive J.T. Maston who calls it a \"magnificent idea\" . The Atlanta arrives in Tampa on October twentieth, and Barbicane rushes onto the ship and introduces himself to Michel Ardan. Ardan is a charming and \"adventuresome fellow\" ; he's well-known across Europe for his ambitious adventures, though few know his name in the U.S. The two men introduce themselves, and Ardan suggests holding a meeting of the Gun Club so he can present his new idea."}, {"": "363", "document": "Enter Trumpets sounding: Then two Aldermen, L[ord]. Maior,\n      Garter,\n      Cranmer, Duke of Norfolke with his Marshals Staffe, Duke of\n      Suffolke, two\n      Noblemen, bearing great standing Bowles for the Christening\n      Guifts: Then\n      foure Noblemen bearing a Canopy, vnder which the Dutchesse of\n      Norfolke,\n      Godmother, bearing the Childe richly habited in a Mantle, &c.\n      Traine borne\n      by a Lady: Then followes the Marchionesse Dorset, the other\n      Godmother, and\n      Ladies. The Troope passe once about the Stage, and Garter\n      speakes.\n\n      Gart. Heauen\n      From thy endlesse goodnesse, send prosperous life,\n      Long, and euer happie, to the high and Mighty\n      Princesse of England Elizabeth.\n\n      Flourish. Enter King and Guard.\n\n      Cran. And to your Royall Grace, & the good Queen,\n      My Noble Partners, and my selfe thus pray\n      All comfort, ioy in this most gracious Lady,\n      Heauen euer laid vp to make Parents happy,\n      May hourely fall vpon ye\n\n      Kin. Thanke you good Lord Archbishop:\n      What is her Name?\n      Cran. Elizabeth\n\n      Kin. Stand vp Lord,\n      With this Kisse, take my Blessing: God protect thee,\n      Into whose hand, I giue thy Life\n\n      Cran. Amen\n\n      Kin. My Noble Gossips, y'haue beene too Prodigall;\n      I thanke ye heartily: So shall this Lady,\n      When she ha's so much English\n\n      Cran. Let me speake Sir,\n      For Heauen now bids me; and the words I vtter,\n      Let none thinke Flattery; for they'l finde 'em Truth.\n      This Royall Infant, Heauen still moue about her;\n      Though in her Cradle; yet now promises\n      Vpon this Land a thousand thousand Blessings,\n      Which Time shall bring to ripenesse: She shall be,\n      (But few now liuing can behold that goodnesse)\n    A Patterne to all Princes liuing with her,\n    And all that shall succeed: Saba was neuer\n    More couetous of Wisedome, and faire Vertue\n    Then this pure Soule shall be. All Princely Graces\n    That mould vp such a mighty Piece as this is,\n    With all the Vertues that attend the good,\n    Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall Nurse her,\n    Holy and Heauenly thoughts still Counsell her:\n    She shall be lou'd and fear'd. Her owne shall blesse her;\n    Her Foes shake like a Field of beaten Corne,\n    And hang their heads with sorrow:\n    Good growes with her.\n    In her dayes, Euery Man shall eate in safety,\n    Vnder his owne Vine what he plants; and sing\n    The merry Songs of Peace to all his Neighbours.\n    God shall be truely knowne, and those about her,\n    From her shall read the perfect way of Honour,\n    And by those claime their greatnesse; not by Blood.\n    Nor shall this peace sleepe with her: But as when\n    The Bird of Wonder dyes, the Mayden Phoenix,\n    Her Ashes new create another Heyre,\n    As great in admiration as her selfe.\n    So shall she leaue her Blessednesse to One,\n    (When Heauen shal call her from this clowd of darknes)\n    Who, from the sacred Ashes of her Honour\n    Shall Star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,\n    And so stand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Loue, Truth, Terror,\n    That were the Seruants to this chosen Infant,\n    Shall then be his, and like a Vine grow to him;\nWhere euer the bright Sunne of Heauen shall shine,\n      His Honour, and the greatnesse of his Name,\n      Shall be, and make new Nations. He shall flourish,\n      And like a Mountaine Cedar, reach his branches,\n      To all the Plaines about him: Our Childrens Children\n      Shall see this, and blesse Heauen\n\n      Kin. Thou speakest wonders\n\n      Cran. She shall be to the happinesse of England,\n      An aged Princesse; many dayes shall see her,\n      And yet no day without a deed to Crowne it.\n      Would I had knowne no more: But she must dye,\n      She must, the Saints must haue her; yet a Virgin,\n      A most vnspotted Lilly shall she passe\n      To th' ground, and all the World shall mourne her\n\n      Kin. O Lord Archbishop\n      Thou hast made me now a man, neuer before\n      This happy Child, did I get any thing.\n      This Oracle of comfort, ha's so pleas'd me,\n      That when I am in Heauen, I shall desire\n\n      To see what this Child does, and praise my Maker.\n      I thanke ye all. To you my good Lord Maior,\n      And you good Brethren, I am much beholding:\n      I haue receiu'd much Honour by your presence,\n      And ye shall find me thankfull. Lead the way Lords,\n      Ye must all see the Queene, and she must thanke ye,\n      She will be sicke els. This day, no man thinke\n      'Has businesse at his house; for all shall stay:\n      This Little-One shall make it Holy-day.\n\n      Exeunt.\n\n      THE EPILOGVE. Tis ten to one, this Play can neuer please\n      All that are heere: Some come to take their ease,\n      And sleepe an Act or two; but those we feare\n      W'haue frighted with our Trumpets: so 'tis cleare,\n      They'l say tis naught. Others to heare the City\n      Abus'd extreamly, and to cry that's witty,\n      Which wee haue not done neither; that I feare\n      All the expected good w'are like to heare.\n      For this Play at this time, is onely in\n      The mercifull construction of good women,\n      For such a one we shew'd 'em: If they smile,\n      And say twill doe; I know within a while,\n      All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,\n      If they hold, when their Ladies bid 'em clap.\n\n", "summary": "In the palace yard, a group gathers for the baby's christening. A Porter is trying to stop people from shouting and make it a civilized bash. The Porter argues with various peeps trying to get in and see more. He's got to hold the gate so that no one can enter who's not supposed to be there. The people waiting to see the christening are the same lowlifes who shout at executions or go to the playhouse. When the Lord Chamberlain sees all this, he snaps at the Porter. This is a royal christening, and he's letting rascals shout? Get it together, man. The Porter worries that the king will blame him directly for all the commotion. Sound the trumpets, because the royal family is on their way back from the christening."}, {"": "364", "document": "\n\nAbout twelve o'clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at\nWuthering Heights: a puny, seven-months' child; and two hours after the\nmother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss\nHeathcliff, or know Edgar.  The latter's distraction at his bereavement\nis a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after-effects showed how\ndeep the sorrow sunk.  A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left\nwithout an heir.  I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and I\nmentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the\nsecuring his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son's.  An\nunwelcomed infant it was, poor thing!  It might have wailed out of life,\nand nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence.  We\nredeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as\nits end is likely to be.\n\nNext morning--bright and cheerful out of doors--stole softened in through\nthe blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant\nwith a mellow, tender glow.  Edgar Linton had his head laid on the\npillow, and his eyes shut.  His young and fair features were almost as\ndeathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but _his_\nwas the hush of exhausted anguish, and _hers_ of perfect peace.  Her brow\nsmooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile; no\nangel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared.  And I partook\nof the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never in a holier\nframe than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest.  I\ninstinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours before:\n'Incomparably beyond and above us all!  Whether still on earth or now in\nheaven, her spirit is at home with God!'\n\nI don't know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom otherwise than\nhappy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied or\ndespairing mourner share the duty with me.  I see a repose that neither\nearth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and\nshadowless hereafter--the Eternity they have entered--where life is\nboundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its\nfulness.  I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even\nin a love like Mr. Linton's, when he so regretted Catherine's blessed\nrelease!  To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward and\nimpatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of peace at\nlast.  One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in\nthe presence of her corpse.  It asserted its own tranquillity, which\nseemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant.\n\nDo you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir?  I'd give a\ngreat deal to know.\n\nI declined answering Mrs. Dean's question, which struck me as something\nheterodox.  She proceeded:\n\nRetracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to\nthink she is; but we'll leave her with her Maker.\n\nThe master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the\nroom and steal out to the pure refreshing air.  The servants thought me\ngone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my\nchief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff.  If he had remained among the\nlarches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the Grange;\nunless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger going to\nGimmerton.  If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware, from the\nlights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of the outer\ndoors, that all was not right within.  I wished, yet feared, to find him.\nI felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get it over; but\nhow to do it I did not know.  He was there--at least, a few yards further\nin the park; leant against an old ash-tree, his hat off, and his hair\nsoaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded branches, and fell\npattering round him.  He had been standing a long time in that position,\nfor I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing scarcely three feet from\nhim, busy in building their nest, and regarding his proximity no more\nthan that of a piece of timber.  They flew off at my approach, and he\nraised his eyes and spoke:--'She's dead!' he said; 'I've not waited for\nyou to learn that.  Put your handkerchief away--don't snivel before me.\nDamn you all! she wants none of your tears!'\n\nI was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures that\nhave none of the feeling either for themselves or others.  When I first\nlooked into his face, I perceived that he had got intelligence of the\ncatastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was quelled\nand he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent on the\nground.\n\n'Yes, she's dead!' I answered, checking my sobs and drying my cheeks.\n'Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, every one, join her, if we take\ndue warning and leave our evil ways to follow good!'\n\n'Did _she_ take due warning, then?' asked Heathcliff, attempting a sneer.\n'Did she die like a saint?  Come, give me a true history of the event.\nHow did--?'\n\nHe endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage it; and\ncompressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his inward agony,\ndefying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinching, ferocious stare.\n'How did she die?' he resumed, at last--fain, notwithstanding his\nhardihood, to have a support behind him; for, after the struggle, he\ntrembled, in spite of himself, to his very finger-ends.\n\n'Poor wretch!' I thought; 'you have a heart and nerves the same as your\nbrother men!  Why should you be anxious to conceal them?  Your pride\ncannot blind God!  You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of\nhumiliation.'\n\n'Quietly as a lamb!' I answered, aloud.  'She drew a sigh, and stretched\nherself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; and five\nminutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing more!'\n\n'And--did she ever mention me?' he asked, hesitating, as if he dreaded\nthe answer to his question would introduce details that he could not bear\nto hear.\n\n'Her senses never returned: she recognised nobody from the time you left\nher,' I said.  'She lies with a sweet smile on her face; and her latest\nideas wandered back to pleasant early days.  Her life closed in a gentle\ndream--may she wake as kindly in the other world!'\n\n'May she wake in torment!' he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping\nhis foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion.\n'Why, she's a liar to the end!  Where is she?  Not _there_--not in\nheaven--not perished--where?  Oh! you said you cared nothing for my\nsufferings!  And I pray one prayer--I repeat it till my tongue\nstiffens--Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living;\nyou said I killed you--haunt me, then!  The murdered _do_ haunt their\nmurderers, I believe.  I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth.  Be\nwith me always--take any form--drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in\nthis abyss, where I cannot find you!  Oh, God! it is unutterable!  I\n_cannot_ live without my life!  I _cannot_ live without my soul!'\n\nHe dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes,\nhowled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death\nwith knives and spears.  I observed several splashes of blood about the\nbark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably\nthe scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the night.\nIt hardly moved my compassion--it appalled me: still, I felt reluctant to\nquit him so.  But the moment he recollected himself enough to notice me\nwatching, he thundered a command for me to go, and I obeyed.  He was\nbeyond my skill to quiet or console!\n\nMrs. Linton's funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday following\nher decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, and strewn with\nflowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing-room.  Linton spent his\ndays and nights there, a sleepless guardian; and--a circumstance\nconcealed from all but me--Heathcliff spent his nights, at least,\noutside, equally a stranger to repose.  I held no communication with him:\nstill, I was conscious of his design to enter, if he could; and on the\nTuesday, a little after dark, when my master, from sheer fatigue, had\nbeen compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and opened one of the\nwindows; moved by his perseverance to give him a chance of bestowing on\nthe faded image of his idol one final adieu.  He did not omit to avail\nhimself of the opportunity, cautiously and briefly; too cautiously to\nbetray his presence by the slightest noise.  Indeed, I shouldn't have\ndiscovered that he had been there, except for the disarrangement of the\ndrapery about the corpse's face, and for observing on the floor a curl of\nlight hair, fastened with a silver thread; which, on examination, I\nascertained to have been taken from a locket hung round Catherine's neck.\nHeathcliff had opened the trinket and cast out its contents, replacing\nthem by a black lock of his own.  I twisted the two, and enclosed them\ntogether.\n\nMr. Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his sister\nto the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that, besides her\nhusband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants and servants.\nIsabella was not asked.\n\nThe place of Catherine's interment, to the surprise of the villagers, was\nneither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor yet\nby the tombs of her own relations, outside.  It was dug on a green slope\nin a corner of the kirk-yard, where the wall is so low that heath and\nbilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould almost\nburies it.  Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have each a\nsimple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to mark the\ngraves.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "On the night of Heathcliff's visit, Catherine gives birth to a baby girl and then dies. Edgar's sorrow is great, for he has lost his wife without gaining an heir to his property. Nelly breaks the news of the birth and death to Heathcliff. After her master retires, she admits Heathcliff in the house to bid his final farewell to Catherine. Hindley does not attend his sister's funeral although he is invited; Isabella is not asked. The only mourners beside Edgar are the tenants and the servants. As she requested, Catherine is buried neither with the Lintons nor with the Earnshaws, but on an open slope in a corner of the churchyard."}, {"": "365", "document": "ALL the inhabitants of the valley treated me with great kindness; but as\nto the household of Marheyo, with whom I was now permanently domiciled,\nnothing could surpass their efforts to minister to my comfort. To the\ngratification of my palate they paid the most unwearied attention.\nThey continually invited me to partake of food, and when after eating\nheartily I declined the viands they continued to offer me, they seemed\nto think that my appetite stood in need of some piquant stimulant to\nexcite its activity.\n\nIn pursuance of this idea, old Marheyo himself would hie him away to\nthe sea-shore by the break of day, for the purpose of collecting\nvarious species of rare sea-weed; some of which among these people are\nconsidered a great luxury. After a whole day spent in this employment,\nhe would return about nightfall with several cocoanut shells filled with\ndifferent descriptions of kelp. In preparing these for use he manifested\nall the ostentation of a professed cook, although the chief mystery of\nthe affair appeared to consist in pouring water in judicious quantities\nupon the slimy contents of his cocoanut shells.\n\nThe first time he submitted one of these saline salads to my critical\nattention I naturally thought that anything collected at such pains must\npossess peculiar merits; but one mouthful was a complete dose; and great\nwas the consternation of the old warrior at the rapidity with which I\nejected his Epicurean treat.\n\nHow true it is, that the rarity of any particular article enhances\nits value amazingly. In some part of the valley--I know not where, but\nprobably in the neighbourhood of the sea--the girls were sometimes in\nthe habit of procuring small quantities of salt, a thimble-full or\nso being the result of the united labours of a party of five or six\nemployed for the greater part of the day. This precious commodity they\nbrought to the house, enveloped in multitudinous folds of leaves; and\nas a special mark of the esteem in which they held me, would spread\nan immense leaf on the ground, and dropping one by one a few minute\nparticles of the salt upon it, invite me to taste them.\n\nFrom the extravagant value placed upon the article, I verily believe,\nthat with a bushel of common Liverpool salt all the real estate in Typee\nmight have been purchased. With a small pinch of it in one hand, and a\nquarter section of a bread-fruit in the other, the greatest chief in the\nvalley would have laughed at all luxuries of a Parisian table.\n\nThe celebrity of the bread-fruit tree, and the conspicuous place it\noccupies in a Typee bill of fare, induces me to give at some length\na general description of the tree, and the various modes in which the\nfruit is prepared.\n\nThe bread-fruit tree, in its glorious prime, is a grand and towering\nobject, forming the same feature in a Marquesan landscape that the\npatriarchal elm does in New England scenery. The latter tree it not a\nlittle resembles in height, in the wide spread of its stalwart branches,\nand in its venerable and imposing aspect.\n\nThe leaves of the bread-fruit are of great size, and their edges are cut\nand scolloped as fantastically as those of a lady's lace collar. As they\nannually tend towards decay, they almost rival in brilliant variety\nof their gradually changing hues the fleeting shades of the expiring\ndolphin. The autumnal tints of our American forests, glorious as they\nare, sink into nothing in comparison with this tree.\n\nThe leaf, in one particular stage, when nearly all the prismatic colours\nare blended on its surface, is often converted by the natives into\na superb and striking head-dress. The principal fibre traversing its\nlength being split open a convenient distance, and the elastic sides of\nthe aperture pressed apart, the head is inserted between them, the leaf\ndrooping on one side, with its forward half turned jauntily up on the\nbrows, and the remaining part spreading laterally behind the ears.\n\nThe fruit somewhat resembles in magnitude and general appearance one of\nour citron melons of ordinary size; but, unlike the citron, it has no\nsectional lines drawn along the outside. Its surface is dotted all over\nwith little conical prominences, looking not unlike the knobs, on an\nantiquated church door. The rind is perhaps an eighth of an inch in\nthickness; and denuded of this at the time when it is in the greatest\nperfection, the fruit presents a beautiful globe of white pulp, the\nwhole of which may be eaten, with the exception of a slender core, which\nis easily removed.\n\nThe bread-fruit, however, is never used, and is indeed altogether unfit\nto be eaten, until submitted in one form or other to the action of fire.\n\nThe most simple manner in which this operation is performed, and I\nthink, the best, consists in placing any number of the freshly plucked\nfruit, when in a particular state of greenness, among the embers of a\nfire, in the same way that you would roast a potato. After the lapse\nof ten or fifteen minutes, the green rind embrowns and cracks, showing\nthrough the fissures in its sides the milk-white interior. As soon as it\ncools the rind drops off, and you then have the soft round pulp in its\npurest and most delicious state. Thus eaten, it has a mild and pleasing\nflavour.\n\nSometimes after having been roasted in the fire, the natives snatch it\nbriskly from the embers, and permitting it to slip out of the yielding\nrind into a vessel of cold water, stir up the mixture, which they\ncall 'bo-a-sho'. I never could endure this compound, and indeed the\npreparation is not greatly in vogue among the more polite Typees.\n\nThere is one form, however, in which the fruit is occasionally served,\nthat renders it a dish fit for a king. As soon as it is taken from the\nfire the exterior is removed, the core extracted, and the remaining part\nis placed in a sort of shallow stone mortar, and briskly worked with\na pestle of the same substance. While one person is performing this\noperation, another takes a ripe cocoanut, and breaking it in halves,\nwhich they also do very cleverly, proceeds to grate the juicy meat into\nfine particles. This is done by means of a piece of mother-of-pearl\nshell, lashed firmly to the extreme end of a heavy stick, with its\nstraight side accurately notched like a saw. The stick is sometimes a\ngrotesquely-formed limb of a tree, with three or four branches twisting\nfrom its body like so many shapeless legs, and sustaining it two or\nthree feet from the ground.\n\nThe native, first placing a calabash beneath the nose, as it were, of\nhis curious-looking log-steed, for the purpose of receiving the\ngrated fragments as they fall, mounts astride of it as if it were a\nhobby-horse, and twirling the inside of his hemispheres of cocoanut\naround the sharp teeth of the mother-of-pearl shell, the pure white meat\nfalls in snowy showers into the receptacle provided. Having obtained a\nquantity sufficient for his purpose, he places it in a bag made of\nthe net-like fibrous substance attached to all cocoanut trees, and\ncompressing it over the bread-fruit, which being now sufficiently\npounded, is put into a wooden bowl--extracts a thick creamy milk. The\ndelicious liquid soon bubbles round the fruit, and leaves it at last\njust peeping above its surface.\n\nThis preparation is called 'kokoo', and a most luscious preparation it\nis. The hobby-horse and the pestle and mortar were in great requisition\nduring the time I remained in the house of Marheyo, and Kory-Kory had\nfrequent occasion to show his skill in their use.\n\nBut the great staple articles of food into which the bread-fruit is\nconverted by these natives are known respectively by the names of Amar\nand Poee-Poee.\n\nAt a certain season of the year, when the fruit of the hundred groves\nof the valley has reached its maturity, and hangs in golden spheres from\nevery branch, the islanders assemble in harvest groups, and garner in\nthe abundance which surrounds them.\n\nThe trees are stripped of their nodding burdens, which, easily freed\nfrom the rind and core, are gathered together in capacious wooden\nvessels, where the pulpy fruit is soon worked by a stone pestle,\nvigorously applied, into a blended mass of a doughy consistency, called\nby the natives 'Tutao'. This is then divided into separate parcels,\nwhich, after being made up into stout packages, enveloped in successive\nfolds of leaves, and bound round with thongs of bark, are stored away in\nlarge receptacles hollowed in the earth, from whence they are drawn as\noccasion may require. In this condition the Tutao sometimes remains for\nyears, and even is thought to improve by age. Before it is fit to be\neaten, however, it has to undergo an additional process. A primitive\noven is scooped in the ground, and its bottom being loosely covered\nwith stones, a large fire is kindled within it. As soon as the requisite\ndegree of heat is attained, the embers are removed, and the surface of\nthe stones being covered with thick layers of leaves, one of the large\npackages of Tutao is deposited upon them and overspread with another\nlayer of leaves. The whole is then quickly heaped up with earth, and\nforms a sloping mound.\n\nThe Tutao thus baked is called 'Amar'; the action of the oven having\nconverted it into an amber-coloured caky substance, a little tart, but\nnot at all disagreeable to the taste.\n\nBy another and final process the 'Amar' is changed into 'Poee-Poee'.\nThis transition is rapidly effected. The Amar is placed in a vessel, and\nmixed with water until it gains a proper pudding-like consistency, when,\nwithout further preparation, it is in readiness for use. This is the\nform in which the 'Tutao' is generally consumed. The singular mode of\neating it I have already described.\n\nWere it not that the bread-fruit is thus capable of being preserved for\na length of time, the natives might be reduced to a state of starvation;\nfor owing to some unknown cause the trees sometimes fail to bear fruit;\nand on such occasions the islanders chiefly depend upon the supplies\nthey have been enabled to store away.\n\nThis stately tree, which is rarely met with upon the Sandwich Islands,\nand then only of a very inferior quality, and at Tahiti does not abound\nto a degree that renders its fruit the principal article of food,\nattains its greatest excellence in the genial climate of the Marquesan\ngroup, where it grows to an enormous magnitude, and flourishes in the\nutmost abundance.\n\n\n", "summary": "The Typee, particularly Marheyo's household, continues to take good care of Tommo, cooking him all sorts of delicacies from seaweed salad to breadfruit in every incarnation. Tommo takes time to describe the breadfruit, coconut, and other local flora, and their preparations."}, {"": "366", "document": "GINSENG\n\n\nWhat Dr. McAllister ever did before Henry began to work for him would be\nhard to guess.\n\nThere were certainly as many duties always waiting for him as he had\ntime to do. And it made no difference to the industrious boy what the\njob was. Nothing was too hard or too dirty for him to attempt.\n\nOne day the doctor set him at the task of clearing out his little\nlaboratory. The boy washed bottles, pasted labels, and cleaned\ninstruments for one whole morning. And more than one broken flask on its\nway to the rubbish heap was carefully carried up the hill to the hidden\nfamily.\n\nWhile Henry was busy carefully lettering a sticky label, he noticed a\nyoung man in the outer office who was talking with the doctor.\n\n\"Can you tell me if this is real ginseng?\" Henry heard him say.\n\n\"It certainly is,\" returned Dr. McAllister. \"They will give you two\ndollars a pound for the root at any of the drug stores.\"\n\nHenry ventured to steal a peep, and found he could readily see the plant\nthe man was holding. It was about a foot high with branching leaves and\na fine feathery white flower. Henry knew it was exactly the same white\npuffball that he had noticed in Violet's vase that very morning.\n\nWhen the young man had gone, Henry said, \"I know where I can find a\nwhole lot of that plant.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" replied the doctor kindly. \"It's only the root, you know,\nthat is valuable. But any one who wants the bother of digging it up can\nsell any quantity of that.\"\n\nWhen Henry went home at noon he related enough of this incident to set\nhis sisters to work in good earnest. They started out with both knives\nand two strong iron spoons, and the kettle. And with Benny to run about\nfinding every white flower he could, the girls succeeded, with a great\ndeal of hard digging, in finding enormous quantities of ginseng root. In\nfact that first afternoon's work resulted in a kettle full, not counting\na single leaf or stem. Henry was delighted when he saw the result of\ntheir work, and took it next day to the largest drug store, where he\nreceived three dollars for the roots.\n\nWithout any hesitation Henry paid a visit to the dry-goods store, and\ncame home with a pair of new brown stockings for Benny. That was a great\nday in the woods. Benny gave them no peace at all until they had admired\nhis wonderful new stockings, and felt of each rib.\n\nThere had been one other thing that Benny had given them no peace about.\nOn the night when the children had crept so quietly away from the\nbaker's wife, Jess had forgotten to take Benny's bear. This bear was a\npoor looking creature, which had once been an expensive bright-eyed\nTeddy-bear made of brown plush. But Benny had taken it to bed every\nsingle night for three years, and had loved it by day, so that it was\nnot attractive to any one but himself. Both eyes were gone, and its body\nwas very limp, but Benny had certainly suffered a great deal trying to\nsleep in a strange bed without his beloved bear.\n\nJess, therefore, had plans on foot, the moment she saw Benny's new\nstockings. She washed the old brown stockings with their many neat\ndarns, and hung them up to dry. And early in the afternoon she and\nViolet sat with the workbag between them, each with a stocking.\n\nWith Benny sitting by to watch proceedings, Jess mapped out a remarkable\nTeddy-bear. One stocking, carefully trimmed, made the head and body,\nwhile the other furnished material for two arms, two legs, and the\nstuffing. Jess worked hard over the head, pushing the padding well into\nthe blunt nose. Violet embroidered two beautiful eyes in black and\nwhite, and a jet black nose-tip.\n\n\"You must make a tail, too, Jessy,\" said Benny, watching her snip the\nbrown rags.\n\n\"Bears don't have tails, Benny,\" argued Jess--although she wasn't\nexactly sure she was right. \"Your old bear didn't have any tail, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"But _this_ bear has a tail, though,\" returned Benny, knowing that Jess\nwould put on two tails if he insisted.\n\nAnd it was true. His bear finally did have a tail.\n\n\"What _kind_ of tail?\" asked Jess helplessly at last. \"Bushy, long and\nslim, or cotton-tail?\"\n\n\"Long and slim,\" decided Benny with great satisfaction, \"so I can pull\nit.\"\n\n\"Benny!\" cried Jess, laughing in spite of herself. But she made a tail,\nlong and slim, exactly as Benny ordered, and sewed it on very tightly,\nso that it might be \"pulled\" if desired. She fastened on the legs and\narms with flat hinges, so the bear might sit down easily, and added at\nlast a pair of cunning flappy ears and a gay collar of braided red\nstring from a bundle.\n\n\"What's his name, Jessy?\" inquired Benny, when the wonderful bear was\nfinally handed over to him.\n\n\"His name?\" repeated Jess. \"Well, you know he's a _new_ bear; he isn't\nyour old one, so I wouldn't call him Teddy.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Benny, shocked. \"This is not Teddy. This has a pretty\ntail.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" agreed Jess, trying not to laugh. \"Well, you know we sold\nthat ginseng to pay for your new stockings. And if you hadn't had your\nnew ones, we couldn't have made this bear out of your old ones.\"\n\n\"You want his name to be Stockings?\" asked Benny politely.\n\n\"Stockings? No,\" answered Jess. \"I was thinking of 'Ginseng.'\"\n\n\"Ginseng?\" echoed Benny, thinking deeply. \"That's a nice name. All\nright, I think Ginseng will be a good bear, if Watchie doesn't bark at\nhim.\" And from that moment the bear's name was Ginseng as long as he\nlived, and he lived to be a very old bear indeed.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Dr. Moore lets his mother in on the secret that Mr. Alden is the Boxcar Children's grandfather. Everyone agrees that Mr. Alden should introduce himself without admitting that he's their grandfather. Mr. Alden says he'll give Dr. Moore the $5,000 reward, but Dr. Moore refuses it. The cook is nervous about what to make for Mr. Alden--she doesn't know how to cook for rich people. It's dinnertime. Violet is still sick in bed, but the other children are meeting Mr. Alden. Henry knows he looks familiar, but he can't quite place him. Mr. Alden tells the children about a cucumber he's growing inside a bottle. Apparently, this strange anecdote is the key to their hearts; they all like him very much. Eventually, Violet is well enough to receive visitors, so Mr. Alden takes her flowers and everyone is charmed. Henry finally realizes that Mr. Alden is the same man who gave him the $25 prize on Field Day. He goes to confront Dr. Moore. Dr. Moore reveals the truth: Mr. Alden is Henry's grandfather. Henry is shocked--shocked. Now, Henry goes to confront Mr. Alden. They shake hands, as relatives do, and when Jessie and Benny walk in on their conversation, Henry explains that Mr. Alden is their grandfather. Then, they go to tell Violet. Mr. Alden wonders where the children have been living all this time. Who's going to break it to him that they were living in a boxcar in the woods? The children realize that Dr. Moore knew they were living in the boxcar. Turns out he was the \"intruder\" that night when Watch was barking. He followed Henry home out of curiosity. Dr. Moore has been sneaking around quite a lot, actually: The day the children picked cherries, he went back to the boxcar to check it out more closely. Mr. Alden wonders why Dr. Moore didn't tell him that his grandchildren were living in a boxcar. Good question, Mr. Alden. The doctor says he thought the kids were having a good time on their own so he only came forward once Violet became ill. Mr. Alden wants to see the boxcar. He's also ready to show the children his own house--which is not a boxcar, we're willing to bet. Once Violet recovers, everyone goes out to the boxcar for a visit. They have a picnic and stay until dark. On the agenda for tomorrow? A visit to Mr. Alden's house."}, {"": "367", "document": "\nThis Issachar was the most choleric Hebrew that had ever been seen in\nIsrael since the Captivity in Babylon.\n\n\"What!\" said he, \"thou bitch of a Galilean, was not the Inquisitor\nenough for thee? Must this rascal also share with me?\"\n\nIn saying this he drew a long poniard which he always carried about him;\nand not imagining that his adversary had any arms he threw himself upon\nCandide: but our honest Westphalian had received a handsome sword from\nthe old woman along with the suit of clothes. He drew his rapier,\ndespite his gentleness, and laid the Israelite stone dead upon the\ncushions at Cunegonde's feet.\n\n\"Holy Virgin!\" cried she, \"what will become of us? A man killed in my\napartment! If the officers of justice come, we are lost!\"\n\n\"Had not Pangloss been hanged,\" said Candide, \"he would give us good\ncounsel in this emergency, for he was a profound philosopher. Failing\nhim let us consult the old woman.\"\n\nShe was very prudent and commenced to give her opinion when suddenly\nanother little door opened. It was an hour after midnight, it was the\nbeginning of Sunday. This day belonged to my lord the Inquisitor. He\nentered, and saw the whipped Candide, sword in hand, a dead man upon the\nfloor, Cunegonde aghast, and the old woman giving counsel.\n\nAt this moment, the following is what passed in the soul of Candide, and\nhow he reasoned:\n\nIf this holy man call in assistance, he will surely have me burnt; and\nCunegonde will perhaps be served in the same manner; he was the cause of\nmy being cruelly whipped; he is my rival; and, as I have now begun to\nkill, I will kill away, for there is no time to hesitate. This reasoning\nwas clear and instantaneous; so that without giving time to the\nInquisitor to recover from his surprise, he pierced him through and\nthrough, and cast him beside the Jew.\n\n\"Yet again!\" said Cunegonde, \"now there is no mercy for us, we are\nexcommunicated, our last hour has come. How could you do it? you,\nnaturally so gentle, to slay a Jew and a prelate in two minutes!\"\n\n\"My beautiful young lady,\" responded Candide, \"when one is a lover,\njealous and whipped by the Inquisition, one stops at nothing.\"\n\nThe old woman then put in her word, saying:\n\n\"There are three Andalusian horses in the stable with bridles and\nsaddles, let the brave Candide get them ready; madame has money, jewels;\nlet us therefore mount quickly on horseback, though I can sit only on\none buttock; let us set out for Cadiz, it is the finest weather in the\nworld, and there is great pleasure in travelling in the cool of the\nnight.\"\n\nImmediately Candide saddled the three horses, and Cunegonde, the old\nwoman and he, travelled thirty miles at a stretch. While they were\njourneying, the Holy Brotherhood entered the house; my lord the\nInquisitor was interred in a handsome church, and Issachar's body was\nthrown upon a dunghill.\n\nCandide, Cunegonde, and the old woman, had now reached the little town\nof Avacena in the midst of the mountains of the Sierra Morena, and were\nspeaking as follows in a public inn.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Don Issachar arrives to find Cunegonde and Candide alone together, and attacks Candide in a jealous rage. Candide kills Don Issachar with a sword given to him by the old woman. The Grand Inquisitor arrives to enjoy his allotted time with Cunegonde and is surprised to find Candide. Candide kills him. Cunegonde gathers her jewels and three horses from the stable and flees with Candide and the old woman. The Holy Brotherhood gives the Grand Inquisitor a grand burial, but throws Don Issachar's body on a dunghill"}, {"": "368", "document": "\n\nA very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the\nnature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She\nwas soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all\napprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had\nreally subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but\nif he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the\ntwo, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had\ntaken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two\nmonths should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before\nher:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did\nnot mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be\nincumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.\n\nShe wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.\nThat would be so very painful a conclusion of their present\nacquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something\ndecisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a\ncrisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil\nstate.\n\nIt was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen,\nbefore she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's\nfeelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been\nimagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down\nfor a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from\nRandalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick\nobservation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she\nmust act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt\nof his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt\nof his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness\nin the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was\nless in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably\nof her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable\neffect.\n\nHe was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed\ndelighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he\nwas not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read\nhis comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently\nfluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed\na liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief\non the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying\naway to make other calls in Highbury. \"He had seen a group of old\nacquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would\nnot stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would\nbe disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer\nat Hartfield, he must hurry off.\" She had no doubt as to his being less\nin love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed\nlike a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a\ndread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting\nhimself with her long.\n\nThis was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.\nHe was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His\naunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at\nRandall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was\nto be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no\nservice to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was\nreally ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at\nRandalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked\nback, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a\nyear ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care\nand medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many\nyears of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all\nhis father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary,\nor that she was as strong as ever.\n\nIt soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could\nnot endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and\nsuffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls\ncommunicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to\nRichmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of\nan eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A\nready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit\nexpected from the change.\n\nEmma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,\nand seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months\nbefore him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the\nhouse was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with\nthe greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he\ncould even wish.\n\nEmma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was\nconsidering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She\nhoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.\n\nMr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted.\nIt was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be\nreally having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to\na young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The\ndifference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make\nthe whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen\nmiles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was\na serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be\nspent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in\nLondon; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very\ndistance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer!\n\nOne good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this\nremoval,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before,\nbut it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now,\nhowever, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and\nvery soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from\nFrank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and\nthat he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at\nany given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.\n\nMr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood\nbetween the young people of Highbury and happiness.\n\nMr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him.\nMay was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to\nspend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely\nhoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any\nthing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.\n\n\n", "summary": "Emma later thinks about Frank Churchill, and thinks that her agitation at his visit is not for her, but for him. She hopes that this two-month separation will have cooled his feelings for her, and that he might not make a declaration of love for her. When indeed they do meet, Emma thinks that he is less in love with her than he was. Soon Mrs. Churchill decides that she must move again, and this time it is even better, as Frank will be even closer to Highbury. It is decided that they will have their ball at the Crown after all"}, {"": "369", "document": "Cyrano, Christian, Roxane.\n\nROXANE (coming out on the balcony):\n  Still there?\n  We spoke of a. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  A kiss!  The word is sweet.\n  I see not why your lip should shrink from it;\n  If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do?\n  Oh! let it not your bashfulness affright;\n  Have you not, all this time, insensibly,\n  Left badinage aside, and unalarmed\n  Glided from smile to sigh,--from sigh to weeping?\n  Glide gently, imperceptibly, still onward--\n  From tear to kiss,--a moment's thrill!--a heartbeat!\n\nROXANE:\n  Hush! hush!\n\nCYRANO:\n  A kiss, when all is said,--what is it?\n  An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise,\n  A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,--\n  A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'--\n  A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,--\n  Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,--\n  Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,--\n  The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing,\n  When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming!\n\nROXANE:\n  Hush! hush!\n\nCYRANO:\n  A kiss, Madame, is honorable:\n  The Queen of France, to a most favored lord\n  Did grant a kiss--the Queen herself!\n\nROXANE:\n  What then?\n\nCYRANO (speaking more warmly):\n  Buckingham suffered dumbly,--so have I,--\n  Adored his Queen, as loyally as I,--\n  Was sad, but faithful,--so am I. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  And you\n  Are fair as Buckingham!\n\nCYRANO (aside--suddenly cooled):\n  True,--I forgot!\n\nROXANE:\n  Must I then bid thee mount to cull this flower?\n\nCYRANO (pushing Christian toward the balcony):\n  Mount!\n\nROXANE:\n  This heart-breathing!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Mount!\n\nROXANE:\n  This brush of bee's wing!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Mount!\n\nCHRISTIAN (hesitating):\n  But I feel now, as though 'twere ill done!\n\nROXANE:\n  This moment infinite!. . .\n\nCYRANO (still pushing him):\n  Come, blockhead, mount!\n\n(Christian springs forward, and by means of the bench, the branches, and the\npillars, climbs to the balcony and strides over it.)\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Ah, Roxane!\n\n(He takes her in his arms, and bends over her lips.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Aie!  Strange pain that wrings my heart!\n  The kiss, love's feast, so near!  I, Lazarus,\n  Lie at the gate in darkness.  Yet to me\n  Falls still a crumb or two from the rich man's board--\n  Ay, 'tis my heart receives thee, Roxane--mine!\n  For on the lips you press you kiss as well\n  The words I spoke just now!--my words--my words!\n(The lutes play):\n  A sad air,--a gay air: the monk!\n(He begins to run as if he came from a long way off, and cries out):\n  Hola!\n\nROXANE:\n  Who is it?\n\nCYRANO:\n  I--I was but passing by. . .\n  Is Christian there?\n\nCHRISTIAN (astonished):\n  Cyrano!\n\nROXANE:\n  Good-day, cousin!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Cousin, good-day!\n\nROXANE:\n  I'm coming!\n\n(She disappears into the house.  At the back re-enter the friar.)\n\nCHRISTIAN (seeing him):\n  Back again!\n\n(He follows Roxane.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Christian tells Cyrano that he must have a kiss from Roxane. Cyrano reluctantly agrees"}, {"": "370", "document": "THE CENTRAL LABOUR BUREAU\n\n\n\nThis Bureau is established in the Social Headquarters at Whitechapel,\na large building acquired as long ago as 1878. Here is to be seen the\nroom in which General Booth used to hold some of his first prayer\nmeetings, and a little chamber where he took counsel with those\nOfficers who were the fathers of the Army. Also there is a place where\nhe could sit unseen and listen to the preaching of his subordinates,\nso that he might judge of their ability.\n\nThe large hall is now part of yet another Shelter, which contains 232\nbeds and bunks. I inspected this place, but as it differs in no\nimportant detail from others, I will not describe it.\n\nThe Officer who is in charge of the Labour Bureau informed me that\nhundreds of men apply there for work every week, of whom a great many\nare sent into the various Elevators and Shelters. The Army finds it\nextremely difficult to procure outside employment for these men, for\nthe simple reason that there is very little available. Moreover, now\nthat the Government Labour Bureaux are open, this trouble is not\nlessened. Of these Bureaux, the Manager said that they are most\nuseful, but fail to find employment for many who apply to them.\nIndeed, numbers of men come on from them to the Salvation Army.\n\nThe hard fact is that there are more idle hands than there is work for\nthem to do, even where honest and capable folk are concerned. Thus, in\nthe majority of instances, the Army is obliged to rely upon its own\nInstitutions and the Hadleigh Land Colony to provide some sort of job\nfor out-of-works. Of course, of such jobs there are not enough to go\nround, so many poor folk must be sent empty away or supported by\ncharity.\n\nI suggested that it might be worth while to establish a school of\nchauffeurs, and the Officers present said that they would consider the\nmatter. Unfortunately, however, such an experiment must be costly at\nthe present price of motor-vehicles.\n\nI annex the Labour Bureau Statistics for May, 1910:--\n\n     LONDON\n\n          Applicants for temporary employment  479\n          Sent to temporary employment         183\n          Applicants for Elevators             864\n          Sent to Elevators                    260\n          Sent to Shelters                      32\n\n     PROVINCES\n\n          Applicants for temporary employment  461\n          Sent to temporary employment         160\n          Applicants for Elevators             417\n          Sent to Elevators                    202\n          Sent to Shelters                      20\n          Sent to permanent situations          35\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Prior has been confined for two weeks to the hospital as a punishment for being out too late and for speaking to the matron disrespectfully. In his session with Rivers, he complains about the severity of the punishment. They discuss the possible reasons why officers do not suffer from mutism nearly as often as private soldiers do. Rivers believes it is a conflict between \"wanting to say something and knowing if you do say it the consequences will be disastrous. He believes that officers have more complex mental lives because they have been better educated. Prior asks Rivers why it is that Rivers stammers. Rivers is taken aback and says that there is no known cause; it might be genetic. Prior suggests that maybe it is Rivers who is ill; maybe there is something that he has been trying not to say for fifty years. That night, Rivers is trying to finish some paperwork, deciding which patients are fit to send back to the war, when Prior comes in to apologize about his rude manners that morning. Prior admits to Rivers that he has not yet told him about his dreams because his standard shell-shock nightmares sometimes strangely intermix with sex. Rivers suggests that now might be a good time to try hypnosis, and Prior agrees to it. Under hypnosis, Prior remembers waking up in a trench for duty one morning. As he walked down the path to check on the other men, he heard a shell overhead. He turned around to see that there was nothing left of two of his men who had been cooking breakfast. As he ran to shovel their remains into a bag, he picked up an eyeball and vomited. He finished cleaning up and then went to report the death of the two men. When he is brought out of hypnosis, Prior feels intensely angry. He feels responsible for the deaths of his two men. He recalls the story of an officer who commands that his troops fire on another regiment, only to find out that they are English, not German. He says he knows what that officer must have felt like. Rivers consoles Prior that there is no one kind of man who breaks down. Later that night, as Rivers is preparing for bed, he reflects on the day. He had been used to patients treating him like a father, but he was disturbed that one patient years ago had likened him to a \"male mother. He resents the fact that the quality of nurturing remains female, even when performed by a male, but he recognizes that the relationship among men in the trenches is domestic, and often quite maternal. He also reflects on the paradoxes of the war: that something so manly should end up so domestic, that men were \"mobilized\" into holes where they could hardly move, and that \"manly activity had turned into feminine passivity. As Rivers goes to sleep, he wishes he were young enough to serve in France"}, {"": "371", "document": "On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw\nall the country fall away before me down to the sea; and in the midst\nof this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like\na kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying\nanchored in the firth; both of which, for as far away as they were, I\ncould distinguish clearly; and both brought my country heart into my\nmouth.\n\nPresently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a\nrough direction for the neighbourhood of Cramond; and so, from one to\nanother, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Colinton, till\nI came out upon the Glasgow road. And there, to my great pleasure and\nwonder, I beheld a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time;\nan old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the\nother the company of Grenadiers, with their Pope's-hats. The pride of\nlife seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats and the\nhearing of that merry music.\n\nA little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond parish, and began\nto substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaws. It was a\nword that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I\nthought the plainness of my appearance, in my country habit, and that\nall dusty from the road, consorted ill with the greatness of the place\nto which I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had given me the\nsame look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head there was\nsomething strange about the Shaws itself.\n\nThe better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries;\nand spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his\ncart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called the\nhouse of Shaws.\n\nHe stopped his cart and looked at me, like the others.\n\n\"Ay\" said he. \"What for?\"\n\n\"It's a great house?\" I asked.\n\n\"Doubtless,\" says he. \"The house is a big, muckle house.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said I, \"but the folk that are in it?\"\n\n\"Folk?\" cried he. \"Are ye daft? There's nae folk there--to call folk.\"\n\n\"What?\" say I; \"not Mr. Ebenezer?\"\n\n\"Ou, ay\" says the man; \"there's the laird, to be sure, if it's him\nyou're wanting. What'll like be your business, mannie?\"\n\n\"I was led to think that I would get a situation,\" I said, looking as\nmodest as I could.\n\n\"What?\" cries the carter, in so sharp a note that his very horse\nstarted; and then, \"Well, mannie,\" he added, \"it's nane of my affairs;\nbut ye seem a decent-spoken lad; and if ye'll take a word from me, ye'll\nkeep clear of the Shaws.\"\n\nThe next person I came across was a dapper little man in a beautiful\nwhite wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds; and knowing well\nthat barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man\nwas Mr. Balfour of the Shaws.\n\n\"Hoot, hoot, hoot,\" said the barber, \"nae kind of a man, nae kind of a\nman at all;\" and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was;\nbut I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next\ncustomer no wiser than he came.\n\nI cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more\nindistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left\nthe wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that all\nthe parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? or what\nsort of a gentleman, that his ill-fame should be thus current on the\nwayside? If an hour's walking would have brought me back to Essendean, I\nhad left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell's.\nBut when I had come so far a way already, mere shame would not suffer me\nto desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound,\nout of mere self-respect, to carry it through; and little as I liked\nthe sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept\nasking my way and still kept advancing.\n\nIt was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking\nwoman coming trudging down a hill; and she, when I had put my usual\nquestion, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had\njust left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare\nupon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant\nround about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and\nthe crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good; but the house itself appeared\nto be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of\nthe chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank.\n\"That!\" I cried.\n\nThe woman's face lit up with a malignant anger. \"That is the house of\nShaws!\" she cried. \"Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it;\nblood shall bring it down. See here!\" she cried again--\"I spit upon\nthe ground, and crack my thumb at it! Black be its fall! If ye see the\nlaird, tell him what ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and\nnineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him\nand his house, byre and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or\nbairn--black, black be their fall!\"\n\nAnd the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song,\nturned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my\nhair on end. In those days folk still believed in witches and trembled\nat a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest\nme ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs.\n\nI sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked,\nthe pleasanter that country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn\nbushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of\nrooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate; and yet the\nbarrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy.\n\nCountry folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the\nditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e'en. At last the sun\nwent down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of\nsmoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke\nof a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and\ncookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this\ncomforted my heart.\n\nSo I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my\ndirection. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place\nof habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone\nuprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon\nthe top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished;\ninstead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across\nwith a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of\navenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the\npillars, and went wandering on toward the house.\n\nThe nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the\none wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been\nthe inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky\nwith steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were\nunglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote.\n\nThe night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower\nwindows, which were very high up and narrow, and well barred, the\nchanging light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace\nI had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek\nnew friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father's house on\nEssen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away,\nand the door open to a beggar's knock!\n\nI came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one\nrattling with dishes, and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits;\nbut there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked.\n\nThe door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece\nof wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart\nunder my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house\nhad fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing\nstirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again.\nBy this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I\ncould hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the\nseconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have\nheld his breath.\n\nI was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand,\nand I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout\nout aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough\nright overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man's head\nin a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the\nfirst-storey windows.\n\n\"It's loaded,\" said a voice.\n\n\"I have come here with a letter,\" I said, \"to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of\nShaws. Is he here?\"\n\n\"From whom is it?\" asked the man with the blunderbuss.\n\n\"That is neither here nor there,\" said I, for I was growing very wroth.\n\n\"Well,\" was the reply, \"ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off\nwith ye.\"\n\n\"I will do no such thing,\" I cried. \"I will deliver it into Mr.\nBalfour's hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of\nintroduction.\"\n\n\"A what?\" cried the voice, sharply.\n\nI repeated what I had said.\n\n\"Who are ye, yourself?\" was the next question, after a considerable\npause.\n\n\"I am not ashamed of my name,\" said I. \"They call me David Balfour.\"\n\nAt that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle\non the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a\ncurious change of voice, that the next question followed:\n\n\"Is your father dead?\"\n\nI was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer,\nbut stood staring.\n\n\"Ay,\" the man resumed, \"he'll be dead, no doubt; and that'll be what\nbrings ye chapping to my door.\" Another pause, and then defiantly,\n\"Well, man,\" he said, \"I'll let ye in;\" and he disappeared from the\nwindow.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The novel opens with David Balfour's narration of his adventures. On a June morning in 1751, after the death of his father, David leaves the place of his birth to go in search of fortune. The minister of Essendean, Mr. Campbell, comes forward to bid him good-bye. He also hands over to David a letter written by his father, Alexander Balfour; the letter is addressed to Alexander's brother, Ebenezer, asking him to look after David. The clergyman asks the boy to go to Cramond, near Edinburgh, to meet his uncle and deliver the letter. He also advises the boy to adjust to the ways of his uncle and to follow the rules of his household. He then gives David the money left behind by his father and three gifts from himself and his wife. The first gift is a shilling, the second a Bible, and the third a yellow paper containing the remedy for sickness and injury . Accepting the gifts, David bids good-bye to Mr. Campbell and leaves for his new home."}, {"": "372", "document": "\nTHE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE\n\n\nIt was broad day when I awoke and found myself tossing at the southwest\nend of Treasure Island. The sun was up, but was still hid from me behind\nthe great bulk of the Spy-glass, which on this side descended almost to\nthe sea in formidable cliffs.\n\nHaulbowline Head and Mizzen-mast Hill were at my elbow, the hill bare\nand dark, the head bound with cliffs forty or fifty feet high and\nfringed with great masses of fallen rock. I was scarce a quarter of a\nmile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land.\n\nThat notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers\nspouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and\nfalling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself,\nif I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore or spending\nmy strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.\n\nNor was that all, for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or\nletting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports, I beheld huge\nslimy monsters--soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness--two or\nthree score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their\nbarkings.\n\nI have understood since that they were sea lions, and entirely harmless.\nBut the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high\nrunning of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me of that\nlanding-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront\nsuch perils.\n\nIn the meantime I had a better chance, as I supposed, before me. North\nof Haulbowline Head the land runs in a long way, leaving, at low tide, a\nlong stretch of yellow sand. To the north of that, again, there comes\nanother cape--Cape of the Woods, as it was marked upon the chart--buried\nin tall green pines, which descended to the margin of the sea.\n\nI remembered what Silver had said about the current that sets northward\nalong the whole west coast of Treasure Island; and seeing from my\nposition that I was already under its influence, I preferred to leave\nHaulbowline Head behind me, and reserve my strength for an attempt to\nland upon the kindlier-looking Cape of the Woods.\n\nThere was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady\nand gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the\ncurrent, and the billows rose and fell unbroken.\n\nHad it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was, it\nis surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could\nride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom, and kept no more than an eye\nabove the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me;\nyet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and\nsubside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.\n\nI began after a little to grow very bold, and sat up to try my skill at\npaddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will\nproduce violent changes in the behavior of a coracle. And I had hardly\nmoved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle, dancing movement,\nran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and\nstruck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next\nwave.\n\nI was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old\nposition, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again, and led\nme softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be\ninterfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her\ncourse, what hope had I left of reaching land?\n\nI began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that.\nFirst, moving with all care, I gradually bailed out the coracle with my\nsea cap; then getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself\nto study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers.\n\nI found each wave, instead of the big, smooth, glossy mountain it looks\nfrom shore, or from a vessel's deck, was for all the world like any\nrange of hills on the dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and\nvalleys. The coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side,\nthreaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts, and avoided\nthe steep slopes and higher toppling summits of the wave.\n\n\"Well, now,\" thought I to myself, \"it is plain I must lie where I am,\nand not disturb the balance; but it is plain, also, that I can put the\npaddle over the side, and from time to time, in smooth places, give her\na shove or two towards land.\" No sooner thought upon than done. There I\nlay on my elbows, in the most trying attitude, and every now and again\ngave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore.\n\nIt was very tiring and slow work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and, as\nwe drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly miss\nthat point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was,\nindeed, close in. I could see the cool, green tree-tops swaying together\nin the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without\nfail.\n\nIt was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow\nof the sun from above, its thousand-fold reflection from the waves, the\nsea water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt,\ncombined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the\ntrees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing; but the\ncurrent had soon carried me past the point; and, as the next reach of\nsea opened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.\n\nRight in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the _Hispaniola_\nunder sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken, but I was so\ndistressed for want of water, that I scarce knew whether to be glad or\nsorry at the thought; and, long before I had come to a conclusion,\nsurprise had taken possession of my mind, and I could do nothing but\nstare and wonder.\n\nThe _Hispaniola_ was under her mainsail and two jibs, and the beautiful\nwhite canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first sighted\nher, all her sails were drawing, she was laying a course about\nnorthwest, and I presumed the men on board were going round the island\non their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more\nand more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were\ngoing about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind's\neye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her\nsails shivering.\n\n\"Clumsy fellows,\" said I, \"they must still be drunk as owls.\" And I\nthought how Captain Smollett would have set them skipping.\n\nMeanwhile the schooner gradually fell off, and filled again upon another\ntack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead\nin the wind's eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and\ndown, north, south, east, and west, the _Hispaniola_ sailed by swoops\nand dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with idly\nflapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And, if\nso, where were the men? Either they were dead drunk, or had deserted\nher, I thought, and perhaps if I could get on board, I might return the\nvessel to her captain.\n\nThe current was bearing coracle and schooner southward at an equal rate.\nAs for the latter's sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she\nhung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if\nshe did not even lose. If I only dared to sit up and paddle, I made sure\nthat I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure that\ninspired me, and the thought of the water breaker beside the\nfore companion doubled my growing courage.\n\nUp I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but\nthis time stuck to my purpose and set myself with all my strength and\ncaution to paddle after the unsteered _Hispaniola_. Once I shipped a sea\nso heavy that I had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like a\nbird, but gradually I got into the way of the thing and guided my\ncoracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows\nand a dash of foam in my face.\n\nI was now gaining rapidly on the schooner. I could see the brass glisten\non the tiller as it banged about, and still no soul appeared upon her\ndecks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men\nwere lying drunk below, where I might batten them down, perhaps, and do\nwhat I chose with the ship.\n\nFor some time she had been doing the worst thing possible for\nme--standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all\nthe time. Each time she fell off her sails partly filled, and these\nbrought her, in a moment, right to the wind again. I have said this was\nthe worst thing possible for me; for, helpless as she looked in this\nsituation, with the canvas crackling like cannon, and the blocks\ntrundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from\nme, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of\nher leeway, which was naturally great.\n\nBut now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell, for some seconds,\nvery low, and the current gradually turning her, the _Hispaniola_\nrevolved slowly round her center and at last presented me her stern,\nwith the cabin window still gaping open and the lamp over the table\nstill burning on into the day. The mainsail hung drooped like a banner.\nShe was stock-still but for the current.\n\nFor the last little while I had even lost, but now, redoubling my\nefforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase.\n\nI was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap;\nshe filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming\nlike a swallow.\n\nMy first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy.\nRound she came, till she was broadside on to me--round still till she\nhad covered a half, and then two-thirds, and then three-quarters of the\ndistance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under\nher forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the\ncoracle.\n\nAnd then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to\nthink--scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one\nswell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was\nover my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under\nwater. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged\nbetween the stay and the brace, and as I still clung there panting, a\ndull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the\ncoracle and that I was left without retreat on the _Hispaniola_.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jim finds himself floating at the southwest end of the island when he wakes up. He is a quarter of a mile away from the shore and thinks about paddling in. He changes his mind when he sees huge waves, carrying large shiny sea lions. In the meantime, Jim decides to approach land with the help of the current that moves northward. The sea behaves in its natural way, but Jim couldnt control the coracle as Jim was new to all this. Unable to do anything against the huge waves Jim lies down in the coracle just watching them. The waves look like mountains, hills and valleys. Every now and then Jim musters up his courage and strokes the coracle when his hopes look up and he sees the trees swaying not far away from him, he knows he was approaching land. He expects to reach the shore with the next stroke when a current pulls Jim back to the open sea. Here Jim witnesses the most unexpected scene. Half a mile away he sees the Hispaniola sailing. For a moment, he thinks about getting on board as he is dying of thirst. The ship is still uncontrolled by the men on board. Jim feels an urge to take control of the vessel and return it to the Captain. Jim rows his coracle towards the ship. A wind pulls the coracle closer. He decides to desert the coracle and grasps the jib-boom of the ship. The wave that helps Jim to get hold of the jib-boom makes the ship swagger and it hits the coracle. Jim is left hanging on the Hispaniola."}, {"": "373", "document": "The same, all but Cyrano.  The day is breaking in a rosy light.  The town of\nArras is golden in the horizon.  The report of cannon is heard in the\ndistance, followed immediately by the beating of drums far away to the left.\nOther drums are heard much nearer.  Sounds of stirring in the camp. Voices of\nofficers in the distance.\n\nCARBON (sighing):\n  The reveille!\n(The cadets move and stretch themselves):\n  Nourishing sleep!  Thou art at an end!. . .I know well what will be their\nfirst cry!\n\nA CADET (sitting up):\n  I am so hungry!\n\nANOTHER:\n  I am dying of hunger.\n\nTOGETHER:\n  Oh!\n\nCARBON:\n  Up with you!\n\nTHIRD CADET:\n  --Cannot move a limb.\n\nFOURTH CADET:\n  Nor can I.\n\nTHE FIRST (looking at himself in a bit of armor):\n  My tongue is yellow.  The air at this season of the year is hard to digest.\n\nANOTHER:\n  My coronet for a bit of Chester!\n\nANOTHER:\n  If none can furnish to my gaster wherewith to make a pint of chyle, I shall\nretire to my tent--like Achilles!\n\nANOTHER:\n  Oh! something! were it but a crust!\n\nCARBON (going to the tent and calling softly):\n  Cyrano!\n\nALL THE CADETS:\n  We are dying!\n\nCARBON (continuing to speak under his breath at the opening of the tent):\n  Come to my aid, you, who have the art of quick retort and gay jest.  Come,\nhearten them up.\n\nSECOND CADET (rushing toward another who is munching something):\n  What are you crunching there?\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  Cannon-wads soaked in axle-grease!  'Tis poor hunting round about Arras!\n\nA CADET (entering):\n  I have been after game.\n\nANOTHER (following him):\n  And I after fish.\n\nALL (rushing to the two newcomers):\n  Well! what have you brought?--a pheasant?--a carp?--Come, show us quick!\n\nTHE ANGLER:\n  A gudgeon!\n\nTHE SPORTSMAN:\n  A sparrow!\n\nALL TOGETHER (beside themselves):\n  'Tis more than can be borne!  We will mutiny!\n\nCARBON:\n  Cyrano!  Come to my help.\n\n(The daylight has now come.)\n\n\n\n\nThe SAME.  Cyrano.\n\nCYRANO (appearing from the tent, very calm, with a pen stuck behind his ear\nand a book in his hand):\n  What is wrong?\n(Silence.  To the first cadet):\n  Why drag you your legs so sorrowfully?\n\nTHE CADET:\n  I have something in my heels which weighs them down.\n\nCYRANO:\n  And what may that be?\n\nTHE CADET:\n  My stomach!\n\nCYRANO:\n  So have I, 'faith!\n\nTHE CADET:\n  It must be in your way?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Nay, I am all the taller.\n\nA THIRD:\n  My stomach's hollow.\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Faith, 'twill make a fine drum to sound the assault.\n\nANOTHER:\n  I have a ringing in my ears.\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, no, 'tis false; a hungry stomach has no ears.\n\nANOTHER:\n  Oh, to eat something--something oily!\n\nCYRANO (pulling off the cadet's helmet and holding it out to him):\n  Behold your salad!\n\nANOTHER:\n  What, in God's name, can we devour?\n\nCYRANO (throwing him the book which he is carrying):\n  The 'Iliad'.\n\nANOTHER:\n  The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day!\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges!\n\nTHE SAME:\n  And why not? with wine, too!\n\nCYRANO:\n  A little Burgundy.  Richelieu, s'il vous plait!\n\nTHE SAME:\n  He could send it by one of his friars.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself.\n\nANOTHER:\n  I am as ravenous as an ogre!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Eat your patience, then.\n\nTHE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders):\n  Always your pointed word!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, pointed words!\n  I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve,\n  Making a pointed word for a good cause.\n  --To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword,\n  Wielded by some brave adversary--die\n  On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed,\n  A point upon my lips, a point within my heart.\n\nCRIES FROM ALL:\n  I'm hungry!\n\nCYRANO (crossing his arms):\n  All your thoughts of meat and drink!\n  Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,--\n  Draw from its double leathern case your fife,\n  Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers.  Play\n  Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring,\n  Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices,\n  Each note of which calls like a little sister,\n  Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths\n  Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets,\n  Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . .\n(The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready):\n  Your flute was now a warrior in durance;\n  But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing\n  A bird-like minuet!  O flute!  Remember\n  That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum;\n  Make us a music pastoral days recalling--\n  The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . .\n(The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc):\n  Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer\n  The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers\n  The flute of the woods!  No more the call to combat,\n  'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . .\n  Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest,\n  The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret,\n  The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,--\n  'Tis Gascony!  Hark, Gascons, to the music!\n\n(The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if\ndreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and\nthe corner of their cloaks.)\n\nCARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper):\n  But you make them weep!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, for homesickness.  A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of\nthe body!  I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera.  Heart-ache\nis better than stomach-ache.\n\nCARBON:\n  But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings!\n\nCYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach):\n  Not I.  The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them.\n'Twould suffice. . .\n\n(He makes a signal; the drum beats.)\n\nALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms):\n  What?  What is it?\n\nCYRANO (smiling):\n  You see!  One roll of the drum is enough!  Good-by dreams, regrets, native\nland, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away!\n\nA CADET (looking toward the back of the stage):\n  Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche.\n\nALL THE CADETS (muttering):\n  Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . .\n\nCYRANO (smiling):\n  A flattering welcome!\n\nA CADET:\n  We are sick to death of him!\n\nANOTHER CADET:\n  --With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman!\n\nANOTHER:\n  As if one wore linen over steel!\n\nTHE FIRST:\n  It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck.\n\nTHE SECOND:\n  Another plotting courtier!\n\nANOTHER CADET:\n  His uncle's own nephew!\n\nCARBON:\n  For all that--a Gascon.\n\nTHE FIRST:\n  Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . .\n  Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . .\n  Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon.\n\nLE BRET:\n  How pale he is!\n\nANOTHER:\n  Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its\nfine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun.\n\nCYRANO (hurriedly):\n  Let us not seem to suffer either!  Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . .\n(All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and\non their cloaks, and light long pipes):\n  And I shall read Descartes.\n\n(He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his\npocket.  Tableau.  Enter De Guiche.  All appear absorbed and happy.  He is\nvery pale.  He goes up to Carbon.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The cadets complain of hunger. Cyrano tries to entertain them with his wit, but when even he cannot cheer them up, he asks an old piper to play some familiar Provencal songs for them and speaks to them of home. When Carbon protests that Cyrano is making them cry, Cyrano responds that it is nobler to cry from homesickness than it is to cry from hunger, because homesickness is moral and hunger is physical."}, {"": "374", "document": "\nA forlorn woman went along a lighted avenue.  The street was filled\nwith people desperately bound on missions.  An endless crowd darted at\nthe elevated station stairs and the horse cars were thronged with\nowners of bundles.\n\nThe pace of the forlorn woman was slow.  She was apparently searching\nfor some one.  She loitered near the doors of saloons and watched men\nemerge from them.  She scanned furtively the faces in the rushing\nstream of pedestrians.  Hurrying men, bent on catching some boat or\ntrain, jostled her elbows, failing to notice her, their thoughts fixed\non distant dinners.\n\nThe forlorn woman had a peculiar face.  Her smile was no smile.  But\nwhen in repose her features had a shadowy look that was like a sardonic\ngrin, as if some one had sketched with cruel forefinger indelible lines\nabout her mouth.\n\nJimmie came strolling up the avenue.  The woman encountered him with an\naggrieved air.\n\n\"Oh, Jimmie, I've been lookin' all over fer yehs--,\" she began.\n\nJimmie made an impatient gesture and quickened his pace.\n\n\"Ah, don't bodder me!  Good Gawd!\" he said, with the savageness of a\nman whose life is pestered.\n\nThe woman followed him along the sidewalk in somewhat the manner of a\nsuppliant.\n\n\"But, Jimmie,\" she said, \"yehs told me ye'd--\"\n\nJimmie turned upon her fiercely as if resolved to make a last stand for\ncomfort and peace.\n\n\"Say, fer Gawd's sake, Hattie, don' foller me from one end of deh city\nteh deh odder.  Let up, will yehs!  Give me a minute's res', can't\nyehs?  Yehs makes me tired, allus taggin' me.  See?  Ain' yehs got no\nsense.  Do yehs want people teh get onto me?  Go chase yerself, fer\nGawd's sake.\"\n\nThe woman stepped closer and laid her fingers on his arm.  \"But,\nlook-a-here--\"\n\nJimmie snarled.  \"Oh, go teh hell.\"\n\nHe darted into the front door of a convenient saloon and a moment later\ncame out into the shadows that surrounded the side door.  On the\nbrilliantly lighted avenue he perceived the forlorn woman dodging about\nlike a scout.  Jimmie laughed with an air of relief and went away.\n\nWhen he arrived home he found his mother clamoring.  Maggie had\nreturned.  She stood shivering beneath the torrent of her mother's\nwrath.\n\n\"Well, I'm damned,\" said Jimmie in greeting.\n\nHis mother, tottering about the room, pointed a quivering forefinger.\n\n\"Lookut her, Jimmie, lookut her.  Dere's yer sister, boy.  Dere's yer\nsister.  Lookut her!  Lookut her!\"\n\nShe screamed in scoffing laughter.\n\nThe girl stood in the middle of the room.  She edged about as if unable\nto find a place on the floor to put her feet.\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha,\" bellowed the mother.  \"Dere she stands!  Ain' she purty?\nLookut her!  Ain' she sweet, deh beast?  Lookut her!  Ha, ha, lookut\nher!\"\n\nShe lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon her\ndaughter's face.  She bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of\nthe girl.\n\n\"Oh, she's jes' dessame as she ever was, ain' she?  She's her mudder's\npurty darlin' yit, ain' she?  Lookut her, Jimmie!  Come here, fer\nGawd's sake, and lookut her.\"\n\nThe loud, tremendous sneering of the mother brought the denizens of the\nRum Alley tenement to their doors.  Women came in the hallways.\nChildren scurried to and fro.\n\n\"What's up?  Dat Johnson party on anudder tear?\"\n\n\"Naw!  Young Mag's come home!\"\n\n\"Deh hell yeh say?\"\n\nThrough the open door curious eyes stared in at Maggie.  Children\nventured into the room and ogled her, as if they formed the front row\nat a theatre.  Women, without, bended toward each other and whispered,\nnodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy.  A baby, overcome\nwith curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, sidled\nforward and touched her dress, cautiously, as if investigating a\nred-hot stove.  Its mother's voice rang out like a warning trumpet.\nShe rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of\nindignation at the girl.\n\nMaggie's mother paced to and fro, addressing the doorful of eyes,\nexpounding like a glib showman at a museum.  Her voice rang through the\nbuilding.\n\n\"Dere she stands,\" she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with\ndramatic finger.  \"Dere she stands!  Lookut her!  Ain' she a dindy?\nAn' she was so good as to come home teh her mudder, she was!  Ain' she\na beaut'?  Ain' she a dindy?  Fer Gawd's sake!\"\n\nThe jeering cries ended in another burst of shrill laughter.\n\nThe girl seemed to awaken.  \"Jimmie--\"\n\nHe drew hastily back from her.\n\n\"Well, now, yer a hell of a t'ing, ain' yeh?\" he said, his lips curling\nin scorn.  Radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands\nexpressed horror of contamination.\n\nMaggie turned and went.\n\nThe crowd at the door fell back precipitately.  A baby falling down in\nfront of the door, wrenched a scream like a wounded animal from its\nmother.  Another woman sprang forward and picked it up, with a\nchivalrous air, as if rescuing a human being from an oncoming express\ntrain.\n\nAs the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors\nframing more eyes strangely microscopic, and sending broad beams of\ninquisitive light into the darkness of her path.  On the second floor\nshe met the gnarled old woman who possessed the music box.\n\n\"So,\" she cried, \"'ere yehs are back again, are yehs?  An' dey've\nkicked yehs out?  Well, come in an' stay wid me teh-night.  I ain' got\nno moral standin'.\"\n\nFrom above came an unceasing babble of tongues, over all of which rang\nthe mother's derisive laughter.\n\n\n", "summary": "A \"forlorn woman\" is wandering down a crowded avenue. Surely, it must be Maggie--she's the definition of forlorn. But wait... it isn't Maggie; it's Hattie. Apparently Jimmie has done his own number on a woman and now she's trying to track him down. It looks like Jimmie is no better than Pete after all, especially since he rejects her in an equally roguish way. Back at Rum Alley: Maggie has returned home , and Mom is milking the opportunity to make Maggie feel like a rotten piece of you-know-what. Mary downright enjoys humiliating her daughter, while the denizens of Rum Alley turn the reunion into a spectacle."}, {"": "375", "document": "As soon as we came to the inn, Ransome led us up the stair to a small\nroom, with a bed in it, and heated like an oven by a great fire of coal.\nAt a table hard by the chimney, a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat\nwriting. In spite of the heat of the room, he wore a thick sea-jacket,\nbuttoned to the neck, and a tall hairy cap drawn down over his ears; yet\nI never saw any man, not even a judge upon the bench, look cooler, or\nmore studious and self-possessed, than this ship-captain.\n\nHe got to his feet at once, and coming forward, offered his large hand\nto Ebenezer. \"I am proud to see you, Mr. Balfour,\" said he, in a fine\ndeep voice, \"and glad that ye are here in time. The wind's fair, and the\ntide upon the turn; we'll see the old coal-bucket burning on the Isle of\nMay before to-night.\"\n\n\"Captain Hoseason,\" returned my uncle, \"you keep your room unco hot.\"\n\n\"It's a habit I have, Mr. Balfour,\" said the skipper. \"I'm a cold-rife\nman by my nature; I have a cold blood, sir. There's neither fur,\nnor flannel--no, sir, nor hot rum, will warm up what they call\nthe temperature. Sir, it's the same with most men that have been\ncarbonadoed, as they call it, in the tropic seas.\"\n\n\"Well, well, captain,\" replied my uncle, \"we must all be the way we're\nmade.\"\n\nBut it chanced that this fancy of the captain's had a great share in my\nmisfortunes. For though I had promised myself not to let my kinsman out\nof sight, I was both so impatient for a nearer look of the sea, and\nso sickened by the closeness of the room, that when he told me to \"run\ndown-stairs and play myself awhile,\" I was fool enough to take him at\nhis word.\n\nAway I went, therefore, leaving the two men sitting down to a bottle\nand a great mass of papers; and crossing the road in front of the inn,\nwalked down upon the beach. With the wind in that quarter, only little\nwavelets, not much bigger than I had seen upon a lake, beat upon the\nshore. But the weeds were new to me--some green, some brown and long,\nand some with little bladders that crackled between my fingers. Even so\nfar up the firth, the smell of the sea-water was exceedingly salt and\nstirring; the Covenant, besides, was beginning to shake out her sails,\nwhich hung upon the yards in clusters; and the spirit of all that I\nbeheld put me in thoughts of far voyages and foreign places.\n\nI looked, too, at the seamen with the skiff--big brown fellows, some in\nshirts, some with jackets, some with coloured handkerchiefs about their\nthroats, one with a brace of pistols stuck into his pockets, two or\nthree with knotty bludgeons, and all with their case-knives. I passed\nthe time of day with one that looked less desperate than his fellows,\nand asked him of the sailing of the brig. He said they would get under\nway as soon as the ebb set, and expressed his gladness to be out of\na port where there were no taverns and fiddlers; but all with such\nhorrifying oaths, that I made haste to get away from him.\n\nThis threw me back on Ransome, who seemed the least wicked of that gang,\nand who soon came out of the inn and ran to me, crying for a bowl of\npunch. I told him I would give him no such thing, for neither he nor I\nwas of an age for such indulgences. \"But a glass of ale you may have,\nand welcome,\" said I. He mopped and mowed at me, and called me names;\nbut he was glad to get the ale, for all that; and presently we were\nset down at a table in the front room of the inn, and both eating and\ndrinking with a good appetite.\n\nHere it occurred to me that, as the landlord was a man of that county,\nI might do well to make a friend of him. I offered him a share, as was\nmuch the custom in those days; but he was far too great a man to sit\nwith such poor customers as Ransome and myself, and he was leaving the\nroom, when I called him back to ask if he knew Mr. Rankeillor.\n\n\"Hoot, ay,\" says he, \"and a very honest man. And, O, by-the-by,\" says\nhe, \"was it you that came in with Ebenezer?\" And when I had told him\nyes, \"Ye'll be no friend of his?\" he asked, meaning, in the Scottish\nway, that I would be no relative.\n\nI told him no, none.\n\n\"I thought not,\" said he, \"and yet ye have a kind of gliff* of Mr.\nAlexander.\"\n\n     * Look.\n\nI said it seemed that Ebenezer was ill-seen in the country.\n\n\"Nae doubt,\" said the landlord. \"He's a wicked auld man, and there's\nmany would like to see him girning in the tow*. Jennet Clouston and mony\nmair that he has harried out of house and hame. And yet he was ance\na fine young fellow, too. But that was before the sough** gaed abroad\nabout Mr. Alexander, that was like the death of him.\"\n\n     * Rope.\n\n     ** Report.\n\n\"And what was it?\" I asked.\n\n\"Ou, just that he had killed him,\" said the landlord. \"Did ye never hear\nthat?\"\n\n\"And what would he kill him for?\" said I.\n\n\"And what for, but just to get the place,\" said he.\n\n\"The place?\" said I. \"The Shaws?\"\n\n\"Nae other place that I ken,\" said he.\n\n\"Ay, man?\" said I. \"Is that so? Was my--was Alexander the eldest son?\"\n\n\"'Deed was he,\" said the landlord. \"What else would he have killed him\nfor?\"\n\nAnd with that he went away, as he had been impatient to do from the\nbeginning.\n\nOf course, I had guessed it a long while ago; but it is one thing to\nguess, another to know; and I sat stunned with my good fortune, and\ncould scarce grow to believe that the same poor lad who had trudged in\nthe dust from Ettrick Forest not two days ago, was now one of the rich\nof the earth, and had a house and broad lands, and might mount his horse\ntomorrow. All these pleasant things, and a thousand others, crowded into\nmy mind, as I sat staring before me out of the inn window, and paying\nno heed to what I saw; only I remember that my eye lighted on Captain\nHoseason down on the pier among his seamen, and speaking with some\nauthority. And presently he came marching back towards the house, with\nno mark of a sailor's clumsiness, but carrying his fine, tall figure\nwith a manly bearing, and still with the same sober, grave expression on\nhis face. I wondered if it was possible that Ransome's stories could\nbe true, and half disbelieved them; they fitted so ill with the man's\nlooks. But indeed, he was neither so good as I supposed him, nor quite\nso bad as Ransome did; for, in fact, he was two men, and left the better\none behind as soon as he set foot on board his vessel.\n\nThe next thing, I heard my uncle calling me, and found the pair in the\nroad together. It was the captain who addressed me, and that with an air\n(very flattering to a young lad) of grave equality.\n\n\"Sir,\" said he, \"Mr. Balfour tells me great things of you; and for my\nown part, I like your looks. I wish I was for longer here, that we might\nmake the better friends; but we'll make the most of what we have. Ye\nshall come on board my brig for half an hour, till the ebb sets, and\ndrink a bowl with me.\"\n\nNow, I longed to see the inside of a ship more than words can tell; but\nI was not going to put myself in jeopardy, and I told him my uncle and I\nhad an appointment with a lawyer.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said he, \"he passed me word of that. But, ye see, the boat'll\nset ye ashore at the town pier, and that's but a penny stonecast from\nRankeillor's house.\" And here he suddenly leaned down and whispered in\nmy ear: \"Take care of the old tod;* he means mischief. Come aboard till\nI can get a word with ye.\" And then, passing his arm through mine, he\ncontinued aloud, as he set off towards his boat: \"But, come, what can I\nbring ye from the Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Balfour's can command.\nA roll of tobacco? Indian feather-work? a skin of a wild beast? a stone\npipe? the mocking-bird that mews for all the world like a cat? the\ncardinal bird that is as red as blood?--take your pick and say your\npleasure.\"\n\n     * Fox.\n\nBy this time we were at the boat-side, and he was handing me in. I did\nnot dream of hanging back; I thought (the poor fool!) that I had found\na good friend and helper, and I was rejoiced to see the ship. As soon as\nwe were all set in our places, the boat was thrust off from the pier\nand began to move over the waters: and what with my pleasure in this new\nmovement and my surprise at our low position, and the appearance of the\nshores, and the growing bigness of the brig as we drew near to it, I\ncould hardly understand what the captain said, and must have answered\nhim at random.\n\nAs soon as we were alongside (where I sat fairly gaping at the ship's\nheight, the strong humming of the tide against its sides, and the\npleasant cries of the seamen at their work) Hoseason, declaring that he\nand I must be the first aboard, ordered a tackle to be sent down from\nthe main-yard. In this I was whipped into the air and set down again on\nthe deck, where the captain stood ready waiting for me, and instantly\nslipped back his arm under mine. There I stood some while, a little\ndizzy with the unsteadiness of all around me, perhaps a little afraid,\nand yet vastly pleased with these strange sights; the captain meanwhile\npointing out the strangest, and telling me their names and uses.\n\n\"But where is my uncle?\" said I suddenly.\n\n\"Ay,\" said Hoseason, with a sudden grimness, \"that's the point.\"\n\nI felt I was lost. With all my strength, I plucked myself clear of him\nand ran to the bulwarks. Sure enough, there was the boat pulling for the\ntown, with my uncle sitting in the stern. I gave a piercing cry--\"Help,\nhelp! Murder!\"--so that both sides of the anchorage rang with it, and\nmy uncle turned round where he was sitting, and showed me a face full of\ncruelty and terror.\n\nIt was the last I saw. Already strong hands had been plucking me back\nfrom the ship's side; and now a thunderbolt seemed to strike me; I saw a\ngreat flash of fire, and fell senseless.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "What Befell at the Queen's Ferry David and Ebenezer meet Hoseason, who is staying in an inn. Ebenezer sends David down to amuse himself while he and the captain speak. David goes and speaks to the sailors of the Covenant, whom he finds to be rather dirty and rude. He talks with the bartender of the inn, who informs him that Many hate Ebenezer and they claim that he murdered David's father to get the House of Shaws. He also discovers that his own father was in fact the elder brother. David meets with his uncle and Hoseason, and Hoseason invites him to take a look around the Covenant while he finishes his discussion with Ebenezer. David agrees, wanting to see more of the ship, but as soon as he gets on the ship he sees his uncle pulling away, and then he is knocked unconscious."}, {"": "376", "document": "SCENE IV.\n\n\n_A room in ANGELO'S house._\n\n  _Enter ANGELO and ESCALUS._\n\n_Escal._ Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.\n\n_Ang._ In most uneven and distracted manner. His\nactions show much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom\nbe not tainted! And why meet him at the gates,\nand redeliver our authorities there?                                 5\n\n_Escal._ I guess not.\n\n_Ang._ And why should we proclaim it in an hour before\nhis entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they\nshould exhibit their petitions in the street?\n\n_Escal._ He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch           10\nof complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter,\nwhich shall then have no power to stand against us.\n\n_Ang._ Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed betimes\ni' the morn; I'll call you at your house: give notice to such\nmen of sort and suit as are to meet him.                            15\n\n_Escal._ I shall, sir. Fare you well.\n\n_Ang._ Good night.    [_Exit Escalus._\n\nThis deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant,\nAnd dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid!\nAnd by an eminent body that enforced                                20\nThe law against it! But that her tender shame\nWill not proclaim against her maiden loss,\nHow might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no;\nFor my authority bears of a credent bulk,\nThat no particular scandal once can touch                           25\nBut it confounds the breather. He should have lived,\nSave that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense,\nMight in the times to come have ta'en revenge,\nBy so receiving a dishonour'd life\nWith ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived!                  30\nAlack, when once our grace we have forgot,\nNothing goes right: we would, and we would not.    [_Exit._\n\n\n  NOTES: IV, 4.\n\n  SCENE IV.] SCENE XII. Pope.\n  A room ... house.] Capell. The palace. Rowe.\n  2, sqq.: Angelo's speeches in this scene Collier prints as verse.\n  5: _redeliver_] Capell. _re-liver_] F1. _deliver_ F2 F3 F4.\n  13: A colon is put after _proclaim'd_ by Capell, who prints\n    lines 13-16 as verse.\n  19: _And_] om. Hanmer.\n  23: _dares her no;_] Ff. _dares her:_ Pope. _dares her: no,_ Hanmer.\n    _dares her No_ Warburton. _dares her? no:_ Capell.\n    _dares her note_ Theobald conj. _dares her not_ Steevens conj.\n    _dares her on_ Grant White (Becket conj.).\n  _reason ... no_] _treason dares her?--No_ Jackson conj.\n  24: _bears of a credent bulk_] F1 F2 F3.\n    _bears off a credent bulk_ F4. _bears off all credence_ Pope.\n    _bears a credent bulk_ Theobald.\n    _bears such a credent bulk_ Collier MS.\n    _here's of a credent bulk_ Singer. _bears so credent bulk_ Dyce.\n    _bears up a credent bulk_ Grant White.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Angelo's house, Escalus and Angelo read a letter from the Duke and note that Vincentio's letters don't seem to make any sense. Has he gone mad, they wonder. Angelo also wonders why the Duke wants them to meet him at the city's gate and why the Duke wants them to make an announcement that anyone who's got a beef with Angelo's version of justice should make a public declaration. Escalus reasons, incorrectly, that the Duke just wants to make things easier for them. Escalus says so long to Angelo and heads home for the night. Alone on stage, Angelo tells us that he knows he's in deep, deep trouble. He hopes that Isabella will be too ashamed to accuse him of taking her virginity. Angelo also confesses that he didn't hold up his end of the bargain because he was afraid Claudio would want revenge."}, {"": "377", "document": "Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche.  Then Le Bret and\nRagueneau.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  And you stay here still--ever vainly fair,\n  Ever in weeds?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ever.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Still faithful?\n\nROXANE:\n  Still.\n\nTHE DUKE (after a pause):\n  Am I forgiven?\n\nROXANE:\n  Ay, since I am here.\n\n(Another pause.)\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  His was a soul, you say?. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah!--when you knew him!\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him!\n  . . .And his last letter, ever next your heart?\n\nROXANE:\n  Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  And, dead, you love him still?\n\nROXANE:\n  At times,--meseems\n  He is but partly dead--our hearts still speak,\n  As if his love, still living, wrapped me round!\n\nTHE DUKE (after another pause):\n  Cyrano comes to see you?\n\nROXANE:\n  Often, ay.\n  Dear, kind old friend!  We call him my 'Gazette.'\n  He never fails to come:  beneath this tree\n  They place his chair, if it be fine:--I wait,\n  I broider;--the clock strikes;--at the last stroke\n  I hear,--for now I never turn to look--\n  Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps;\n  He seats himself:--with gentle raillery\n  He mocks my tapestry that's never done;\n  He tells me all the gossip of the week. . .\n(Le Bret appears on the steps):\n  Why, here's Le Bret!\n(Le Bret descends):\n  How goes it with our friend?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Ill!--very ill.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  How?\n\nROXANE (to the Duke):\n  He exaggerates!\n\nLE BRET:\n  All that I prophesied:  desertion, want!. . .\n  His letters now make him fresh enemies!--\n  Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout,\n  Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world!\n\nROXANE:\n  Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check;\n  None get the better of him.\n\nTHE DUKE (shaking his head):\n  Time will show!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,--\n  Solitude--hunger--cold December days,\n  That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:--\n  Lo! the assassins that I fear for him!\n  Each day he tightens by one hole his belt:\n  That poor nose--tinted like old ivory:\n  He has retained one shabby suit of serge.\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!--\n  Yet is not to be pitied!\n\nLE BRET (with a bitter smile):\n  My Lord Marshal!. . .\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  Pity him not!  He has lived out his vows,\n  Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free!\n\nLE BRET (in the same tone):\n  My Lord!. . .\n\nTHE DUKE (haughtily):\n  True!  I have all, and he has naught;. . .\n  Yet I were proud to take his hand!\n(Bowing to Roxane):\n  Adieu!\n\nROXANE:\n  I go with you.\n\n(The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.)\n\nTHE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up):\n  Ay, true,--I envy him.\n  Look you, when life is brimful of success\n  --Though the past hold no action foul--one feels\n  A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum\n  Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest;\n  And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame,\n  The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds\n  A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets,\n  A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when,\n  Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe\n  Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves.\n\nROXANE (ironically):\n  You are pensive?\n\nTHE DUKE:\n  True!  I am!\n(As he is going out, suddenly):\n  Monsieur Le Bret!\n(To Roxane):\n  A word, with your permission?\n(He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice):\n  True, that none\n  Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him;\n  Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said\n  'That Cyrano may die--by accident!'\n  Let him stay in--be prudent!\n\nLE BRET (raising his arms to heaven):\n  Prudent!  He!. . .\n  He's coming here.  I'll warn him--but!. . .\n\nROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her):\n  What is it?\n\nTHE SISTER:\n  Ragueneau would see you, Madame.\n\nROXANE:\n  Let him come.\n(To the Duke and Le Bret):\n  He comes to tell his troubles.  Having been\n  An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now\n  By turns he's singer. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Bathing-man. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Then actor. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Beadle. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Wig-maker. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Teacher of the lute. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  What will he be to-day, by chance?\n\nRAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly):\n  Ah!  Madame!\n(He sees Le Bret):\n  Ah! you here, Sir!\n\nROXANE (smiling):\n  Tell all your miseries\n  To him; I will return anon.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  But, Madame. . .\n\n(Roxane goes out with the Duke.  Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The scene abruptly switches to the Convent of the Ladies of the Cross, outside of Paris. As the autumn leaves fall, some of the nuns are seated around the Mother Superior . In the course of their conversation, it is revealed that Cyrano is a regular visitor to the convent. He has come every Saturday for over ten years in order to visit his cousin Roxane, now known as Madame Magdalene. Even after ten years, Roxane is still wearing the veil of mourning for her dead husband, Christian. The nuns enjoy the visits of Cyrano because of his wit and humor. They also try to convert him into a good Catholic. Roxane approaches with De Guiche, now known as the Duke of Grammont. He asks about her life of seclusion, her fidelity, and her black veil. She affirms her resolution to be faithful to Christian; she even states that she has Christian's last letter to her fastened close to her heart. When the Duke asks about Cyrano, she informs him that Cyrano comes regularly to give her all the news of the world outside. LeBret then enters. Roxane eagerly asks him about Cyrano. He states that Cyrano's condition is very bad. He remains poor, hungry, and friendless, while making enemies in every quarter. It is assumed that he will soon die of cold or anemia. De Guiche states that he still admires Cyrano for having lived without compromising his principles. As he is leaving, De Guiche contrasts his success with the freedom of Cyrano. He admits that his own success has left him with a sense of uneasiness and a bad taste in his mouth. He has many dead illusions and vague regrets for the past. He also takes Le Bret aside and warns him that Cyrano should be careful of his enemies, for it is rumored that some of them are trying to kill him by some subterfuge. Just as De Guiche is finally leaving, Ragueneau is announced. Roxane declares that the old baker is sure to whine about his miseries since he left her service. In truth, Ragueneau has not faired well. He has tried his hand at a number of jobs, including acting and wigmaking."}, {"": "378", "document": "VII. A Knock at the Door\n\n\n\"I have saved him.\" It was not another of the dreams in which he had\noften come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a\nvague but heavy fear was upon her.\n\nAll the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately\nrevengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on\nvague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that\nmany as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to\nher, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her\nheart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.\nThe shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now\nthe dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued\nthem, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to\nhis real presence and trembled more.\n\nHer father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this\nwoman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,\nno One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task\nhe had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let\nthem all lean upon him.\n\nTheir housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was\nthe safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but\nbecause they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,\nhad had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards\nthe living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and\npartly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and\ncitizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them\noccasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by\nMr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every\nnight.\n\nIt was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,\nEquality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every\nhouse, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters\nof a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.\nJerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down\nbelow; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name\nhimself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had\nemployed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called\nDarnay.\n\nIn the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual\nharmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as\nin very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted\nwere purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small\nshops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as\npossible for talk and envy, was the general desire.\n\nFor some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the\noffice of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the\nbasket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were\nlighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home\nsuch purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long\nassociation with a French family, might have known as much of their\nlanguage as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that\ndirection; consequently she knew no more of that \"nonsense\" (as she was\npleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing\nwas to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any\nintroduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be\nthe name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold\nof it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always\nmade a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,\none finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.\n\n\"Now, Mr. Cruncher,\" said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;\n\"if you are ready, I am.\"\n\nJerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn\nall his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.\n\n\"There's all manner of things wanted,\" said Miss Pross, \"and we shall\nhave a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts\nthese Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.\"\n\n\"It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,\"\nretorted Jerry, \"whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.\"\n\n\"Who's he?\" said Miss Pross.\n\nMr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning \"Old\nNick's.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Miss Pross, \"it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the\nmeaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,\nand Mischief.\"\n\n\"Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!\" cried Lucie.\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,\" said Miss Pross; \"but I may say\namong ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey\nsmotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the\nstreets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!\nTake care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your\npretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!\nMay I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?\"\n\n\"I think you may take that liberty,\" the Doctor answered, smiling.\n\n\"For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of\nthat,\" said Miss Pross.\n\n\"Hush, dear! Again?\" Lucie remonstrated.\n\n\"Well, my sweet,\" said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, \"the\nshort and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious\nMajesty King George the Third;\" Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; \"and\nas such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish\ntricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!\"\n\nMr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words\nafter Miss Pross, like somebody at church.\n\n\"I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you\nhad never taken that cold in your voice,\" said Miss Pross, approvingly.\n\"But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there\"--it was the good creature's\nway to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety\nwith them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--\"is there any\nprospect yet, of our getting out of this place?\"\n\n\"I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.\"\n\n\"Heigh-ho-hum!\" said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she\nglanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, \"then we\nmust have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and\nfight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't\nyou move, Ladybird!\"\n\nThey went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the\nchild, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the\nBanking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in\na corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie\nsat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,\nin a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of\na great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out\na captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and\nquiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.\n\n\"What is that?\" she cried, all at once.\n\n\"My dear!\" said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand\non hers, \"command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The\nleast thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!\"\n\n\"I thought, my father,\" said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face\nand in a faltering voice, \"that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.\"\n\n\"My love, the staircase is as still as Death.\"\n\nAs he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.\n\n\"Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!\"\n\n\"My child,\" said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her\nshoulder, \"I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go\nto the door.\"\n\nHe took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,\nand opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough\nmen in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.\n\n\"The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,\" said the first.\n\n\"Who seeks him?\" answered Darnay.\n\n\"I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the\nTribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.\"\n\nThe four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging\nto him.\n\n\"Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?\"\n\n\"It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will\nknow to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.\"\n\nDoctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he\nstood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,\nmoved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting\nthe speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red\nwoollen shirt, said:\n\n\"You know him, you have said. Do you know me?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.\"\n\n\"We all know you, Citizen Doctor,\" said the other three.\n\nHe looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,\nafter a pause:\n\n\"Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?\"\n\n\"Citizen Doctor,\" said the first, reluctantly, \"he has been denounced to\nthe Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,\" pointing out the second who\nhad entered, \"is from Saint Antoine.\"\n\nThe citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:\n\n\"He is accused by Saint Antoine.\"\n\n\"Of what?\" asked the Doctor.\n\n\"Citizen Doctor,\" said the first, with his former reluctance, \"ask no\nmore. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as\na good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.\nThe People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.\"\n\n\"One word,\" the Doctor entreated. \"Will you tell me who denounced him?\"\n\n\"It is against rule,\" answered the first; \"but you can ask Him of Saint\nAntoine here.\"\n\nThe Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his\nfeet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:\n\n\"Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by\nthe Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.\"\n\n\"What other?\"\n\n\"Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, \"you will be\nanswered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Manettes have been living pretty frugally, as they've had to pay for all of Darnay's food and lodging in prison. It hasn't been cheap. Nonetheless, they decide to have a little feast to celebrate Darnay's return. Miss Pross and Jerry Cruncher have been taking care of the shopping for the past few months. It's actually a harder job than it might seem. See, since everyone is now suspicious of anyone who has money, Miss Pross and Jerry have to go around buying things in really small quantities. They buy one thing at one store, then go across town to buy another thing at another store. As they set out that night, Miss Pross expresses her opinion of the patriots of the new Republic. She doesn't like them all that much. In fact, she thinks that they're a bunch of hooligans. Before they leave, though, Miss Pross has one question for the Manettes: when will they be able to leave? Dr. Manette thinks that they should stay in Paris for a few days, just so that no one gets suspicious. With that, Miss Pross and Jerry set out on their errands. Lucie and her father stay downstairs for a minute. Suddenly, Lucie starts. She thinks she hears footsteps on the stairs. The doctor assures her that nothing can be wrong now. He's saved Darnay. Sure enough, though, soldiers appear at the door. They ask for Darnay. He's been denounced by Saint Antoine. The doctor demands to know why. The soldiers reply that the doctor shouldn't ask questions. If the Republic needs him to sacrifice his son-in-law, then he should do it happily. After all, it's for the good of the Republic. Sound a little creepy? We think so, too. Finally, though, the soldier relents. Darnay has been denounced by Monsieur and Madame Defarge...and one other. When the doctor asks who the other person is, the soldier stares at him for a minute. He doesn't know?"}, {"": "379", "document": "Cyrano, Le Bret.  Then actors, actresses, Cuigy, Brissaille, Ligniere, the\nporter, the violinists.\n\nCYRANO (falling into Le Bret's arms):\n  A rendezvous. . .from her!. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  You're sad no more!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ah!  Let the world go burn!  She knows I live!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Now you'll be calm, I hope?\n\nCYRANO (beside himself for joy):\n  Calm?  I now calm?\n  I'll be frenetic, frantic,--raving mad!\n  Oh, for an army to attack!--a host!\n  I've ten hearts in my breast; a score of arms;\n  No dwarfs to cleave in twain!. . .\n(Wildly):\n  No!  Giants now!\n\n(For a few moments the shadows of the actors have been moving on the stage,\nwhispers are heard--the rehearsal is beginning.  The violinists are in their\nplaces.)\n\nA VOICE FROM THE STAGE:\n  Hollo there!  Silence!  We rehearse!\n\nCYRANO (laughing):\n  We go!\n\n(He moves away.  By the big door enter Cuigy, Brissaille, and some officers,\nholding up Ligniere, who is drunk.)\n\nCUIGY:\n  Cyrano!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Well, what now?\n\nCUIGY:\n  A lusty thrush\n  They're bringing you!\n\nCYRANO (recognizing him):\n  Ligniere!. . .What has chanced?\n\nCUIGY:\n  He seeks you!\n\nBRISSAILLE:\n  He dare not go home!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Why not?\n\nLIGNIERE (in a husky voice, showing him a crumpled letter):\n  This letter warns me. . .that a hundred men. . .\n  Revenge that threatens me. . .that song, you know--\n  At the Porte de Nesle.  To get to my own house\n  I must pass there. . .I dare not!. . .Give me leave\n  To sleep to-night beneath your roof!  Allow. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  A hundred men?  You'll sleep in your own bed!\n\nLIGNIERE (frightened):\n  But--\n\nCYRANO (in a terrible voice, showing him the lighted lantern held by the\nporter, who is listening curiously):\n  Take the lantern.\n(Ligniere seizes it):\n  Let us start!  I swear\n  That I will make your bed to-night myself!\n(To the officers):\n  Follow; some stay behind, as witnesses!\n\nCUIGY:\n  A hundred!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Less, to-night--would be too few!\n\n(The actors and actresses, in their costumes, have come down from the stage,\nand are listening.)\n\nLE BRET:\n  But why embroil yourself?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Le Bret who scolds!\n\nLE BRET:\n  That worthless drunkard!--\n\nCYRANO (slapping Ligniere on the shoulder):\n  Wherefore?  For this cause;--\n  This wine-barrel, this cask of Burgundy,\n  Did, on a day, an action full of grace;\n  As he was leaving church, he saw his love\n  Take holy water--he, who is affeared\n  At water's taste, ran quickly to the stoup,\n  And drank it all, to the last drop!. . .\n\nAN ACTRESS:\n  Indeed, that was a graceful thing!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, was it not?\n\nTHE ACTRESS (to the others):\n  But why a hundred men 'gainst one poor rhymer?\n\nCYRANO:\n  March!\n(To the officers):\n  Gentlemen, when you shall see me charge,\n  Bear me no succor, none, whate'er the odds!\n\nANOTHER ACTRESS (jumping from the stage):\n  Oh!  I shall come and see!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Come, then!\n\nANOTHER (jumping down--to an old actor):\n  And you?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Come all--the Doctor, Isabel, Leander,\n  Come, for you shall add, in a motley swarm,\n  The farce Italian to this Spanish drama!\n\nALL THE WOMEN (dancing for joy):\n  Bravo!--a mantle, quick!--my hood!\n\nJODELET:\n  Come on!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Play us a march, gentlemen of the band!\n(The violinists join the procession, which is forming.  They take the\nfootlights, and divide them for torches):\n  Brave officers! next, women in costume,\n  And, twenty paces on--\n(He takes his place):\n  I all alone,\n  Beneath the plume that Glory lends, herself,\n  To deck my beaver--proud as Scipio!. . .\n  --You hear me?--I forbid you succor me!--\n  One, two three!  Porter, open wide the doors!\n(The porter opens the doors; a view of old Paris in the moonlight is seen):\n  Ah!. . .Paris wrapped in night! half nebulous:\n  The moonlight streams o'er the blue-shadowed roofs;\n  A lovely frame for this wild battle-scene;\n  Beneath the vapor's floating scarves, the Seine\n  Trembles, mysterious, like a magic mirror,\n  And, shortly, you shall see what you shall see!\n\nALL:\n  To the Porte de Nesle!\n\nCYRANO (standing on the threshold):\n  Ay, to the Porte de Nesle!\n(Turning to the actress):\n  Did you not ask, young lady, for what cause\n  Against this rhymer fivescore men were sent?\n(He draws his sword; then, calmly):\n  'Twas that they knew him for a friend of mine!\n\n(He goes out.  Ligniere staggers first after him, then the actresses on the\nofficers' arms--the actors.  The procession starts to the sound of the violins\nand in the faint light of the candles.)\n\nCurtain.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Ligniere rushes in. He tells Cyrano about the hundred men waiting at the Porte de Nesle to kill him and announces that he is too afraid to go home. He asks if Cyrano can host him for the evening, but Cyrano scoffs: \"A hundred men, you say. You'll sleep at home tonight. He declares that he will fight all hundred men and escort Ligniere safely home. Le Bret asks why Cyrano would want to help a drunkard, and Cyrano says that he once saw Ligniere drink a whole font of holy water dry after a beautiful woman had blessed herself with it. For a gesture like that, he says, he will -protect Ligniere. The actors and musicians rehearsing in the theater buzz about Cyrano's behavior. He tells them that he wants an audience and that they can follow him. But he warns them that he wants no protection. As he strides boldly out of the theater, the crowd forms a procession to follow him to the Porte de Nestle."}, {"": "380", "document": "\n\n'It may seem odd to you, but it was two days before I could follow\nup the new-found clue in what was manifestly the proper way. I felt\na peculiar shrinking from those pallid bodies. They were just the\nhalf-bleached colour of the worms and things one sees preserved in\nspirit in a zoological museum. And they were filthily cold to the\ntouch. Probably my shrinking was largely due to the sympathetic\ninfluence of the Eloi, whose disgust of the Morlocks I now began\nto appreciate.\n\n'The next night I did not sleep well. Probably my health was a\nlittle disordered. I was oppressed with perplexity and doubt. Once\nor twice I had a feeling of intense fear for which I could perceive\nno definite reason. I remember creeping noiselessly into the great\nhall where the little people were sleeping in the moonlight--that\nnight Weena was among them--and feeling reassured by their presence.\nIt occurred to me even then, that in the course of a few days the\nmoon must pass through its last quarter, and the nights grow dark,\nwhen the appearances of these unpleasant creatures from below, these\nwhitened Lemurs, this new vermin that had replaced the old, might be\nmore abundant. And on both these days I had the restless feeling of\none who shirks an inevitable duty. I felt assured that the Time\nMachine was only to be recovered by boldly penetrating these\nunderground mysteries. Yet I could not face the mystery. If only I\nhad had a companion it would have been different. But I was so\nhorribly alone, and even to clamber down into the darkness of the\nwell appalled me. I don't know if you will understand my feeling,\nbut I never felt quite safe at my back.\n\n'It was this restlessness, this insecurity, perhaps, that drove me\nfurther and further afield in my exploring expeditions. Going to the\nsouth-westward towards the rising country that is now called Combe\nWood, I observed far off, in the direction of nineteenth-century\nBanstead, a vast green structure, different in character from any\nI had hitherto seen. It was larger than the largest of the palaces\nor ruins I knew, and the facade had an Oriental look: the face\nof it having the lustre, as well as the pale-green tint, a kind\nof bluish-green, of a certain type of Chinese porcelain. This\ndifference in aspect suggested a difference in use, and I was minded\nto push on and explore. But the day was growing late, and I had come\nupon the sight of the place after a long and tiring circuit; so I\nresolved to hold over the adventure for the following day, and I\nreturned to the welcome and the caresses of little Weena. But next\nmorning I perceived clearly enough that my curiosity regarding the\nPalace of Green Porcelain was a piece of self-deception, to enable\nme to shirk, by another day, an experience I dreaded. I resolved I\nwould make the descent without further waste of time, and started\nout in the early morning towards a well near the ruins of granite\nand aluminium.\n\n'Little Weena ran with me. She danced beside me to the well, but\nwhen she saw me lean over the mouth and look downward, she seemed\nstrangely disconcerted. \"Good-bye, little Weena,\" I said, kissing\nher; and then putting her down, I began to feel over the parapet\nfor the climbing hooks. Rather hastily, I may as well confess, for\nI feared my courage might leak away! At first she watched me in\namazement. Then she gave a most piteous cry, and running to me, she\nbegan to pull at me with her little hands. I think her opposition\nnerved me rather to proceed. I shook her off, perhaps a little\nroughly, and in another moment I was in the throat of the well. I\nsaw her agonized face over the parapet, and smiled to reassure her.\nThen I had to look down at the unstable hooks to which I clung.\n\n'I had to clamber down a shaft of perhaps two hundred yards. The\ndescent was effected by means of metallic bars projecting from\nthe sides of the well, and these being adapted to the needs of\na creature much smaller and lighter than myself, I was speedily\ncramped and fatigued by the descent. And not simply fatigued! One of\nthe bars bent suddenly under my weight, and almost swung me off into\nthe blackness beneath. For a moment I hung by one hand, and after\nthat experience I did not dare to rest again. Though my arms and\nback were presently acutely painful, I went on clambering down the\nsheer descent with as quick a motion as possible. Glancing upward,\nI saw the aperture, a small blue disk, in which a star was visible,\nwhile little Weena's head showed as a round black projection. The\nthudding sound of a machine below grew louder and more oppressive.\nEverything save that little disk above was profoundly dark, and when\nI looked up again Weena had disappeared.\n\n'I was in an agony of discomfort. I had some thought of trying to go\nup the shaft again, and leave the Under-world alone. But even while\nI turned this over in my mind I continued to descend. At last, with\nintense relief, I saw dimly coming up, a foot to the right of me, a\nslender loophole in the wall. Swinging myself in, I found it was the\naperture of a narrow horizontal tunnel in which I could lie down and\nrest. It was not too soon. My arms ached, my back was cramped, and I\nwas trembling with the prolonged terror of a fall. Besides this, the\nunbroken darkness had had a distressing effect upon my eyes. The air\nwas full of the throb and hum of machinery pumping air down the\nshaft.\n\n'I do not know how long I lay. I was roused by a soft hand touching\nmy face. Starting up in the darkness I snatched at my matches and,\nhastily striking one, I saw three stooping white creatures similar\nto the one I had seen above ground in the ruin, hastily retreating\nbefore the light. Living, as they did, in what appeared to me\nimpenetrable darkness, their eyes were abnormally large and\nsensitive, just as are the pupils of the abysmal fishes, and they\nreflected the light in the same way. I have no doubt they could see\nme in that rayless obscurity, and they did not seem to have any fear\nof me apart from the light. But, so soon as I struck a match in\norder to see them, they fled incontinently, vanishing into dark\ngutters and tunnels, from which their eyes glared at me in the\nstrangest fashion.\n\n'I tried to call to them, but the language they had was apparently\ndifferent from that of the Over-world people; so that I was needs\nleft to my own unaided efforts, and the thought of flight before\nexploration was even then in my mind. But I said to myself, \"You are\nin for it now,\" and, feeling my way along the tunnel, I found the\nnoise of machinery grow louder. Presently the walls fell away from\nme, and I came to a large open space, and striking another match,\nsaw that I had entered a vast arched cavern, which stretched into\nutter darkness beyond the range of my light. The view I had of it\nwas as much as one could see in the burning of a match.\n\n'Necessarily my memory is vague. Great shapes like big machines rose\nout of the dimness, and cast grotesque black shadows, in which dim\nspectral Morlocks sheltered from the glare. The place, by the by,\nwas very stuffy and oppressive, and the faint halitus of freshly\nshed blood was in the air. Some way down the central vista was a\nlittle table of white metal, laid with what seemed a meal. The\nMorlocks at any rate were carnivorous! Even at the time, I remember\nwondering what large animal could have survived to furnish the red\njoint I saw. It was all very indistinct: the heavy smell, the big\nunmeaning shapes, the obscene figures lurking in the shadows, and\nonly waiting for the darkness to come at me again! Then the match\nburned down, and stung my fingers, and fell, a wriggling red spot\nin the blackness.\n\n'I have thought since how particularly ill-equipped I was for such\nan experience. When I had started with the Time Machine, I had\nstarted with the absurd assumption that the men of the Future would\ncertainly be infinitely ahead of ourselves in all their appliances.\nI had come without arms, without medicine, without anything to\nsmoke--at times I missed tobacco frightfully--even without enough\nmatches. If only I had thought of a Kodak! I could have flashed that\nglimpse of the Underworld in a second, and examined it at leisure.\nBut, as it was, I stood there with only the weapons and the powers\nthat Nature had endowed me with--hands, feet, and teeth; these, and\nfour safety-matches that still remained to me.\n\n'I was afraid to push my way in among all this machinery in the\ndark, and it was only with my last glimpse of light I discovered\nthat my store of matches had run low. It had never occurred to me\nuntil that moment that there was any need to economize them, and I\nhad wasted almost half the box in astonishing the Upper-worlders, to\nwhom fire was a novelty. Now, as I say, I had four left, and while I\nstood in the dark, a hand touched mine, lank fingers came feeling\nover my face, and I was sensible of a peculiar unpleasant odour. I\nfancied I heard the breathing of a crowd of those dreadful little\nbeings about me. I felt the box of matches in my hand being gently\ndisengaged, and other hands behind me plucking at my clothing. The\nsense of these unseen creatures examining me was indescribably\nunpleasant. The sudden realization of my ignorance of their ways of\nthinking and doing came home to me very vividly in the darkness. I\nshouted at them as loudly as I could. They started away, and then\nI could feel them approaching me again. They clutched at me more\nboldly, whispering odd sounds to each other. I shivered violently,\nand shouted again--rather discordantly. This time they were not so\nseriously alarmed, and they made a queer laughing noise as they came\nback at me. I will confess I was horribly frightened. I determined\nto strike another match and escape under the protection of its\nglare. I did so, and eking out the flicker with a scrap of paper\nfrom my pocket, I made good my retreat to the narrow tunnel. But I\nhad scarce entered this when my light was blown out and in the\nblackness I could hear the Morlocks rustling like wind among leaves,\nand pattering like the rain, as they hurried after me.\n\n'In a moment I was clutched by several hands, and there was no\nmistaking that they were trying to haul me back. I struck another\nlight, and waved it in their dazzled faces. You can scarce imagine\nhow nauseatingly inhuman they looked--those pale, chinless faces\nand great, lidless, pinkish-grey eyes!--as they stared in their\nblindness and bewilderment. But I did not stay to look, I promise\nyou: I retreated again, and when my second match had ended, I struck\nmy third. It had almost burned through when I reached the opening\ninto the shaft. I lay down on the edge, for the throb of the great\npump below made me giddy. Then I felt sideways for the projecting\nhooks, and, as I did so, my feet were grasped from behind, and I\nwas violently tugged backward. I lit my last match ... and it\nincontinently went out. But I had my hand on the climbing bars now,\nand, kicking violently, I disengaged myself from the clutches of the\nMorlocks and was speedily clambering up the shaft, while they stayed\npeering and blinking up at me: all but one little wretch who\nfollowed me for some way, and well-nigh secured my boot as a trophy.\n\n'That climb seemed interminable to me. With the last twenty or\nthirty feet of it a deadly nausea came upon me. I had the greatest\ndifficulty in keeping my hold. The last few yards was a frightful\nstruggle against this faintness. Several times my head swam, and I\nfelt all the sensations of falling. At last, however, I got over the\nwell-mouth somehow, and staggered out of the ruin into the blinding\nsunlight. I fell upon my face. Even the soil smelt sweet and clean.\nThen I remember Weena kissing my hands and ears, and the voices of\nothers among the Eloi. Then, for a time, I was insensible.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Time Traveller knows that he should investigate the Morlocks, but he doesn't want to because they're disgusting. They are, he says, \"filthily cold\" . We're not entirely sure what that means, but it sure sounds gross. He avoids going underground by exploring the surface. He sees a large building far off that looks like it's made of green porcelain and decides to go explore it. But then he realizes that he's just putting off the inevitable: he needs to go down a well and see how the Morlocks live. Weena gets upset when she realizes what he's doing, but he does it anyway. It's a hard climb down, but he finds a tunnel branching off from the well. He hears some machines. He rests a moment, then feels some Morlock's soft hands touching him, which jolts him. He lights a match to see the Morlock better, but it runs away. He follows the tunnel and finds a cavern full of machinery. He also smells blood, but that doesn't worry him. There's a table with some meat on it. He wonders where the Morlocks got the meat. The Time Traveller reflects on how poorly equipped he is, since he only brought some matches. He only has a few matches left after entertaining the Eloi with them. The Morlocks come to examine him, but he's disgusted by them. The Time Traveller yells at them, but they keep coming. Then the Morlocks start grabbing at him. So the Time Traveller starts fending them off. He manages to escape back up the well. He sees Weena and some other Eloi and passes out."}, {"": "381", "document": "\n\nA letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return.\nIsabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter,\nand arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew.\nCatherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and\nindulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of\nher 'real' cousin.  The evening of their expected arrival came.  Since\nearly morning she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and now\nattired in her new black frock--poor thing! her aunt's death impressed\nher with no definite sorrow--she obliged me, by constant worrying, to\nwalk with her down through the grounds to meet them.\n\n'Linton is just six months younger than I am,' she chattered, as we\nstrolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under\nshadow of the trees.  'How delightful it will be to have him for a\nplayfellow!  Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it was\nlighter than mine--more flaxen, and quite as fine.  I have it carefully\npreserved in a little glass box; and I've often thought what a pleasure\nit would be to see its owner.  Oh! I am happy--and papa, dear, dear papa!\nCome, Ellen, let us run! come, run.'\n\nShe ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober footsteps\nreached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy bank beside\nthe path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was impossible: she\ncouldn't be still a minute.\n\n'How long they are!' she exclaimed.  'Ah, I see, some dust on the\nroad--they are coming!  No!  When will they be here?  May we not go a\nlittle way--half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile?  Do say Yes: to\nthat clump of birches at the turn!'\n\nI refused staunchly.  At length her suspense was ended: the travelling\ncarriage rolled in sight.  Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her arms\nas soon as she caught her father's face looking from the window.  He\ndescended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval\nelapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves.  While\nthey exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton.  He was\nasleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had been\nwinter.  A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been taken for\nmy master's younger brother, so strong was the resemblance: but there was\na sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton never had.  The\nlatter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised me to close the\ndoor, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had fatigued him.  Cathy\nwould fain have taken one glance, but her father told her to come, and\nthey walked together up the park, while I hastened before to prepare the\nservants.\n\n'Now, darling,' said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they halted\nat the bottom of the front steps: 'your cousin is not so strong or so\nmerry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very short time\nsince; therefore, don't expect him to play and run about with you\ndirectly.  And don't harass him much by talking: let him be quiet this\nevening, at least, will you?'\n\n'Yes, yes, papa,' answered Catherine: 'but I do want to see him; and he\nhasn't once looked out.'\n\nThe carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the\nground by his uncle.\n\n'This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,' he said, putting their little hands\ntogether.  'She's fond of you already; and mind you don't grieve her by\ncrying to-night.  Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an end,\nand you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you please.'\n\n'Let me go to bed, then,' answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine's\nsalute; and he put his fingers to remove incipient tears.\n\n'Come, come, there's a good child,' I whispered, leading him in.  'You'll\nmake her weep too--see how sorry she is for you!'\n\nI do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as sad\na countenance as himself, and returned to her father.  All three entered,\nand mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready.  I proceeded to\nremove Linton's cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair by the table;\nbut he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh.  My master\ninquired what was the matter.\n\n'I can't sit on a chair,' sobbed the boy.\n\n'Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,' answered his\nuncle patiently.\n\nHe had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his\nfretful ailing charge.  Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.\nCathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side.  At first she sat\nsilent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her\nlittle cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking\nhis curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,\nlike a baby.  This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his\neyes, and lightened into a faint smile.\n\n'Oh, he'll do very well,' said the master to me, after watching them a\nminute.  'Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen.  The company of a child\nof his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for\nstrength he'll gain it.'\n\n'Ay, if we can keep him!' I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came\nover me that there was slight hope of that.  And then, I thought, how\never will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights?  Between his father\nand Hareton, what playmates and instructors they'll be.  Our doubts were\npresently decided--even earlier than I expected.  I had just taken the\nchildren up-stairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep--he\nwould not suffer me to leave him till that was the case--I had come down,\nand was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom candle for\nMr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and informed me that\nMr. Heathcliff's servant Joseph was at the door, and wished to speak with\nthe master.\n\n'I shall ask him what he wants first,' I said, in considerable\ntrepidation.  'A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the\ninstant they have returned from a long journey.  I don't think the master\ncan see him.'\n\nJoseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and now\npresented himself in the hall.  He was donned in his Sunday garments,\nwith his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding his hat in one\nhand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean his shoes on the\nmat.\n\n'Good-evening, Joseph,' I said, coldly.  'What business brings you here\nto-night?'\n\n'It's Maister Linton I mun spake to,' he answered, waving me disdainfully\naside.\n\n'Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to say,\nI'm sure he won't hear it now,' I continued.  'You had better sit down in\nthere, and entrust your message to me.'\n\n'Which is his rahm?' pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed\ndoors.\n\nI perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I\nwent up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor, advising\nthat he should be dismissed till next day.  Mr. Linton had no time to\nempower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and, pushing\ninto the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the table, with\nhis two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began in an elevated\ntone, as if anticipating opposition--\n\n'Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn't goa back 'bout him.'\n\nEdgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow\novercast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own account;\nbut, recalling Isabella's hopes and fears, and anxious wishes for her\nson, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved bitterly at the\nprospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart how it might be\navoided.  No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of any desire to\nkeep him would have rendered the claimant more peremptory: there was\nnothing left but to resign him.  However, he was not going to rouse him\nfrom his sleep.\n\n'Tell Mr. Heathcliff,' he answered calmly, 'that his son shall come to\nWuthering Heights to-morrow.  He is in bed, and too tired to go the\ndistance now.  You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired\nhim to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is very\nprecarious.'\n\n'Noa!' said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and\nassuming an authoritative air.  'Noa! that means naught.  Hathecliff maks\nnoa 'count o' t' mother, nor ye norther; but he'll heu' his lad; und I\nmun tak' him--soa now ye knaw!'\n\n'You shall not to-night!' answered Linton decisively.  'Walk down stairs\nat once, and repeat to your master what I have said.  Ellen, show him\ndown.  Go--'\n\nAnd, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room\nof him and closed the door.\n\n'Varrah weell!' shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off.  'To-morn, he's\ncome hisseln, and thrust _him_ out, if ye darr!'\n\n\n\n", "summary": "A letter arrives from Edgar saying that Isabella has died and that he will soon be coming home with Linton. Catherine is quite excited as now she will have a playmate, and when they do arrive, Edgar tells her to not try to play with Linton then as he is sad and quite sickly. They all hope that they can keep him, but that night Joseph comes to the door to get him. Edgar tells him no, but Joseph says that his master himself will come, so Edgar says that Linton will come to Wuthering Heights the next day"}, {"": "382", "document": "SCENE 5.\n\n                          Before Orleans\n\n         Here an alarum again, and TALBOT pursueth the\n      DAUPHIN and driveth him. Then enter JOAN LA PUCELLE\n       driving Englishmen before her. Then enter TALBOT\n\n  TALBOT. Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?\n    Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them;\n    A woman clad in armour chaseth them.\n\n                          Enter LA PUCELLE\n\n    Here, here she comes. I'll have a bout with thee.\n    Devil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee;\n    Blood will I draw on thee--thou art a witch\n    And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv'st.\n  PUCELLE. Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee.\n                                               [Here they fight]\n  TALBOT. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?\n    My breast I'll burst with straining of my courage.\n    And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,\n    But I will chastise this high minded strumpet.\n                                              [They fight again]\n  PUCELLE. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come.\n    I must go victual Orleans forthwith.\n             [A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers]\n    O'ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.\n    Go, go, cheer up thy hungry starved men;\n    Help Salisbury to make his testament.\n    This day is ours, as many more shall be.                Exit\n  TALBOT. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel;\n    I know not where I am nor what I do.\n    A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal,\n    Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists.\n    So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench\n    Are from their hives and houses driven away.\n    They call'd us, for our fierceness, English dogs;\n    Now like to whelps we crying run away.\n                                                [A short alarum]\n    Hark, countrymen! Either renew the fight\n    Or tear the lions out of England's coat;\n    Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead:\n    Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,\n    Or horse or oxen from the leopard,\n    As you fly from your oft subdued slaves.\n                                 [Alarum. Here another skirmish]\n    It will not be-retire into your trenches.\n    You all consented unto Salisbury's death,\n    For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.\n    Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans\n    In spite of us or aught that we could do.\n    O, would I were to die with Salisbury!\n    The shame hereof will make me hide my head.\n                                    Exit TALBOT. Alarum; retreat\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The action shifts to the English forces outside Orleans. The Earl of Salisbury and Lord Talbot enter on the turrets of a tower that the English forces have taken. Salisbury joyously greets Talbot, who had been taken prisoner by the French but has just been released in exchange for a French noble who had been a prisoner of the Duke of Bedford. Talbot is angry at the treachery of Sir John Fastolf, whose cowardice led to the capture of Talbot. Talbot says at first he was treated with contempt by the French and was paraded as a public spectacle. But so fierce was his resistance that his French captors became afraid of him, appointing a marksman to guard him at all times. The Boy passes across the stage with a lighted linstock. Salisbury tells Talbot that the English forces will soon avenge his shame. He asks two officers, Gargrave and Glasdale, where they should next direct their fire. Suddenly shots are heard and Salisbury and Gargrave fall. Gargrave is dead and Salisbury fatally wounded. Talbot speaks a eulogy over Salisbury, recalling that he was victorious in thirteen battles and taught the art of war to Henry V. Talbot vows to avenge Salisbury's imminent death on the French. A messenger enters with the news that Joan la Pucelle has joined Charles and that their forces are ready to besiege Orleans. Salisbury is carried out"}, {"": "383", "document": "\nNARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--END OF THE FIRST DAY'S FIGHTING\n\n\nWe made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from\nthe stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers\nrang nearer. Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran, and the\ncracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.\n\nI began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest, and looked to\nmy priming.\n\n\"Captain,\" said I, \"Trelawney is the dead shot. Give him your gun; his\nown is useless.\"\n\nThey exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool, as he had been\nsince the beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that\nall was fit for service. At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed,\nI handed him my cutlass. It did all our hearts good to see him spit in\nhis hand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air. It\nwas plain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his\nsalt.\n\nForty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade\nin front of us. We struck the inclosure about the middle of the south\nside, and, almost at the same time, seven mutineers--Job Anderson, the\nboatswain, at their head--appeared in full cry at the southwestern\ncorner.\n\nThey paused, as if taken aback, and before they recovered, not only the\nsquire and I, but Hunter and Joyce from the blockhouse, had time to\nfire.\n\nThe four shots came in rather a scattering volley, but they did the\nbusiness; one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without\nhesitation, turned and plunged into the trees.\n\nAfter reloading we walked down the outside of the palisade to see to the\nfallen enemy. He was stone dead--shot through the heart.\n\nWe began to rejoice over our good success, when just at that moment a\npistol cracked in the bush, a ball whistled close past my ear and poor\nTom Redruth stumbled and fell his length on the ground. Both the squire\nand I returned the shot, but as we had nothing to aim at, it is probable\nwe only wasted powder. Then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor\nTom.\n\nThe captain and Gray were already examining him, and I saw with half an\neye that all was over.\n\nI believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers\nonce more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the\npoor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade, and carried, groaning and\nbleeding, into the log-house.\n\nPoor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint,\nfear, or even acquiescence, from the very beginning of our troubles till\nnow, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die! He had lain like\na Trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order\nsilently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score\nof years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was\nto die.\n\nThe squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand,\ncrying like a child.\n\n\"Be I going, doctor?\" he asked.\n\n\"Tom, my man,\" said I, \"you're going home.\"\n\n\"I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first,\" he replied.\n\n\"Tom,\" said the squire, \"say you forgive me, won't you?\"\n\n\"Would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire?\" was the answer.\n\"Howsoever, so be it, amen!\"\n\nAfter a little while of silence he said he thought somebody might read a\nprayer. \"It's the custom, sir,\" he added, apologetically. And not long\nafter, without another word, he passed away.\n\nIn the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be wonderfully\nswollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various\nstores--the British colors, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink,\nthe log-book, and pounds of tobacco. He had found a longish fir tree\nlying felled and cleared in the inclosure, and, with the help of Hunter,\nhe had set it up at the corner of the log-house, where the trunks\ncrossed and made an angle. Then, climbing on the roof, he had with his\nown hand bent and run up the colors.\n\nThis seemed mightily to relieve him. He re-entered the log-house and set\nabout counting up the stores, as if nothing else existed. But he had an\neye on Tom's passage for all that, and as soon as all was over came\nforward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.\n\n\"Don't you take on, sir,\" he said, shaking the squire's hand. \"All's\nwell with him; no fear for a hand that's been shot down in his duty to\ncaptain and owner. It mayn't be good divinity, but it's a fact.\"\n\nThen he pulled me aside.\n\n\"Doctor Livesey,\" he said, \"in how many weeks do you and squire expect\nthe consort?\"\n\nI told him it was a question, not of weeks, but of months; that if we\nwere not back by the end of August Blandly was to send to find us, but\nneither sooner nor later. \"You can calculate for yourself,\" I said.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" returned the captain, scratching his head, \"and making a\nlarge allowance, sir, for all the gifts of Providence, I should say we\nwere pretty close hauled.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\" I asked.\n\n\"It's a pity, sir, we lost that second load. That's what I mean,\"\nreplied the captain. \"As for powder and shot, we'll do. But the rations\nare short, very short--so short, Doctor Livesey, that we're perhaps as\nwell without that extra mouth.\"\n\nAnd he pointed to the dead body under the flag.\n\nJust then, with a roar and a whistle, a round shot passed high above the\nroof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood.\n\n\"Oho!\" said the captain. \"Blaze away! You've little enough powder\nalready, my lads.\"\n\nAt the second trial the aim was better and the ball descended inside the\nstockade, scattering a cloud of sand, but doing no further damage.\n\n\"Captain,\" said the squire, \"the house is quite invisible from the ship.\nIt must be the flag they are aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it\nin?\"\n\n\"Strike my colors!\" cried the captain. \"No, sir, not I,\" and as soon as\nhe had said the words I think we all agreed with him. For it was not\nonly a piece of stout, seamanly good feeling; it was good policy\nbesides, and showed our enemies that we despised their cannonade.\n\nAll through the evening they kept thundering away. Ball after ball flew\nover or fell short, or kicked up the sand in the inclosure; but they had\nto fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft\nsand. We had no ricochet to fear; and though one popped in through the\nroof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used\nto that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.\n\n\"There is one thing good about all this,\" observed the captain; \"the\nwood in front of us is likely clear. The ebb has made a good while; our\nstores should be uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork.\"\n\nGray and Hunter were the first to come forward. Well armed, they stole\nout of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission. The mutineers were\nbolder than we fancied, or they put more trust in Israel's gunnery, for\nfour or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out\nwith them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to\nhold her steady against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in\ncommand, and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some\nsecret magazine of their own.\n\nThe captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:\n\n    \"Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham\n    Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and\n    Richard Joyce, owner's servants, landsmen--being all that is left\n    faithful of the ship's company--with stores for ten days at short\n    rations, came ashore this day and flew British colors on the\n    log-house in Treasure Island. Thomas Redruth, owner's servant,\n    landsman, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy--\"\n\nAnd at the same time I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins' fate.\n\nA hail on the land side.\n\n\"Somebody hailing us,\" said Hunter, who was on guard.\n\n\"Doctor! squire! captain! Hallo, Hunter, is that you?\" came the cries.\n\nAnd I ran to the door in time to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, come\nclimbing over the stockade.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The crew makes it to the beach and runs toward the Stockade. They could hear the foot steps of the mutineers behind them. At the request of the doctor, the Captain hands over his gun to the Squire and the doctor gives him his cutlass. The first glimpse of the Stockade also brings them face to face with Job Anderson and seven other men. The fighting starts. In the initial rounds of firing one among the mutineers is killed, which makes some of the others run for cover. After a brief pause, the fighting resumes and Redruth is hit. The doctor recalls the way Redruth has served them. He had never complained whenever called to perform his duties. Now he is laid on the log house, bleeding. The Squire couldnt believe that Redruth was going to die. When Redruth asks if his end is near, the Squire bursts into tears. After requesting to read him prayers, Redruth dies. The Captain uses a fir tree as a flag pole to hoist the Union Jack above the Stockade. They spreads another flag on Redruths body and acknowledges his service as a person who died on duty. The Captain inquires about the consort . The doctor informs his that it will be months before they can expect that help. He is informed that if the mission takes long, they would run short of ration, though there is plenty of gunpowder. Just then a gunshot passes above the roof. The Captain turns down the doctors request to take off the Union Jack. The flag, the Captain proudly states, represents the strong feeling they have towards their duty. The gun fire continues all evening and they get used to it within the protection of the stockade. The Captain make a note that the woods ahead would be clear and orders his men to get the provisions. Though Gray and Hunter volunteer, they meet with disappointment as they find Silver and his men in a better position to attack them. The Captain makes a note of the days happenings. He records Redruths death, while the doctor wonders about what has happened to Jim Hawkins. Just then they are in for a big surprise. Hunter hears someone hailing them. The doctor rushes towards the door to see Jim Hawkins safe and sound, making his way to the stockade."}, {"": "384", "document": "\nScaena Septima.\n\nEnter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman.\n\n  Cor. O thou good Kent,\nHow shall I liue and worke\nTo match thy goodnesse?\nMy life will be too short,\nAnd euery measure faile me\n\n   Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd,\nAll my reports go with the modest truth,\nNor more, nor clipt, but so\n\n   Cor. Be better suited,\nThese weedes are memories of those worser houres:\nI prythee put them off\n\n   Kent. Pardon deere Madam,\nYet to be knowne shortens my made intent,\nMy boone I make it, that you know me not,\nTill time, and I, thinke meet\n\n   Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:\nHow do's the King?\n  Gent. Madam sleepes still\n\n   Cor. O you kind Gods!\nCure this great breach in his abused Nature,\nTh' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,\nOf this childe-changed Father\n\n   Gent. So please your Maiesty,\nThat we may wake the King, he hath slept long?\n  Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede\nI'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd?\nEnter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants]\n  Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe,\nWe put fresh garments on him.\nBe by good Madam when we do awake him,\nI doubt of his Temperance\n\n   Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang\nThy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse\nRepaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters\nHaue in thy Reuerence made\n\n   Kent. Kind and deere Princesse\n\n   Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes\nDid challenge pitty of them. Was this a face\nTo be oppos'd against the iarring windes?\nMine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me,\nShould haue stood that night against my fire,\nAnd was't thou faine (poore Father)\nTo houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne,\nIn short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke,\n'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once\nHad not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him\n\n   Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest\n\n   Cor. How does my Royall Lord?\nHow fares your Maiesty?\n  Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue,\nThou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound\nVpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares\nDo scal'd, like molten Lead\n\n   Cor. Sir, do you know me?\n  Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye?\n  Cor. Still, still, farre wide\n\n   Gen. He's scarse awake,\nLet him alone a while\n\n   Lear. Where haue I bin?\nWhere am I? Faire day light?\nI am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty\nTo see another thus. I know not what to say:\nI will not sweare these are my hands: let's see,\nI feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd\nOf my condition\n\n   Cor. O looke vpon me Sir,\nAnd hold your hand in benediction o're me,\nYou must not kneele\n\n   Lear. Pray do not mocke me:\nI am a very foolish fond old man,\nFourescore and vpward,\nNot an houre more, nor lesse:\nAnd to deale plainely,\nI feare I am not in my perfect mind.\nMe thinkes I should know you, and know this man,\nYet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant\nWhat place this is: and all the skill I haue\nRemembers not these garments: nor I know not\nWhere I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,\nFor (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady\nTo be my childe Cordelia\n\n   Cor. And so I am: I am\n\n   Lear. Be your teares wet?\nYes faith: I pray weepe not,\nIf you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it:\nI know you do not loue me, for your Sisters\nHaue (as I do remember) done me wrong.\nYou haue some cause, they haue not\n\n   Cor. No cause, no cause\n\n   Lear. Am I in France?\n  Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir\n\n   Lear. Do not abuse me\n\n   Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage\nYou see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in,\nTrouble him no more till further setling\n\n   Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke?\n  Lear. You must beare with me:\nPray you now forget, and forgiue,\nI am old and foolish.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cordelia is in her camp near Dover with Kent, a doctor, and others. Cordelia thanks Kent for all that he has done for her father. When Cordelia asks the doctor about the condition of her father who has been brought to her, the doctor replies that the king is still asleep. A sleeping Lear is brought on the scene, and Cordelia kneels before him, waiting for him to wake up. The doctor assures her that the king will be all right. Cordelia gives her father's cheek a kiss. Lear opens his eyes and sees Cordelia looking at him with both love and pity. In his amazement, he thinks she is a spirit come to comfort his poor, tormented soul. When Cordelia asks him if he knows her, Lear replies that she is a spirit. Totally dazed, the King does not know where he is; but he still remembers how much he has suffered. Lear, thinking he may still be asleep, reassures himself that he is awake by pricking his body with his fingers. Cordelia, still kneeling before him, asks him to bless her. With remorse and humility, Lear kneels with his daughter, whom he now recognizes. Ashamed of the wrong he has done to her, he wants to die and forget all the misery that he has caused. He asks for a cup of poison. The doctor suggests that Lear sleep some more; therefore, Cordelia leads her father away. Kent, left on stage, converses with a gentleman about the impending battle between the forces of Cordelia and those of Cornwall and Albany."}, {"": "385", "document": "CHERRY PICKING\n\n\nHenry meditated awhile all to himself early the next morning as to\nwhether he ought to take any one with him for the cherry picking. \"He\ncertainly said he could use more than one,\" he mused.\n\nFailing to decide the question, he laid it before his sisters as they\nate bread and milk for breakfast.\n\n\"I can't see any reason, except one, why we shouldn't all go,\" said\nJess.\n\n\"What's that?\" asked Henry.\n\n\"Well, you see there are four of us, and supposing grandfather is\nlooking for us, it will be easier to find four than one.\"\n\n\"True,\" agreed Henry. \"But supposing we went down the hill and through\nthe streets two by two? And you took Watch?\"\n\nIt was finally agreed that Henry and Benny would attract very little\nattention together; Violet and Jess would follow with the dog, who would\ntrace Henry. And so they set out. They took down the clothesline and\nclosed the car door. Everything instantly looked as lonesome as heart\ncould wish. Even the merry little brook looked deserted.\n\nWhen the children arrived at the McAllister orchard they soon saw that\nthey were not the only workers. Two hired men and the young doctor\nhimself were carrying ladders and baskets from the barn, and the Irish\ncook was bringing piles of square baskets from the house--the kind that\nstrawberries are sold in.\n\n\"The girls can pick cherries as well as I can,\" said Henry, introducing\nhis sisters. \"Benny ought not to climb very tall trees, but we had to\nbring him.\"\n\n\"Benny can carry the baskets, perhaps,\" suggested the doctor, much\namused. \"You see, this is a cherry year, and we have to work quickly\nwhen we once begin. Perhaps he could fill the small baskets from the big\nones.\"\n\nIt was a \"cherry year,\" certainly. There were two varieties in the\norchard, the pale yellow kind with a red cheek, and the deep crimson\nones which were just as red in the center as they were on the outside.\nThe red ones were huge, bursting with juice, and the trees were laden\nfull with the luscious fruit. Even the air was perfumed.\n\nIt was a pretty sight that the doctor finally turned his back upon when\nhe went on his calls. Henry, slim, tanned, and graceful, picked rapidly\nfrom the tallest ladder in the largest tree. The two girls in their\nsensible bloomer suits could climb like cats. They leaned against the\nladders easily about halfway up, their fluffy short hair gleaming in the\nsun. Benny trotted to and fro, waiting upon the busy pickers, his cheeks\nas red as the cherries themselves.\n\n\"Eat all you want,\" Dr. McAllister called back. They did not really obey\nthis command, but occasionally a set of white teeth bit into one of the\nglorious oxhearts.\n\nIn less than an hour Benny had made five firm friends. The hired men\njoked with him, the cook petted him, the young doctor laughed at him\ndelightedly, and sweet Mrs. McAllister fell in love with him. Finally he\nseated himself comfortably at her side under the trees and filled square\nboxes with great care under her direction.\n\n\"I never had such a cheerful crowd of cherry pickers before,\" Mrs.\nMcAllister said at last. \"I'd much rather stay out here than go into the\nhouse where it is cool.\"\n\nEvidently Mary the cook felt the same way, for she kept coming to the\norchard for some reason or other. When the doctor returned at lunch time\nhis orchard was ringing with laughter, and good-natured barks from Watch\nwho could not feel easy in his mind with his mistress so high up in a\ntree where he couldn't follow.\n\nDr. McAllister paused in the garage long enough to give a sniff to the\nboiling cherries in the kitchen, and then made his way to the orchard,\nwhere he received a warm welcome.\n\n\"There's no use in your going home to lunch,\" he smilingly observed, at\nthe same time watching Henry's face carefully. \"You can eat right here\nin the orchard, unless your mother will be worrying about you.\"\n\nThis remark met with an astounding silence. Henry was the first to\ncollect his wits. \"No, our mother is dead,\" he said evenly, without\nembarrassment.\n\nIt was the doctor who hastened to change the subject he had introduced.\n\"I smelled something when I came in,\" he said to Benny.\n\n\"What did it smell like?\" inquired Benny.\n\n\"It smelled like cherry slump,\" replied the doctor with twinkling eyes.\n\n\"Cherry _what_?\" asked Jess, struggling down her ladder with a full\nbasket.\n\n\"I think that's what they call it--slump,\" repeated Dr. McAllister. \"Do\nyou care to try it?\"\n\nAt this moment Mary appeared in the orchard with an enormous tray. And\nat the first sight of her cookery, nobody cared the least what its name\nwas. It was that rare combination of dumpling beaten with stoned\ncherries, and cooked gently in the juice of the oxheart cherries in a\nreal \"cherry year.\" It was steaming in the red juice, with the least\nsuspicion of melted butter over the whole.\n\n\"Do get two more, Mary,\" begged Mrs. McAllister, laughing. \"It tastes so\nmuch better under the cherry trees!\"\n\nThis was another meal that nobody ever forgot. Even the two hired men\nsitting under another tree devouring the delicious pudding, paused to\nhear Benny laugh. Nowadays those two men sometimes meet Henry--but\nthat's another story. Anyway, they never will forget that cherry slump\nmade by Irish Mary.\n\nAlmost as soon as lunch was over Benny rolled over on the grass and went\nto sleep, his head, as usual, on the dog's back. But the others worked\non steadily. Mrs. McAllister kept an eye on them from the screened porch\nwithout their knowledge.\n\n\"Just see how those children keep at it,\" she said to her son. \"There is\ngood stuff in them. I should like to know where they come from.\"\n\nDr. McAllister said nothing. He sauntered out into the orchard when he\nthought they had worked long enough. He paid them four dollars and gave\nthem all the cherries they could carry, although they tried to object.\n\n\"You see, you're better than most pickers, because you're so cheerful.\"\n\nHe noticed that they did not all leave the yard at the same time.\n\nWhen the cherry pickers returned to their little home they examined\neverything carefully. Nothing had been disturbed. The door was still\nshut, and the milk and butter stood untouched in the refrigerator. They\nmade a hilarious meal of raw cherries and bread and butter, and before\nthe stars came out they were fast asleep--happy and dreamless.\n\nThat evening, very much later, a young man sat in his study with the\nevening paper. He read the news idly, and was just on the point of\ntossing the paper aside when this advertisement caught his eye:\n\n     Lost. Four children, aged thirteen, twelve, ten and five. Somewhere\n     around the region of Middlesex and Townsend. $5000 reward for\n     information.\n\n     JAMES HENRY CORDYCE\n\n\"Whew!\" whistled the young man. \"James Henry Cordyce!\"\n\nHe sat in perfect silence for a long time, thinking. Then he went to\nbed. But long after he had gone upstairs he whistled again, and could\nhave been heard to say-if anyone had been awake to hear it--\"James Henry\nCordyce! Of all people!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Henry wonders if he should take the other kids to pick cherries, so he asks Jessie what she thinks. Jessie thinks that their grandfather might be on the lookout for four kids traveling together, so she suggests they walk into town in pairs. It's cherry-pickin' time. The whole gang is there, but Benny is too little to pick cherries so he's just going to watch. Henry, Jessie, and Violet start picking, while Benny just runs around eating cherries and making friends with everyone. At lunchtime, Dr. Moore invites the children to stay and eat. He asks if their mother will mind and gives Henry a quizzical look. Could he possibly know they're on their own? Henry doesn't know what to say about the whole mother thing, but Jessie steps in and says their parents are dead. Everyone eats lunch, and there are cherry dumplings for dessert. Yum. Then, Benny settles down for a nap, and the other kids get back to work. At the end of the day, Dr. Moore gives the kids $4 and more cherries. He notes that the kids leave in pairs instead of walking together as a group. The boxcar is just as the children left it, so they have some supper and go to bed. That night, Dr. Moore sees an ad in the paper: A man named James Henry Alden is offering $5,000 for four lost children. Dr. Moore instantly realizes that the children the man is looking for are his workers. You can't get anything by this doctor. The doctor resolves to keep the children's secret, though, 'cause he's cool like that."}, {"": "386", "document": "\nOn a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the\npavements.  The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers\nto enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage.\n\nThe interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of\nimitation leather.  A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended\ndown the side of the room.  Behind it a great mahogany-appearing\nsideboard reached the ceiling.  Upon its shelves rested pyramids of\nshimmering glasses that were never disturbed.  Mirrors set in the face\nof the sideboard multiplied them.  Lemons, oranges and paper napkins,\narranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses.  Many-hued\ndecanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves.\nA nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre\nof the general effect.  The elementary senses of it all seemed to be\nopulence and geometrical accuracy.\n\nAcross from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon\nwhich swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham,\ndishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar.  An odor\nof grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded.\n\nPete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward\na quiet stranger.  \"A beeh,\" said the man.  Pete drew a foam-topped\nglassful and set it dripping upon the bar.\n\nAt this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and\ncrashed against the siding.  Jimmie and a companion entered.  They\nswaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at\nPete with bleared and blinking eyes.\n\n\"Gin,\" said Jimmie.\n\n\"Gin,\" said the companion.\n\nPete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar.  He bended his head\nsideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming\nwood.  He had a look of watchfulness upon his features.\n\nJimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and\nconversed loudly in tones of contempt.\n\n\"He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?\" laughed Jimmie.\n\n\"Oh, hell, yes,\" said the companion, sneering widely.  \"He's great, he\nis.  Git onto deh mug on deh blokie.  Dat's enough to make a feller\nturn hand-springs in 'is sleep.\"\n\nThe quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away\nand maintained an attitude of oblivion.\n\n\"Gee! ain't he hot stuff!\"\n\n\"Git onto his shape!  Great Gawd!\"\n\n\"Hey,\" cried Jimmie, in tones of command.  Pete came along slowly, with\na sullen dropping of the under lip.\n\n\"Well,\" he growled, \"what's eatin' yehs?\"\n\n\"Gin,\" said Jimmie.\n\n\"Gin,\" said the companion.\n\nAs Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed\nin his face.  Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment,\npointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction.\n\n\"Say, Jimmie,\" demanded he, \"what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?\"\n\n\"Damned if I knows,\" replied Jimmie.  They laughed loudly.  Pete put\ndown a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them.  He\ndisclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly.\n\n\"You fellers can't guy me,\" he said.  \"Drink yer stuff an' git out an'\ndon' make no trouble.\"\n\nInstantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and\nexpressions of offended dignity immediately came.\n\n\"Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you,\" cried they in the same breath.\n\nThe quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly.\n\n\"Ah, come off,\" said Pete to the two men.  \"Don't pick me up for no\njay.  Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble.\"\n\n\"Oh, deh hell,\" airily cried Jimmie.\n\n\"Oh, deh hell,\" airily repeated his companion.\n\n\"We goes when we git ready!  See!\" continued Jimmie.\n\n\"Well,\" said Pete in a threatening voice, \"don' make no trouble.\"\n\nJimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side.  He snarled\nlike a wild animal.\n\n\"Well, what if we does?  See?\" said he.\n\nDark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at\nJimmie.\n\n\"Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me,\" he said.\n\nThe quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door.\n\nJimmie began to swell with valor.\n\n\"Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot.  When yeh tackles me yeh tackles\none of deh bes' men in deh city.  See?  I'm a scrapper, I am.  Ain't\ndat right, Billie?\"\n\n\"Sure, Mike,\" responded his companion in tones of conviction.\n\n\"Oh, hell,\" said Pete, easily.  \"Go fall on yerself.\"\n\nThe two men again began to laugh.\n\n\"What deh hell is dat talkin'?\" cried the companion.\n\n\"Damned if I knows,\" replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt.\n\nPete made a furious gesture.  \"Git outa here now, an' don' make no\ntrouble.  See?  Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn\nlikely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's.  I know\nyehs!  See?  I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes.\nDat's right!  See?  Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted\nout in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is.  When I comes from\nbehind dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street.  See?\"\n\n\"Oh, hell,\" cried the two men in chorus.\n\nThe glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes.  \"Dat's what I said!\nUnnerstan'?\"\n\nHe came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon\nthe two men.  They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him.\n\nThey bristled like three roosters.  They moved their heads pugnaciously\nand kept their shoulders braced.  The nervous muscles about each mouth\ntwitched with a forced smile of mockery.\n\n\"Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?\" gritted Jimmie.\n\nPete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men\nfrom coming too near.\n\n\"Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?\" repeated Jimmie's ally.  They\nkept close to him, taunting and leering.  They strove to make him\nattempt the initial blow.\n\n\"Keep back, now!  Don' crowd me,\" ominously said Pete.\n\nAgain they chorused in contempt.  \"Oh, hell!\"\n\nIn a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like\nfrigates contemplating battle.\n\n\"Well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?\" cried Jimmie and\nhis ally with copious sneers.\n\nThe bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men.  Their clenched\nfists moved like eager weapons.\n\nThe allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him with\nfeverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall.\n\nSuddenly Pete swore redly.  The flash of action gleamed from his eyes.\nHe threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at\nJimmie's face.  His foot swung a step forward and the weight of his\nbody was behind his fist.  Jimmie ducked his head, Bowery-like, with\nthe quickness of a cat.  The fierce, answering blows of him and his\nally crushed on Pete's bowed head.\n\nThe quiet stranger vanished.\n\nThe arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails.  The faces\nof the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade\nto the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle.  Their\nlips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like\ngrins.  Through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings\nof oaths.  Their eyes glittered with murderous fire.\n\nEach head was huddled between its owner's shoulders, and arms were\nswinging with marvelous rapidity.  Feet scraped to and fro with a loud\nscratching sound upon the sanded floor.  Blows left crimson blotches\nupon pale skin.  The curses of the first quarter minute of the fight\ndied away.  The breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips\nand the three chests were straining and heaving.  Pete at intervals\ngave vent to low, labored hisses, that sounded like a desire to kill.\nJimmie's ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac.  Jimmie was\nsilent, fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest.  The rage of\nfear shone in all their eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled.\n\nAt a tottering moment a blow from Pete's hand struck the ally and he\ncrashed to the floor.  He wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping\nthe quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar, hurled it at Pete's head.\n\nHigh on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments flying in\nall directions.  Then missiles came to every man's hand.  The place had\nheretofore appeared free of things to throw, but suddenly glass and\nbottles went singing through the air.  They were thrown point blank at\nbobbing heads.  The pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been\ndisturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them.\nMirrors splintered to nothing.\n\nThe three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy\nfor blood.  There followed in the wake of missiles and fists some\nunknown prayers, perhaps for death.\n\nThe quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the\nsidewalk.  A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block.\n\n\"Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street.\"\n\nPeople heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the\nsaloon and came running.  A small group, bending down to look under the\nbamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent\nlegs, changed in a moment to a crowd.\n\nA policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the\ndoors into the saloon.  The crowd bended and surged in absorbing\nanxiety to see.\n\nJimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption.  On his feet\nhe had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had\nfor a fire engine.  He howled and ran for the side door.\n\nThe officer made a terrific advance, club in hand.  One comprehensive\nsweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced\nPete to a corner.  With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at\nJimmie's coat-tails.  Then he regained his balance and paused.\n\n\"Well, well, you are a pair of pictures.  What in hell yeh been up to?\"\n\nJimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street,\npursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited\nindividuals of the crowd.\n\nLater, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the ally and\nthe bartender emerge from the saloon.  Pete locked the doors and then\nfollowed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-encompassed policeman\nand his charge.\n\nOn first thoughts Jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat,\nstarted to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted.\n\n\"Ah, what deh hell?\" he demanded of himself.\n\n\n", "summary": "Meanwhile, at a local saloon--a kind of fancy place with some really stylish details, like \"shimmering glasses\" and \"many-hued decanters\" --Pete is behind the bar in a white jacket doing bartender-y things like pouring beer and drying glasses. Jimmie comes in with his pal Billie. They are both so good to go that we almost feel sorry for Pete, except that he has spoiled sweet Maggie. And not in the way your grandma spoils you--we're talking the spoiled milk kind of spoiled. A full-blown fistfight ensues. Glass smashing, cups flying, fists in the air. It's a violent spectacle... until the cops show up and Jimmie escapes through a side door."}, {"": "387", "document": "The same, all but De Guiche.\n\nCHRISTIAN (entreatingly):\n  Roxane!\n\nROXANE:\n  No!\n\nFIRST CADET (to the others):\n  She stays!\n\nALL (hurrying, hustling each other, tidying themselves):\n  A comb!--Soap!--My uniform is torn!--A needle!--A ribbon!--Lend your\nmirror!--My cuffs!--Your curling-iron!--A razor!. . .\n\nROXANE (to Cyrano, who still pleads with her):\n  No!  Naught shall make me stir from this spot!\n\nCARBON (who, like the others, has been buckling, dusting, brushing his hat,\nsettling his plume, and drawing on his cuffs, advances to Roxane, and\nceremoniously):\n  It is perchance more seemly, since things are thus, that I present to you\nsome of these gentlemen who are about to have the honor of dying before your\neyes.\n(Roxane bows, and stands leaning on Christian's arm, while Carbon introduces\nthe cadets to her):\n  Baron de Peyrescous de Colignac!\n\nTHE CADET (with a low reverence):\n  Madame. . .\n\nCARBON (continuing):\n  Baron de Casterac de Cahuzac,--Vidame de Malgouyre Estressac Lesbas\nd'Escarabiot, Chevalier d'Antignac-Juzet, Baron Hillot de Blagnac-Salechan de\nCastel Crabioules. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  But how many names have you each?\n\nBARON HILLOT:\n  Scores!\n\nCARBON (to Roxane):\n  Pray, upon the hand that holds your kerchief.\n\nROXANE (opens her hand, and the handkerchief falls):\n  Why?\n\n(The whole company start forward to pick it up.)\n\nCARBON (quickly raising it):\n  My company had no flag.  But now, by my faith, they will have the fairest in\nall the camp!\n\nROXANE (smiling):\n  'Tis somewhat small.\n\nCARBON (tying the handkerchief on the staff of his lance):\n  But--'tis of lace!\n\nA CADET (to the rest):\n  I could die happy, having seen so sweet a face, if I had something in my\nstomach--were it but a nut!\n\nCARBON (who has overheard, indignantly):\n  Shame on you!  What, talk of eating when a lovely woman!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  But your camp air is keen; I myself am famished.  Pasties, cold fricassee,\nold wines--there is my bill of fare?  Pray bring it all here.\n\n(Consternation.)\n\nA CADET:\n  All that?\n\nANOTHER:\n  But where on earth find it?\n\nROXANE (quietly):\n  In my carriage.\n\nALL:\n  How?\n\nROXANE:\n  Now serve up--carve!  Look a little closer at my coachman, gentlemen, and\nyou will recognize a man most welcome.  All the sauces can be sent to table\nhot, if we will!\n\nTHE CADETS (rushing pellmell to the carriage):\n  'Tis Ragueneau!\n(Acclamations):\n  Oh, oh!\n\nROXANE (looking after them):\n  Poor fellows!\n\nCYRANO (kissing her hand):\n  Kind fairy!\n\nRAGUENEAU (standing on the box like a quack doctor at a fair):\n  Gentlemen!. . .\n\n(General delight.)\n\nTHE CADETS:\n  Bravo! bravo!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  . . .The Spaniards, gazing on a lady so dainty fair, overlooked the fare so\ndainty!. . .\n\n(Applause.)\n\nCYRANO (in a whisper to Christian):\n  Hark, Christian!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  . . .And, occupied with gallantry, perceived not--\n(His draws a plate from under the seat, and holds it up):\n  --The galantine!. . .\n\n(Applause.  The galantine passes from hand to hand.)\n\nCYRANO (still whispering to Christian):\n  Prythee, one word!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  And Venus so attracted their eyes that Diana could secretly pass by with--\n(He holds up a shoulder of mutton):\n  --her fawn!\n\n(Enthusiasm.  Twenty hands are held out to seize the shoulder of mutton.)\n\nCYRANO (in a low whisper to Christian):\n  I must speak to you!\n\nROXANE (to the cadets, who come down, their arms laden with food):\n  Put it all on the ground!\n\n(She lays all out on the grass, aided by the two imperturbable lackeys who\nwere behind the carriage.)\n\nROXANE (to Christian, just as Cyrano is drawing him apart):\n  Come, make yourself of use!\n\n(Christian comes to help her.  Cyrano's uneasiness increases.)\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Truffled peacock!\n\nFIRST CADET (radiant, coming down, cutting a big slice of ham):\n  By the mass!  We shall not brave the last hazard without having had a\ngullet-full!--\n(quickly correcting himself on seeing Roxane):\n  --Pardon!  A Balthazar feast!\n\nRAGUENEAU (throwing down the carriage cushions):\n  The cushions are stuffed with ortolans!\n\n(Hubbub.  They tear open and turn out the contents of the cushions.  Bursts of\nlaughter--merriment.)\n\nTHIRD CADET:\n  Ah!  Viedaze!\n\nRAGUENEAU (throwing down to the cadets bottles of red wine):\n  Flasks of rubies!--\n(and white wine):\n  --Flasks of topaz!\n\nROXANE (throwing a folded tablecloth at Cyrano's head):\n  Unfold me that napkin!--Come, come! be nimble!\n\nRAGUENEAU (waving a lantern):\n  Each of the carriage-lamps is a little larder!\n\nCYRANO (in a low voice to Christian, as they arrange the cloth together):\n  I must speak with you ere you speak to her.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  My whip-handle is an Arles sausage!\n\nROXANE (pouring out wine, helping):\n  Since we are to die, let the rest of the army shift for itself.  All for the\nGascons!  And mark! if De Guiche comes, let no one invite him!\n(Going from one to the other):\n  There! there!  You have time enough!  Do not eat too fast!--Drink a little.-\n-Why are you crying?\n\nFIRST CADET:\n  It is all so good!. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Tut!--Red or white?--Some bread for Monsieur de Carbon!--a knife!  Pass your\nplate!--a little of the crust?  Some more?  Let me help you!--Some champagne?-\n-A wing?\n\nCYRANO (who follows her, his arms laden with dishes, helping her to wait on\neverybody):\n  How I worship her!\n\nROXANE (going up to Christian):\n  What will you?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Nothing.\n\nROXANE:\n  Nay, nay, take this biscuit, steeped in muscat; come!. . .but two drops!\n\nCHRISTIAN (trying to detain her):\n  Oh! tell me why you came?\n\nROXANE:\n  Wait; my first duty is to these poor fellows.--Hush!  In a few minutes. . .\n\nLE BRET (who had gone up to pass a loaf on the end of a lance to the sentry on\nthe rampart):\n  De Guiche!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Quick! hide flasks, plates, pie-dishes, game-baskets!  Hurry!--Let us all\nlook unconscious!\n(To Ragueneau):\n  Up on your seat!--Is everything covered up?\n\n(In an instant all has been pushed into the tents, or hidden under doublets,\ncloaks, and beavers.  De Guiche enters hurriedly--stops suddenly, sniffing the\nair.  Silence.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "When Carbon introduces Roxane to the Cadets, he asks her to give up her lace handkerchief to serve as the banner of the cadets; she gladly obliges. When one of the men mentions his hunger to her, she tells them that she has brought food and sends them to the carriage. While Ragueneau, serving as the coachman, takes out the edible delicacies, Roxane distributes them to the cadets. Cyrano urgently draws Christian aside to talk to him, but the latter is called away to help with the food. While he carves the meat, he presses Roxane about her real reason for coming; however, she will not talk to him until after the feast is over. When De Guiche re-enters the camp, the food is quickly hidden from view. As a result, he is amazed by the gaiety that he perceives. He has come to bring the cadets a cannon, but he warns them about its recoil action. He also asks Roxane if she really intends to stay on at the camp. When she gives her positive response, he calls for a musket and says that he will stay and protect her. The cadets are so impressed by his offer that they give him the remaining food from the feast. Although he is tempted by his hunger, De Guiche is too proud to accept it. He is then applauded by all as a true Gascon. When Carbon asks De Guiche to inspect the pikeman, he asks Roxane to accompany him. This gives Cyrano the opportunity to warn Christian that he must acknowledge having written the letters that Roxane has received. Christian is amazed at the news and questions him about the letters and their dispatch. When Cyrano explains how he has crossed enemy lines to get the letters to Roxane, Christian sarcastically remarks that writing them must have been an intoxicating experience, for Cyrano was willing to risk death for them; there is a touch of jealousy in his criticism. Roxane's return, however, suspends their conversation."}, {"": "388", "document": "<CHAPTER>\n2--Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road\n\n\nClym saw little of Thomasin for several days after this; and when they\nmet she was more silent than usual. At length he asked her what she was\nthinking of so intently.\n\n\"I am thoroughly perplexed,\" she said candidly. \"I cannot for my life\nthink who it is that Diggory Venn is so much in love with. None of the\ngirls at the Maypole were good enough for him, and yet she must have\nbeen there.\"\n\nClym tried to imagine Venn's choice for a moment; but ceasing to be\ninterested in the question he went on again with his gardening.\n\nNo clearing up of the mystery was granted her for some time. But one\nafternoon Thomasin was upstairs getting ready for a walk, when she had\noccasion to come to the landing and call \"Rachel.\" Rachel was a girl\nabout thirteen, who carried the baby out for airings; and she came\nupstairs at the call.\n\n\"Have you seen one of my last new gloves about the house, Rachel?\"\ninquired Thomasin. \"It is the fellow to this one.\"\n\nRachel did not reply.\n\n\"Why don't you answer?\" said her mistress.\n\n\"I think it is lost, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Lost? Who lost it? I have never worn them but once.\"\n\nRachel appeared as one dreadfully troubled, and at last began to cry.\n\"Please, ma'am, on the day of the Maypole I had none to wear, and I seed\nyours on the table, and I thought I would borrow 'em. I did not mean to\nhurt 'em at all, but one of them got lost. Somebody gave me some money\nto buy another pair for you, but I have not been able to go anywhere to\nget 'em.\"\n\n\"Who's somebody?\"\n\n\"Mr. Venn.\"\n\n\"Did he know it was my glove?\"\n\n\"Yes. I told him.\"\n\nThomasin was so surprised by the explanation that she quite forgot\nto lecture the girl, who glided silently away. Thomasin did not move\nfurther than to turn her eyes upon the grass-plat where the Maypole had\nstood. She remained thinking, then said to herself that she would not go\nout that afternoon, but would work hard at the baby's unfinished lovely\nplaid frock, cut on the cross in the newest fashion. How she managed to\nwork hard, and yet do no more than she had done at the end of two hours,\nwould have been a mystery to anyone not aware that the recent incident\nwas of a kind likely to divert her industry from a manual to a mental\nchannel.\n\nNext day she went her ways as usual, and continued her custom of walking\nin the heath with no other companion than little Eustacia, now of the\nage when it is a matter of doubt with such characters whether they are\nintended to walk through the world on their hands or on their feet; so\nthat they get into painful complications by trying both. It was very\npleasant to Thomasin, when she had carried the child to some lonely\nplace, to give her a little private practice on the green turf and\nshepherd's-thyme, which formed a soft mat to fall headlong upon them\nwhen equilibrium was lost.\n\nOnce, when engaged in this system of training, and stooping to remove\nbits of stick, fern-stalks, and other such fragments from the child's\npath, that the journey might not be brought to an untimely end by\nsome insuperable barrier a quarter of an inch high, she was alarmed by\ndiscovering that a man on horseback was almost close beside her, the\nsoft natural carpet having muffled the horse's tread. The rider, who was\nVenn, waved his hat in the air and bowed gallantly.\n\n\"Diggory, give me my glove,\" said Thomasin, whose manner it was under\nany circumstances to plunge into the midst of a subject which engrossed\nher.\n\nVenn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, and\nhanded the glove.\n\n\"Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it.\"\n\n\"It is very good of you to say so.\"\n\n\"O no. I was quite glad to find you had it. Everybody gets so\nindifferent that I was surprised to know you thought of me.\"\n\n\"If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn't have been\nsurprised.\"\n\n\"Ah, no,\" she said quickly. \"But men of your character are mostly so\nindependent.\"\n\n\"What is my character?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't exactly know,\" said Thomasin simply, \"except it is to cover up\nyour feelings under a practical manner, and only to show them when you\nare alone.\"\n\n\"Ah, how do you know that?\" said Venn strategically.\n\n\"Because,\" said she, stopping to put the little girl, who had managed to\nget herself upside down, right end up again, \"because I do.\"\n\n\"You mustn't judge by folks in general,\" said Venn. \"Still I don't know\nmuch what feelings are nowadays. I have got so mixed up with business\nof one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapour\nlike. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money is\nall my dream.\"\n\n\"O Diggory, how wicked!\" said Thomasin reproachfully, and looking at him\nin exact balance between taking his words seriously and judging them as\nsaid to tease her.\n\n\"Yes, 'tis rather a rum course,\" said Venn, in the bland tone of one\ncomfortably resigned to sins he could no longer overcome.\n\n\"You, who used to be so nice!\"\n\n\"Well, that's an argument I rather like, because what a man has once\nbeen he may be again.\" Thomasin blushed. \"Except that it is rather\nharder now,\" Venn continued.\n\n\"Why?\" she asked.\n\n\"Because you be richer than you were at that time.\"\n\n\"O no--not much. I have made it nearly all over to the baby, as it was\nmy duty to do, except just enough to live on.\"\n\n\"I am rather glad of that,\" said Venn softly, and regarding her from the\ncorner of his eye, \"for it makes it easier for us to be friendly.\"\n\nThomasin blushed again, and, when a few more words had been said of a\nnot unpleasing kind, Venn mounted his horse and rode on.\n\nThis conversation had passed in a hollow of the heath near the old\nRoman road, a place much frequented by Thomasin. And it might have been\nobserved that she did not in future walk that way less often from having\nmet Venn there now. Whether or not Venn abstained from riding thither\nbecause he had met Thomasin in the same place might easily have been\nguessed from her proceedings about two months later in the same year.\n\n\n</CHAPTER>\n", "summary": "The mystery of the glove is solved - Thomasin's nurse, Rachel, borrowed Thomasin's gloves for the May Day party and lost one. Diggory was mooning over Thomasin's glove after all. Sweet! Thomasin is excited by this news since she's started to fall for Diggory now. She goes to confront Diggory about the glove business and he returns it to her. The two talk about Diggory's changed circumstances and he says he's glad they can be closer \"friends\" now."}, {"": "389", "document": "\nNARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--THE JOLLY-BOAT'S LAST TRIP\n\n\nThis fifth trip was quite different from any of the others. In the first\nplace, the little gallipot of a boat that we were in was gravely\noverloaded. Five grown men, and three of them--Trelawney, Redruth, and\nthe captain--over six feet high, was already more than she was meant to\ncarry. Add to that the powder, pork, and the bread-bags. The gunwale was\nlipping astern. Several times we shipped a little water, and my breeches\nand the tails of my coat were all soaking wet before we had gone a\nhundred yards.\n\nThe captain made us trim the boat, and we got her to lie a little more\nevenly. All the same, we were afraid to breathe.\n\nIn the second place, the ebb was now making--a strong, rippling current\nrunning westward through the basin, and then south'ard and seaward down\nthe straits by which we had entered in the morning. Even the ripples\nwere a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we\nwere swept out of our true course, and away from our proper\nlanding-place behind the point. If we let the current have its way we\nshould come ashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at\nany moment.\n\n\"I cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir,\" said I to the captain. I\nwas steering, while he and Redruth, two fresh men, were at the oars.\n\"The tide keeps washing her down. Could you pull a little stronger?\"\n\n\"Not without swamping the boat,\" said he. \"You must bear up, sir, if you\nplease--bear up until you see you're gaining.\"\n\nI tried, and found by experiment that the tide kept sweeping us westward\nuntil I had laid her head due east, or just about right angles to the\nway we ought to go.\n\n\"We'll never get ashore at this rate,\" said I.\n\n\"If it's the only course that we can lie, sir, we must even lie it,\"\nreturned the captain. \"We must keep upstream. You see, sir,\" he went on,\n\"if once we dropped to leeward of the landing-place, it's hard to say\nwhere we should get ashore, besides the chance of being boarded by the\ngigs; whereas, the way we go the current must slacken, and then we can\ndodge back along the shore.\"\n\n\"The current's less a'ready, sir,\" said the man Gray, who was sitting in\nthe foresheets; \"you can ease her off a bit.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my man,\" said I, quite as if nothing had happened, for we\nhad all quietly made up our minds to treat him like one of ourselves.\n\nSuddenly the captain spoke up again, and I thought his voice was a\nlittle changed.\n\n\"The gun!\" said he.\n\n\"I have thought of that,\" said I, for I made sure he was thinking of a\nbombardment of the fort. \"They could never get the gun ashore, and if\nthey did, they could never haul it through the woods.\"\n\n\"Look astern, doctor,\" replied the captain.\n\nWe had entirely forgotten the long nine; and there, to our horror, were\nthe five rogues busy about her, getting off her jacket, as they called\nthe stout tarpaulin cover under which she sailed. Not only that, but it\nflashed into my mind at the same moment that the round shot and the\npowder for the gun had been left behind, and a stroke with an ax would\nput it all into the possession of the evil ones aboard.\n\n\"Israel was Flint's gunner,\" said Gray, hoarsely.\n\nAt any risk, we put the boat's head direct for the landing-place. By\nthis time we had got so far out of the run of the current that we kept\nsteerage way even at our necessarily gentle rate of rowing, and I could\nkeep her steady for the goal. But the worst of it was, that with the\ncourse I now held, we turned our broadside instead of our stern to the\n_Hispaniola_, and offered a target like a barn door.\n\nI could hear, as well as see, that brandy-faced rascal, Israel Hands,\nplumping down a round shot on the deck.\n\n\"Who's the best shot?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Mr. Trelawney, out and away,\" said I.\n\n\"Mr. Trelawney, will you please pick me off one of those men, sir?\nHands, if possible,\" said the captain.\n\nTrelawney was as cold as steel. He looked to the priming of his gun.\n\n\"Now,\" cried the captain, \"easy with that gun, sir, or you'll swamp the\nboat. All hands stand by to trim her when he aims.\"\n\nThe squire raised his gun, the rowing ceased, and we leaned over to the\nother side to keep the balance, and all was so nicely contrived that we\ndid not ship a drop.\n\n[Illustration: _They had the gun, by this time, slewed around upon the\nswivel_ (Page 125)]\n\nThey had the gun, by this time, slewed around upon the swivel, and\nHands, who was at the muzzle, with the rammer, was, in consequence, the\nmost exposed. However, we had no luck; for just as Trelawney fired,\ndown he stooped, the ball whistling over him, and it was one of the\nother four who fell.\n\nThe cry he gave was echoed, not only by his companions on board, but by\na great number of voices from the shore, and looking in that direction I\nsaw the other pirates trooping out from among the trees and tumbling\ninto their places in the boats.\n\n\"Here come the gigs, sir,\" said I.\n\n\"Give way, then,\" said the captain. \"We mustn't mind if we swamp her\nnow. If we can't get ashore, all's up.\"\n\n\"Only one of the gigs is being manned, sir,\" I added; \"the crew of the\nother is most likely going around by shore to cut us off.\"\n\n\"They'll have a hot run, sir,\" returned the captain. \"Jack ashore, you\nknow. It's not them I mind; it's the round shot. Carpet bowls! My lady's\nmaid couldn't miss. Tell us, squire, when you see the match, and we'll\nhold water.\"\n\nIn the meantime we had been making headway at a good pace for a boat so\noverloaded, and we had shipped but little water in the process. We were\nnow close in; thirty or forty strokes and we should beach her, for the\nebb had already disclosed a narrow belt of sand below the clustering\ntrees. The gig was no longer to be feared; the little point had already\nconcealed it from our eyes. The ebb-tide, which had so cruelly delayed\nus, was now making reparation, and delaying our assailants. The one\nsource of danger was the gun.\n\n\"If I durst,\" said the captain, \"I'd stop and pick off another man.\"\n\nBut it was plain that they meant nothing should delay their shot. They\nhad never so much as looked at their fallen comrade, though he was not\ndead, and I could see him trying to crawl away.\n\n\"Ready!\" cried the squire.\n\n\"Hold!\" cried the captain, quick as an echo.\n\nAnd he and Redruth backed with a great heave that sent her astern bodily\nunder water. The report fell in at the same instant of time. This was\nthe first that Jim heard, the sound of the squire's shot not having\nreached him. When the ball passed, not one of us precisely knew, but I\nfancy it must have been over our heads, and that the wind of it may have\ncontributed to our disaster.\n\nAt any rate the boat sunk by the stern, quite gently, in three feet of\nwater, leaving the captain and myself, facing each other, on our feet.\nThe other three took complete headers, and came up again, drenched and\nbubbling.\n\nSo far there was no great harm. No lives were lost, and we could wade\nashore in safety. But there were all our stores at the bottom, and, to\nmake things worse, only two guns out of five remained in a state for\nservice. Mine I had snatched from my knees, and held over my head, by a\nsort of instinct. As for the captain, he had carried his over his\nshoulder by a bandoleer, and, like a wise man, lock uppermost. The other\nthree had gone down with the boat. To add to our concern, we heard\nvoices already drawing near us in the woods along the shore; and we had\nnot only the danger of being cut off from the stockade in our\nhalf-crippled state, but the fear before us whether, if Hunter and Joyce\nwere attacked by half a dozen, they would have the sense and conduct to\nstand firm. Hunter was steady, that we knew; Joyce was a doubtful\ncase--a pleasant, polite man for a valet, and to brush one's clothes,\nbut not entirely fitted for a man-of-war.\n\nWith all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving\nbehind us the poor jolly-boat, and a good half of all our powder and\nprovisions.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The last trip, the doctor says, was the most difficult trip as the boat was overloaded with five grown men and all of the supplies. The strong water currents running westward make it much more difficult for them. Sailing with the ebb, on the other hand, would have taken them to the shore but closer to the area where Silver and his men had landed. The doctor is losing hope. Two fresh oarsmen-the Captain and Redruth are steering the boat. The men keep on suggesting ideas when suddenly the Captain remembers something. They had completely forgotten about the other guns and the cannon on the Hispaniola, which was now under the control of Silvers men. Looking back, they see the men uncovering the tarpaulin on the other small boat. Israel Hands is in command of the Hispaniola. He used to be Flints gunner. The lives of Captain and his men are in danger. In an attempt to save themselves the Captain orders Trelawney to shoot Hands on the Hispaniola. He misses him, but hits one of the other sailors. Hearing the shot, the pirates on shore man their small boats and rush towards them. The Squire doesnt give up, but their boat does. The boat goes down and all of them are drenched in three feet of water. No one is hurt, but three guns out of five were rendered useless. They wade towards the beach, the voices of the pirates nearing them all the time. The thought of Hunter and Joyce handling the mutineers bothers them as they are held in the Stockade. More than half of their goods and provisions are left behind in the bottom of the sunken boat."}, {"": "390", "document": "'MARNOO, Marnoo pemi!' Such were the welcome sounds which fell upon my\near some ten days after the events related in the preceding chapter.\nOnce more the approach of the stranger was heralded, and the\nintelligence operated upon me like magic. Again I should be able to\nconverse with him in my own language; and I resolve at all hazards to\nconcert with him some scheme, however desperate, to rescue me from a\ncondition that had now become insupportable.\n\nAs he drew near, I remembered with many misgivings the inauspicious\ntermination of our former interview, and when he entered the house, I\nwatched with intense anxiety the reception he met with from its inmates.\nTo my joy, his appearance was hailed with the liveliest pleasure; and\naccosting me kindly, he seated himself by my side, and entered into\nconversation with the natives around him. It soon appeared however,\nthat on this occasion he had not any intelligence of importance to\ncommunicate. I inquired of him from whence he had just come? He replied\nfrom Pueearka, his native valley, and that he intended to return to it\nthe same day.\n\nAt once it struck me that, could I but reach that valley under his\nprotection, I might easily from thence reach Nukuheva by water; and\nanimated by the prospect which this plan held, out I disclosed it in\na few brief words to the stranger, and asked him how it could be best\naccomplished. My heart sunk within me, when in his broken English he\nanswered me that it could never be effected. 'Kanaka no let you go\nnowhere,' he said; 'you taboo. Why you no like to stay? Plenty moee-moee\n(sleep)--plenty ki-ki (eat)--plenty wahenee (young girls)--Oh, very good\nplace Typee! Suppose you no like this bay, why you come? You no hear\nabout Typee? All white men afraid Typee, so no white men come.'\n\nThese words distressed me beyond belief; and when I had again related to\nhim the circumstances under which I had descended into the valley, and\nsought to enlist his sympathies in my behalf by appealing to the bodily\nmisery I had endure, he listened with impatience, and cut me short by\nexclaiming passionately, 'Me no hear you talk any more; by by Kanaka\nget mad, kill you and me too. No you see he no want you to speak at\nall?--you see--ah! by by you no mind--you get well, he kill you, eat\nyou, hang you head up there, like Happar Kanaka.--Now you listen--but no\ntalk any more. By by I go;--you see way I go--Ah! then some night Kanaka\nall moee-moee (sleep)--you run away, you come Pueearka. I speak Pueearka\nKanaka--he no harm you--ah! then I take you my canoe Nukuheva--and you\nrun away ship no more.' With these words, enforced by a vehemence of\ngesture I cannot describe, Marnoo started from my side, and immediately\nengaged in conversation with some of the chiefs who had entered the\nhouse.\n\nIt would have been idle for me to have attempted resuming the interview\nso peremptorily terminated by Marnoo, who was evidently little disposed\nto compromise his own safety by any rash endeavour to ensure mine.\nBut the plan he had suggested struck me as one which might possibly be\naccomplished, and I resolved to act upon it as speedily as possible.\n\nAccordingly, when he arose to depart, I accompanied him with the natives\noutside of the house, with a view of carefully noting the path he\nwould take in leaving the valley. Just before leaping from the pi-pi he\nclasped my hand, and looking significantly at me, exclaimed, 'Now you\nsee--you do what I tell you--ah! then you do good;--you no do so--ah!\nthen you die.' The next moment he waved his spear to the islanders, and\nfollowing the route that conducted to a defile in the mountains lying\nopposite the Happar side, was soon out of sight.\n\nA mode of escape was now presented to me, but how was I to avail myself\nof it? I was continually surrounded by the savages; I could not stir\nfrom one house to another without being attended by some of them; and\neven during the hours devoted to slumber, the slightest movement which I\nmade seemed to attract the notice of those who shared the mats with me.\nIn spite of these obstacles, however, I determined forthwith to make the\nattempt. To do so with any prospect of success, it was necessary that\nI should have at least two hours start before the islanders should\ndiscover my absence; for with such facility was any alarm spread through\nthe valley, and so familiar, of course, were the inhabitants with the\nintricacies of the groves, that I could not hope, lame and feeble as I\nwas, and ignorant of the route, to secure my escape unless I had this\nadvantage. It was also by night alone that I could hope to accomplish my\nobject, and then only by adopting the utmost precaution.\n\nThe entrance to Marheyo's habitation was through a low narrow opening\nin its wicker-work front. This passage, for no conceivable reason that I\ncould devise, was always closed after the household had retired to rest,\nby drawing a heavy slide across it, composed of a dozen or more bits of\nwood, ingeniously fastened together by seizings of sinnate. When any of\nthe inmates chose to go outside, the noise occasioned by the removing of\nthis rude door awakened every body else; and on more than one occasion\nI had remarked that the islanders were nearly as irritable as more\ncivilized beings under similar circumstances.\n\nThe difficulty thus placed in my way I, determined to obviate in the\nfollowing manner. I would get up boldly in the course of the night, and\ndrawing the slide, issue from the house, and pretend that my object was\nmerely to procure a drink from the calabash, which always stood\nwithout the dwelling on the corner of the pi-pi. On re-entering I would\npurposely omit closing the passage after me, and trusting that the\nindolence of the savages would prevent them from repairing my neglect,\nwould return to my mat, and waiting patiently until all were again\nasleep, I would then steal forth, and at once take the route to\nPueearka.\n\nThe very night which followed Marnoo's departure, I proceeded to put\nthis project into execution. About midnight, as I imagined, I arose and\ndrew the slide. The natives, just as I had expected, started up, while\nsome of them asked, 'Arware poo awa, Tommo?' (where are you going,\nTommo?) 'Wai' (water) I laconically answered, grasping the calabash. On\nhearing my reply they sank back again, and in a minute or two I returned\nto my mat, anxiously awaiting the result of the experiment.\n\nOne after another the savages, turning restlessly, appeared to resume\ntheir slumbers, and rejoicing at the stillness which prevailed, I was\nabout to rise again from my couch, when I heard a slight rustling--a\ndark form was intercepted between me and the doorway--the slide was\ndrawn across it, and the individual, whoever he was, returned to\nhis mat. This was a sad blow to me; but as it might have aroused the\nsuspicions of the islanders to have made another attempt that night, I\nwas reluctantly obliged to defer it until the next. Several times after\nI repeated the same manoeuvre, but with as little success as before.\nAs my pretence for withdrawing from the house was to allay my thirst,\nKory-Kory either suspecting some design on my part, or else prompted\nby a desire to please me, regularly every evening placed a calabash of\nwater by my side.\n\nEven, under these inauspicious circumstances I again and again renewed\nthe attempt, but when I did so, my valet always rose with me, as if\ndetermined I should not remove myself from his observation. For\nthe present, therefore, I was obliged to abandon the attempt; but I\nendeavoured to console myself with the idea that by this mode I might\nyet effect my escape.\n\nShortly after Marnoo's visit I was reduced to such a state that it was\nwith extreme difficulty I could walk, even with the assistance of a\nspear, and Kory-Kory, as formerly, was obliged to carry me daily to the\nstream.\n\nFor hours and hours during the warmest part of the day I lay upon my\nmat, and while those around me were nearly all dozing away in careless\nease, I remained awake, gloomily pondering over the fate which it\nappeared now idle for me to resist, when I thought of the loved friends\nwho were thousands and thousands of miles from the savage island in\nwhich I was held a captive, when I reflected that my dreadful fate would\nfor ever be concealed from them, and that with hope deferred they might\ncontinue to await my return long after my inanimate form had blended\nwith the dust of the valley--I could not repress a shudder of anguish.\n\nHow vividly is impressed upon my mind every minute feature of the scene\nwhich met my view during those long days of suffering and sorrow. At my\nrequest my mats were always spread directly facing the door, opposite\nwhich, and at a little distance, was the hut of boughs that Marheyo was\nbuilding.\n\nWhenever my gentle Fayaway and Kory-Kory, laying themselves down beside\nme, would leave me awhile to uninterrupted repose, I took a strange\ninterest in the slightest movements of the eccentric old warrior. All\nalone during the stillness of the tropical mid-day, he would pursue his\nquiet work, sitting in the shade and weaving together the leaflets of\nhis cocoanut branches, or rolling upon his knee the twisted fibres of\nbark to form the cords with which he tied together the thatching of\nhis tiny house. Frequently suspending his employment, and noticing my\nmelancholy eye fixed upon him, he would raise his hand with a gesture\nexpressive of deep commiseration, and then moving towards me slowly,\nwould enter on tip-toes, fearful of disturbing the slumbering natives,\nand, taking the fan from my hand, would sit before me, swaying it gently\nto and fro, and gazing earnestly into my face.\n\nJust beyond the pi-pi, and disposed in a triangle before the entrance\nof the house, were three magnificent bread-fruit trees. At this moment I\ncan recap to my mind their slender shafts, and the graceful inequalities\nof their bark, on which my eye was accustomed to dwell day after day in\nthe midst of my solitary musings. It is strange how inanimate objects\nwill twine themselves into our affections, especially in the hour of\naffliction. Even now, amidst all the bustle and stir of the proud and\nbusy city in which I am dwelling, the image of those three trees seems\nto come as vividly before my eyes as if they were actually present, and\nI still feel the soothing quiet pleasure which I then had in watching\nhour after hour their topmost boughs waving gracefully in the breeze.\n\n\n", "summary": "Ten days after the cannibalism was confirmed, Marnoo returns to the Typee Valley. Tommo asks if he can leave with him, but Marnoo says that he is taboo, and that even though white men are usually afraid to come to the valley, it seems like he has everything he needs: sleep, food, young girls. Tommo explains about his leg, but Marnoo cuts him off, saying that Mehevi will be upset and kill both of them. Still, Marnoo agrees to talk to his own chief, to see if Tommo could go there, then get taken to Nukuheva and on to freedom. He says this all in an angry voice, as if he is yelling at Tommo, rather than giving him an escape route. Tommo begins to plan, observing how he might get out of Marheyo's house undetected. Each night the door is closed, and the noise it makes when it opens tends to disturb sleepers. He resolves to get up for water, then not quite close the door behind him, only to leave thereafter. The night after Marnoo has left, Tommo makes his first attempt. Unfortunately, someone else gets up after him and soundly shuts the door. After this, Kory-Kory makes a point of leaving a gourd of water beside Tommo each night. Tommo tries again and again, but Kory-Kory rises to accompany him each time, ruining the means of escape. His leg worsens and most days Tommo is reduced to laying on the mat in Marheyo's, privately feeling angst out about his situation. Across from his hut, Marheyo is building another. Tommo watches him work."}, {"": "391", "document": "ACT IV. SCENE I.\n\nThe King of Navarre's park.\n\n[Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS,\nATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWas that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard\nAgainst the steep uprising of the hill?\n\nBOYET.\nI know not; but I think it was not he.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWhoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind.\nWell, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;\nOn Saturday we will return to France.\nThen, forester, my friend, where is the bush\nThat we must stand and play the murderer in?\n\nFORESTER.\nHereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;\nA stand where you may make the fairest shoot.\n\nPRINCESS.\nI thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,\nAnd thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.\n\nFORESTER.\nPardon me, madam, for I meant not so.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWhat, what? First praise me, and again say no?\nO short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe!\n\nFORESTER.\nYes, madam, fair.\n\nPRINCESS.\nNay, never paint me now;\nWhere fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.\nHere, good my glass [Gives money]:--take this for telling true:\n\nFair payment for foul words is more than due.\n\nFORESTER.\nNothing but fair is that which you inherit.\n\nPRINCESS.\nSee, see! my beauty will be sav'd by merit.\nO heresy in fair, fit for these days!\nA giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.\nBut come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill,\nAnd shooting well is then accounted ill.\nThus will I save my credit in the shoot:\nNot wounding, pity would not let me do't;\nIf wounding, then it was to show my skill,\nThat more for praise than purpose meant to kill.\nAnd out of question so it is sometimes,\nGlory grows guilty of detested crimes,\nWhen, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,\nWe bend to that the working of the heart;\nAs I for praise alone now seek to spill\nThe poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.\n\nBOYET.\nDo not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty\nOnly for praise' sake, when they strive to be\nLords o'er their lords?\n\nPRINCESS.\nOnly for praise; and praise we may afford\nTo any lady that subdues a lord.\n\n[Enter COSTARD.]\n\nBOYET.\nHere comes a member of the commonwealth.\n\nCOSTARD.\nGod dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?\n\nPRINCESS.\nThou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.\n\nCOSTARD.\nWhich is the greatest lady, the highest?\n\nPRINCESS.\nThe thickest and the tallest.\n\nCOSTARD.\nThe thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth.\nAn your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,\nOne o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit.\nAre not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWhat's your will, sir? What's your will?\n\nCOSTARD.\nI have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline.\n\nPRINCESS.\nO! thy letter, thy letter; he's a good friend of mine.\nStand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;\nBreak up this capon.\n\nBOYET.\nI am bound to serve.\nThis letter is mistook; it importeth none here.\nIt is writ to Jaquenetta.\n\nPRINCESS.\nWe will read it, I swear.\nBreak the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.\n\nBOYET.\n 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible;\ntrue, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art\nlovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer\nthan truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The\nmagnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the\npernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that\nmight rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in\nthe vulgar-- O base and obscure vulgar!--videlicet, he came, saw,\nand overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came?\nthe king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome:\nTo whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Who\novercame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose\nside? the king's; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the\nbeggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the\nking's, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so\nstands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy\nlowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy\nlove? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou\nexchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself?\n-me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my\neyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part.\n     Thine in the dearest design of industry,\n                        DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.\n'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar\n  'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey;\nSubmissive fall his princely feet before,\n  And he from forage will incline to play.\nBut if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then?\nFood for his rage, repasture for his den.'\n\nPRINCESS.\nWhat plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?\nWhat vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?\n\nBOYET.\nI am much deceiv'd but I remember the style.\n\nPRINCESS.\nElse your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile.\n\nBOYET.\nThis Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;\nA phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport\nTo the Prince and his book-mates.\n\nPRINCESS.\nThou fellow, a word.\nWho gave thee this letter?\n\nCOSTARD.\nI told you; my lord.\n\nPRINCESS.\nTo whom shouldst thou give it?\n\nCOSTARD.\nFrom my lord to my lady.\n\nPRINCESS.\nFrom which lord to which lady?\n\nCOSTARD.\nFrom my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,\nTo a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.\n\nPRINCESS.\nThou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.\nHere, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day.\n\n[Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN.]\n\nBOYET.\nWho is the suitor? who is the suitor?\n\nROSALINE.\nShall I teach you to know?\n\nBOYET.\nAy, my continent of beauty.\n\nROSALINE.\nWhy, she that bears the bow.\nFinely put off!\n\nBOYET.\nMy lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,\nHang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.\nFinely put on!\n\nROSALINE.\nWell then, I am the shooter.\n\nBOYET.\nAnd who is your deer?\n\nROSALINE.\nIf we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near.\nFinely put on indeed!\n\nMARIA.\nYou still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the\nbrow.\n\nBOYET.\nBut she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?\n\nROSALINE.\nShall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man\nwhen King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit\nit?\n\nBOYET.\nSo I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when\nQueen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit\nit.\n\nROSALINE.\n   Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,\n   Thou canst not hit it, my good man.\n\nBOYET.\n   An I cannot, cannot, cannot,\n   An I cannot, another can.\n\n[Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE.]\n\nCOSTARD.\nBy my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!\n\nMARIA.\nA mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it.\n\nBOYET.\nA mark! O! mark but that mark; A mark, says my lady!\nLet the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be.\n\nMARIA.\nWide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out.\n\nCOSTARD.\nIndeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout.\n\nBOYET.\nAn' if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.\n\nCOSTARD.\nThen will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.\n\nMARIA.\nCome, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.\n\nCOSTARD.\nShe's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her to bowl.\n\nBOYET.\nI fear too much rubbing. Good-night, my good owl.\n\n[Exeunt BOYET and MARIA.]\n\nCOSTARD.\nBy my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!\nLord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down!\nO' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit!\nWhen it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.\nArmado, o' the one side, O! a most dainty man!\nTo see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!\nTo see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a' will swear!\nAnd his page o' t'other side, that handful of wit!\nAh! heavens, it is a most pathetical nit.\n[Shouting within.] Sola, sola!\n\n[Exit running.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "While the Princess and her ladies are hunting, Costard approaches them with the letter for Rosaline. The Princess takes the letter, and Boyet reads it aloud. However, Costard accidentally gave the royal party the letter meant for Jaquenetta. The court is confused but realizes who Armando is. They ask Costard again who gave him the letter, and he says Berowne. Amidst the confusion, Boyet banters with Rosaline trying to win her love, but she refuses."}, {"": "392", "document": "\n\nAFTER Lena came to Black Hawk I often met her downtown, where she would be\nmatching sewing silk or buying \"findings\" for Mrs. Thomas. If I happened\nto walk home with her, she told me all about the dresses she was helping\nto make, or about what she saw and heard when she was with Tiny Soderball\nat the hotel on Saturday nights.\n\nThe Boys' Home was the best hotel on our branch of the Burlington, and all\nthe commercial travelers in that territory tried to get into Black Hawk\nfor Sunday. They used to assemble in the parlor after supper on Saturday\nnights. Marshall Field's man, Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang\nall the latest sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the\ndishes, she and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the\nparlor and the dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the\njokes and stories. Lena often said she hoped I would be a traveling man\nwhen I grew up. They had a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on\ntrains all day and go to theaters when they were in big cities. Behind the\nhotel there was an old store building, where the salesmen opened their big\ntrunks and spread out their samples on the counters. The Black Hawk\nmerchants went to look at these things and order goods, and Mrs. Thomas,\nthough she was \"retail trade,\" was permitted to see them and to \"get\nideas.\" They were all generous, these traveling men; they gave Tiny\nSoderball handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped stockings, and\nso many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she bestowed\nsome of them on Lena.\n\nOne afternoon in the week before Christmas I came upon Lena and her funny,\nsquare-headed little brother Chris, standing before the drug-store, gazing\nin at the wax dolls and blocks and Noah's arks arranged in the frosty show\nwindow. The boy had come to town with a neighbor to do his Christmas\nshopping, for he had money of his own this year. He was only twelve, but\nthat winter he had got the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and\nmaking the fire in it every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been,\ntoo!\n\nWe went into Duckford's dry-goods store, and Chris unwrapped all his\npresents and showed them to me--something for each of the six younger than\nhimself, even a rubber pig for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny\nSoderball's bottles of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get\nsome handkerchiefs to go with it. They were cheap, and he had n't much\nmoney left. We found a tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for view at\nDuckford's. Chris wanted those with initial letters in the corner, because\nhe had never seen any before. He studied them seriously, while Lena looked\nover his shoulder, telling him she thought the red letters would hold\ntheir color best. He seemed so perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n't\nenough money, after all. Presently he said gravely,--\n\n\"Sister, you know mother's name is Berthe. I don't know if I ought to get\nB for Berthe, or M for Mother.\"\n\nLena patted his bristly head. \"I'd get the B, Chrissy. It will please her\nfor you to think about her name. Nobody ever calls her by it now.\"\n\nThat satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he took three reds and\nthree blues. When the neighbor came in to say that it was time to start,\nLena wound Chris's comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket\ncollar--he had no overcoat--and we watched him climb into the wagon and\nstart on his long, cold drive. As we walked together up the windy street,\nLena wiped her eyes with the back of her woolen glove. \"I get awful\nhomesick for them, all the same,\" she murmured, as if she were answering\nsome remembered reproach.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jim frequently meets Lena downtown, and they used to walk home together and talk. Lena tells him about a hotel called the Boys' Home where she and Tiny Soderball would listen to the entertainment being put on for traveling salesmen. The traveling men would give Tiny gifts. One day Jim meets Lena and her young brother Chris going Christmas shopping. Chris shows all the presents he got for his family members and tries to decide which handkerchief to get his mother. After Chris goes back home, Lena tears up a little bit and confesses how homesick she gets."}, {"": "393", "document": "\nNARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--HOW THE SHIP WAS ABANDONED\n\n\nIt was about half-past one--three bells in the sea phrase--that the two\nboats went ashore from the _Hispaniola_. The captain, the squire, and I\nwere talking matters over in the cabin. Had there been a breath of wind,\nwe should have fallen on the six mutineers who were left aboard with us,\nslipped our cable, and away to sea. But the wind was wanting; and, to\ncomplete our helplessness, down came Hunter with the news that Jim\nHawkins had slipped into a boat and was gone ashore with the rest.\n\nIt had never occurred to us to doubt Jim Hawkins, but we were alarmed\nfor his safety. With the men in the temper they were in, it seemed an\neven chance if we should see the lad again. We ran on deck. The pitch\nwas bubbling in the seams; the nasty stench of the place turned me sick;\nif ever a man smelled fever and dysentery it was in that abominable\nanchorage. The six scoundrels were sitting grumbling under a sail in the\nforecastle; ashore we could see the gigs made fast, and a man sitting in\neach, hard by where the river runs in. One of them was whistling\n\"Lillibullero.\"\n\nWaiting was a strain, and it was decided that Hunter and I should go\nashore with the jolly-boat, in quest of information.\n\nThe gigs had leaned to their right, but Hunter and I pulled straight in,\nin the direction of the stockade upon the chart. The two who were left\nguarding their boats seemed in a bustle at our appearance;\n\"Lillibullero\" stopped off, and I could see the pair discussing what\nthey ought to do. Had they gone and told Silver, all might have turned\nout differently; but they had their orders, I suppose, and decided to\nsit quietly where they were and hark back again to \"Lillibullero.\"\n\nThere was a slight bend in the coast, and I steered so as to put it\nbetween us. Even before we landed we had thus lost sight of the gigs; I\njumped out and came as near running as I durst, with a big silk\nhandkerchief under my hat for coolness' sake, and a brace of pistols\nready primed for safety.\n\nI had not gone a hundred yards when I came on the stockade.\n\nThis was how it was: A spring of clear water arose at the top of a\nknoll. Well, on the knoll, and inclosing the spring, they had clapped a\nstout log house, fit to hold two-score people on a pinch, and loopholed\nfor musketry on every side. All around this they had cleared a wide\nspace, and then the thing was completed by a paling six feet high,\nwithout door or opening, too strong to pull down without time and labor,\nand too open to shelter the besiegers. The people in the log house had\nthem in every way; they stood quiet in the shelter and shot the others\nlike partridges. All they wanted was a good watch and food; for, short\nof a complete surprise, they might have held the place against a\nregiment.\n\nWhat particularly took my fancy was the spring. For, though we had a\ngood place of it in the cabin of the _Hispaniola_, with plenty of arms\nand ammunition, and things to eat, and excellent wines, there had been\none thing overlooked--we had no water. I was thinking this over, when\nthere came ringing over the island the cry of a man at the point of\ndeath. I was not new to violent death--I have served his Royal Highness\nthe Duke of Cumberland, and got a wound myself at Fontenoy--but I know\nmy pulse went dot and carry one. \"Jim Hawkins is gone,\" was my first\nthought.\n\nIt is something to have been an old soldier, but more still to have been\na doctor. There is no time to dilly-dally in our work. And so now I made\nup my mind instantly, and with no time lost returned to the shore and\njumped on board the jolly-boat.\n\nBy good fortune Hunter pulled a good oar. We made the water fly, and the\nboat was soon alongside and I aboard the schooner.\n\nI found them all shaken, as was natural. The squire was sitting down, as\nwhite as a sheet, thinking of the harm he had led us to, the good soul!\nand one of the six forecastle hands was little better.\n\n\"There's a man,\" said Captain Smollett, nodding toward him, \"new to this\nwork. He came nigh-hand fainting, doctor, when he heard the cry. Another\ntouch of the rudder and that man would join us.\"\n\nI told my plan to the captain, and between us we settled on the details\nof its accomplishment.\n\nWe put old Redruth in the gallery between the cabin and the forecastle,\nwith three or four loaded muskets and a mattress for protection. Hunter\nbrought the boat round under the stern port, and Joyce and I set to work\nloading her with powder, tins, muskets, bags of biscuits, kegs of pork,\na cask of cognac, and my invaluable medicine chest.\n\nIn the meantime the squire and the captain stayed on deck, and the\nlatter hailed the coxswain, who was the principal man aboard.\n\n\"Mr. Hands,\" he said, \"here are two of us with a brace of pistols each.\nIf any one of you six make a signal of any description, that man's\ndead.\"\n\nThey were a good deal taken aback; and, after a little consultation, one\nand all tumbled down the fore companion, thinking, no doubt, to take us\non the rear. But when they saw Redruth waiting for them in the sparred\ngallery, they went about ship at once, and a head popped out again on\ndeck.\n\n\"Down, dog!\" cried the captain.\n\nAnd the head popped back again, and we heard no more for the time of\nthese six very faint-hearted seamen.\n\nBy this time, tumbling things in as they came, we had the jolly-boat\nloaded as much as we dared. Joyce and I got out through the stern port,\nand we made for shore again, as fast as oars could take us.\n\nThis second trip fairly aroused the watchers along shore. \"Lillibullero\"\nwas dropped again, and just before we lost sight of them behind the\nlittle point, one of them whipped ashore and disappeared. I had half a\nmind to change my plan and destroy their boats, but I feared that Silver\nand the others might be close at hand, and all might very well be lost\nby trying for too much.\n\nWe had soon touched land in the same place as before and set to work to\nprovision the blockhouse. All three made the first journey, heavily\nladen, and tossed our stores over the palisade. Then, leaving Joyce to\nguard them--one man, to be sure, but with half a dozen muskets--Hunter\nand I returned to the jolly-boat, and loaded ourselves once more. So we\nproceeded, without pausing to take breath, till the whole cargo was\nbestowed, when the two servants took up their position in the\nblockhouse, and I, with all my power, sculled back to the _Hispaniola_.\n\nThat we should have risked a second boat load seems more daring than it\nreally was. They had the advantage of numbers, of course, but we had the\nadvantage of arms. Not one of the men ashore had a musket, and before\nthey could get within range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves\nwe should be able to give a good account of a half dozen at least.\n\nThe squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his faintness\ngone from him. He caught the painter and made it fast, and we fell to\nloading the boat for our very lives. Pork, powder, and biscuit was the\ncargo, with only a musket and a cutlass apiece for squire and me and\nRedruth and the captain. The rest of the arms and powder we dropped\noverboard in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see the\nbright steel shining far below us in the sun on the clean, sandy bottom.\n\nBy this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship was swinging\nround to her anchor. Voices were heard faintly halloaing in the\ndirection of the two gigs; and though this reassured us for Joyce and\nHunter, who were well to the eastward, it warned our party to be off.\n\nRedruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the\nboat, which we then brought round to the ship's counter, to be handier\nfor Captain Smollett.\n\n\"Now, men,\" said he, \"do you hear me?\"\n\nThere was no answer from the forecastle.\n\n\"It's to you, Abraham Gray--it's to you I am speaking.\"\n\nStill no reply.\n\n\"Gray,\" resumed Mr. Smollett, a little louder, \"I am leaving this ship,\nand I order you to follow your captain. I know you are a good man at\nbottom, and I dare say not one of the lot of you's as bad as he makes\nout. I have my watch here in my hand; I give you thirty seconds to join\nme in.\"\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"Come, my fine fellow,\" continued the captain, \"don't hang so long in\nstays. I'm risking my life and the lives of these good gentlemen every\nsecond.\"\n\nThere was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out burst Abraham Gray\nwith a knife-cut on the side of the cheek, and came running to the\ncaptain, like a dog to the whistle.\n\n\"I'm with you, sir,\" said he.\n\nAnd the next moment he and the captain had dropped aboard of us, and we\nhad shoved off and given way.\n\nWe were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our stockade.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At 1:30, two boatloads of sailors row ashore from the Hispaniola. One of them is humming an Irish marching song, \"Lillibullero\" . Tom Redruth comes to tell Doctor Livesey that Jim Hawkins has also slipped ashore. Doctor Livesey is worried for Jim's safety. Livesey feels restless and decides to use a tiny rowboat to go ashore with Hunter in secret to look for information. Doctor Livesey finds an abandoned fort at the top of a hill. The best part of the fort is that it has a spring of fresh water. While the ship is well-provisioned and would be easy to defend, there isn't enough water on board for a long battle against the pirates. Doctor Livesey hears a scream . Doctor Livesey thinks it's Jim who's been killed. Livesey and Hunter rush back to the ship. Squire Trelawney is sitting aboard the Hispaniola thinking that it's Doctor Livesey and Hunter who were killed. Captain Smollett points out that one of the six sailors left aboard the ship turned pale when he heard the scream. Captain Smollett thinks that man will join the loyal party. Doctor Livesey explains his plan to use the abandoned stockade to defend themselves. They secretly load up the tiny rowboat with ammunition and provisions. Meanwhile, the Captain and Squire Trelawney stay on deck. Finally, the charade is over: Squire Trelawney takes out his pistol and tells Israel Hands to freeze. The six sailors are totally confused, but since they are surrounded - with Squire Trelawney and Captain Smollett on one end of the ship and Redruth on the other - they obediently go below decks. During all this activity, Doctor Livesey, Hunter, and Joyce manage to set off for shore in their rowboat filled with provisions. They unload the rowboat into the fort, then Doctor Livesey and Hunter row back to the Hispaniola. Joyce stays behind to guard the fort, armed with six guns. Back on the Hispaniola, they load up the rowboat a second time. They dump all of the guns and ammunition they don't have room for over the side of the ship so the pirates can't use them. The tide is starting to go out, and they hear the sounds of the two boatloads of men coming back from their day on the island. Doctor Livesey, Squire Trelawney, and Redruth get into the rowboat. , but he said that Joyce is alone just four paragraphs earlier. Here we see the value of close proofreading!) They paddle around to the front of the boat where the six sailors are trapped below the deck. They hear Captain Smollett's voice from the deck of the ship. Captain Smollett is ordering the sailor they thought might be loyal out of the six - Abraham Gray - to join their party. They hear the sounds of a fight below the decks, and Abraham Gray bursts out and runs over to Captain Smollett. Captain Smollett and Abraham Gray drop aboard the tiny rowboat, and they all set off for shore."}, {"": "394", "document": "\nThe fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed.\nThe little that remains to their historian to relate, is told in few\nand simple words.\n\nBefore three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were\nmarried in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of\nthe young clergyman's labours; on the same day they entered into\npossession of their new and happy home.\n\nMrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to\nenjoy, during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity\nthat age and worth can know--the contemplation of the happiness of\nthose on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a\nwell-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed.\n\nIt appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of\nproperty remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered\neither in his hands or in those of his mother) were equally divided\nbetween himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than\nthree thousand pounds.  By the provisions of his father's will, Oliver\nwould have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to\ndeprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices\nand pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to\nwhich his young charge joyfully acceded.\n\nMonks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a\ndistant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he\nonce more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long\nconfinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk\nunder an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison.  As far from\nhome, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin's gang.\n\nMr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son.  Removing with him and the old\nhousekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear\nfriends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver's warm\nand earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose\ncondition approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever\nbe known in this changing world.\n\nSoon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned\nto Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would\nhave been discontented if his temperament had admitted of such a\nfeeling; and would have turned quite peevish if he had known how.  For\ntwo or three months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared\nthe air began to disagree with him; then, finding that the place really\nno longer was, to him, what it had been, he settled his business on his\nassistant, took a bachelor's cottage outside the village of which his\nyoung friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered.  Here he took\nto gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other\npursuits of a similar kind:  all undertaken with his characteristic\nimpetuosity.  In each and all he has since become famous throughout the\nneighborhood, as a most profound authority.\n\nBefore his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for\nMr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated.  He\nis accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course\nof the year.  On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and\ncarpenters, with great ardour; doing everything in a very singular and\nunprecedented manner, but always maintaining with his favourite\nasseveration, that his mode is the right one.  On Sundays, he never\nfails to criticise the sermon to the young clergyman's face:  always\ninforming Mr. Losberne, in strict confidence afterwards, that he\nconsiders it an excellent performance, but deems it as well not to say\nso.  It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to\nrally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of\nthe night on which they sat with the watch between them, waiting his\nreturn; but Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in\nproof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back after all; which\nalways calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour.\n\nMr. Noah Claypole:  receiving a free pardon from the Crown in\nconsequence of being admitted approver against Fagin:  and considering\nhis profession not altogether as safe a one as he could wish:  was, for\nsome little time, at a loss for the means of a livelihood, not burdened\nwith too much work.  After some consideration, he went into business as\nan informer, in which calling he realises a genteel subsistence.  His\nplan is, to walk out once a week during church time attended by\nCharlotte in respectable attire.  The lady faints away at the doors of\ncharitable publicans, and the gentleman being accommodated with\nthree-penny worth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next\nday, and pockets half the penalty.  Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints\nhimself, but the result is the same.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually\nreduced to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in\nthat very same workhouse in which they had once lorded it over others.\nMr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation,\nhe has not even spirits to be thankful for being separated from his\nwife.\n\nAs to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts,\nalthough the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey.  They\nsleep at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among\nits inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to\nthis day the villagers have never been able to discover to which\nestablishment they properly belong.\n\nMaster Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes's crime, fell into a train of\nreflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best.\nArriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back\nupon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of\naction.  He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but,\nhaving a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the\nend; and, from being a farmer's drudge, and a carrier's lad, he is now\nthe merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.\n\nAnd now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches\nthe conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space,\nthe thread of these adventures.\n\nI would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long\nmoved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it.  I would\nshow Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood,\nshedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell\non all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts.  I would\npaint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and the lively\nsummer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and\nhear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I\nwould watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling\nuntiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her and\nher dead sister's child happy in their love for one another, and\npassing whole hours together in picturing the friends whom they had so\nsadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those joyous little\nfaces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle;\nI would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the\nsympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye.  These, and a\nthousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech--I would\nfain recall them every one.\n\nHow Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his\nadopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him,\nmore and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving\nseeds of all he wished him to become--how he traced in him new traits\nof his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances,\nmelancholy and yet sweet and soothing--how the two orphans, tried by\nadversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love,\nand fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them--these\nare all matters which need not to be told.  I have said that they were\ntruly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and\ngratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute\nis Benevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be\nattained.\n\nWithin the altar of the old village church there stands a white marble\ntablet, which bears as yet but one word:  'AGNES.'  There is no coffin\nin that tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another name is\nplaced above it!  But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come back to\nearth, to visit spots hallowed by the love--the love beyond the\ngrave--of those whom they knew in life, I believe that the shade of\nAgnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none the\nless because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and erring.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Harry and Rose were married and moved to their happy home. Oliver and Monks split the inheritance and Monks takes his share to the New World where he squanders it and eventually dies in prison. Mr. Brownlow adopts Oliver and imparts much knowledge on him. Noah is pardoned for his help in catching the murderers, and Charley Bates turns his back on the life of crime and grows up an honest man. All of them are happy and the past is finally put to rest"}, {"": "395", "document": "\n\nIt is impossible to describe the effect produced by the last\nwords of the honorable president-- the cries, the shouts, the\nsuccession of roars, hurrahs, and all the varied vociferations\nwhich the American language is capable of supplying.  It was a\nscene of indescribable confusion and uproar.  They shouted, they\nclapped, they stamped on the floor of the hall.  All the weapons\nin the museum discharged at once could not have more violently set\nin motion the waves of sound.  One need not be surprised at this.\nThere are some cannoneers nearly as noisy as their own guns.\n\nBarbicane remained calm in the midst of this enthusiastic\nclamor; perhaps he was desirous of addressing a few more words\nto his colleagues, for by his gestures he demanded silence,\nand his powerful alarum was worn out by its violent reports.\nNo attention, however, was paid to his request.  He was presently\ntorn from his seat and passed from the hands of his faithful\ncolleagues into the arms of a no less excited crowd.\n\nNothing can astound an American.  It has often been asserted\nthat the word \"impossible\" in not a French one.  People have\nevidently been deceived by the dictionary.  In America, all is\neasy, all is simple; and as for mechanical difficulties, they\nare overcome before they arise.  Between Barbicane's proposition\nand its realization no true Yankee would have allowed even the\nsemblance of a difficulty to be possible.  A thing with them is\nno sooner said than done.\n\nThe triumphal progress of the president continued throughout\nthe evening.  It was a regular torchlight procession.  Irish, Germans,\nFrench, Scotch, all the heterogeneous units which make up the\npopulation of Maryland shouted in their respective vernaculars;\nand the \"vivas,\" \"hurrahs,\" and \"bravos\" were intermingled in\ninexpressible enthusiasm.\n\nJust at this crisis, as though she comprehended all this\nagitation regarding herself, the moon shone forth with\nserene splendor, eclipsing by her intense illumination all the\nsurrounding lights.  The Yankees all turned their gaze toward\nher resplendent orb, kissed their hands, called her by all kinds\nof endearing names.  Between eight o'clock and midnight one\noptician in Jones'-Fall Street made his fortune by the sale of\nopera-glasses.\n\nMidnight arrived, and the enthusiasm showed no signs of diminution.\nIt spread equally among all classes of citizens-- men of science,\nshopkeepers, merchants, porters, chair-men, as well as \"greenhorns,\"\nwere stirred in their innermost fibres.  A national enterprise was\nat stake.  The whole city, high and low, the quays bordering the\nPatapsco, the ships lying in the basins, disgorged a crowd drunk\nwith joy, gin, and whisky.  Every one chattered, argued, discussed,\ndisputed, applauded, from the gentleman lounging upon the barroom\nsettee with his tumbler of sherry-cobbler before him down to the\nwaterman who got drunk upon his \"knock-me-down\" in the dingy taverns\nof Fell Point.\n\nAbout two A.M., however, the excitement began to subside.\nPresident Barbicane reached his house, bruised, crushed, and\nsqueezed almost to a mummy.  Hercules could not have resisted a\nsimilar outbreak of enthusiasm.  The crowd gradually deserted\nthe squares and streets.  The four railways from Philadelphia\nand Washington, Harrisburg and Wheeling, which converge at\nBaltimore, whirled away the heterogeneous population to the four\ncorners of the United States, and the city subsided into\ncomparative tranquility.\n\nOn the following day, thanks to the telegraphic wires, five\nhundred newspapers and journals, daily, weekly, monthly, or\nbi-monthly, all took up the question.  They examined it under\nall its different aspects, physical, meteorological, economical,\nor moral, up to its bearings on politics or civilization.\nThey debated whether the moon was a finished world, or whether\nit was destined to undergo any further transformation.  Did it\nresemble the earth at the period when the latter was destitute\nas yet of an atmosphere?  What kind of spectacle would its hidden\nhemisphere present to our terrestrial spheroid?  Granting that\nthe question at present was simply that of sending a projectile\nup to the moon, every one must see that that involved the\ncommencement of a series of experiments.  All must hope that\nsome day America would penetrate the deepest secrets of that\nmysterious orb; and some even seemed to fear lest its conquest\nshould not sensibly derange the equilibrium of Europe.\n\nThe project once under discussion, not a single paragraph\nsuggested a doubt of its realization.  All the papers,\npamphlets, reports-- all the journals published by the\nscientific, literary, and religious societies enlarged upon its\nadvantages; and the Society of Natural History of Boston, the\nSociety of Science and Art of Albany, the Geographical and\nStatistical Society of New York, the Philosophical Society of\nPhiladelphia, and the Smithsonian of Washington sent innumerable\nletters of congratulation to the Gun Club, together with offers\nof immediate assistance and money.\n\nFrom that day forward Impey Barbicane became one of the greatest\ncitizens of the United States, a kind of Washington of science.\nA single trait of feeling, taken from many others, will serve to\nshow the point which this homage of a whole people to a single\nindividual attained.\n\nSome few days after this memorable meeting of the Gun Club, the\nmanager of an English company announced, at the Baltimore\ntheatre, the production of \"Much ado about Nothing.\"  But the\npopulace, seeing in that title an allusion damaging to\nBarbicane's project, broke into the auditorium, smashed the\nbenches, and compelled the unlucky director to alter his playbill.\nBeing a sensible man, he bowed to the public will and replaced\nthe offending comedy by \"As you like it\"; and for many weeks he\nrealized fabulous profits.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The whole townof Baltimore loses its collective mind that night. The Gun Club hosts a procession with Barbicane at the head, erupting in \"shout and bravoes\" . The fervor isn't just contained to Baltimore, however--the whole country responds to the announcement by throwing a giant rager."}, {"": "396", "document": "CHAPTER XV\n\n\n\n  Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,\n The bees' collected treasures sweet,\n Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet\n The still, small voice of gratitude.\n     GRAY\n\nOn the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping\nEmily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness and\nof elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered had\nstolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate\nsimplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was not\nless engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had\nmade the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a\nweek's stay at La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friends\nfor Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, during her absence,\nto Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, this old servant\nbrought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her\nmistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, or heard of M.\nValancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she said\nthis, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter;\nbut Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had\nprobably returned to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing\nto accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which,\nwith extreme reluctance, she promised to do.\n\nOn the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady\nBlanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the\nChateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom\nEmily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and\ncongratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still\nencouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that\nhis affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was much\ndistressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count,\nhaving withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking,\nrenewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildness, with which\nshe listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her\nsentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourt\nbeing overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably of\nM. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he\nventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered\nto be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently\nto remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to\npoison the happiness of her most valuable years.\n\nObserving her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he\nconcluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will still\nbelieve, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always\nreject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.'\n\nHe spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on,\nsomewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead for a\nsuit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholy\nrecollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly\nreached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St.\nClair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to\nextend her walk a little farther, and to enquire about the abbess and\nsome of her friends among the nuns.\n\nThough the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the\ninvitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet some\nof her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she\ncrossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards\nthe sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some\nmonks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the\nwoods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this\ntwilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention to\nbe relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look at\nnature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for the\nsober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an\nancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full\nmagnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures;\nbut still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent\nof ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick\nwoods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So much as this had\nbeen admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the\ndangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had\nrenounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils.\nAs Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she\nmight have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and remained\nin this retirement from the time of her father's death, the vesper-bell\nstruck up, and the monks retired slowly toward the chapel, while she,\npursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silence\nseemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she found\nvacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had\nwithdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before\nshe returned to the chateau, where, however, the increasing gloom made\nher now anxious to be.\n\nNot many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired\nfor the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when\nshe made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be\nperformed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for some\ntime, and who was now believed to be dying.\n\nOf her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the\nhorrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now\nyielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she\nwas joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had\npower to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary\ngleam of comfort.\n\nTo this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting\nthe frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had\nherself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister\nFrances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very\npainful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not\nnow desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many\nkind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the\nmonastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating\nupon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon\nless interesting subjects.\n\nThe wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused\nto listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat\nbelow, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on\na cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the wide\nwaters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of\nthe following address:\n\n TO THE WINDS\n\n Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer,\n Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!\n Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,\n Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,\n And, awful! seems to say--some God is near!\n I love to list your midnight voices float\n In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,\n And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,\n Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.\n Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,\n The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,\n A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!\n But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er,\n Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,\n Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,\n And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more!\n  Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!\n The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!\n Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,\n Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,\n The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!\n Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs!  I ask alone,\n As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,\n The elemental war, the billow's moan;\n I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Man, the Count de Villeforte is really laying it on thick trying to convince Em to go for Du Pont. Stop trying to make fetch happen, Count. After hanging out at La Vallee for a while, the Count invites Em back to Chateau-le-Blanc. Yes, these rich people really do bounce back and forth between each other's homes a lot. Once there, Em naturally goes straight on over to her fave place: the convent. It's a bit chaotic at the nunnery. Sister Agnes is apparently on death's door. Em doesn't particularly want to see Sister Agnes dying, so she heads back home. Em stops to write a little ditty about the winds by the chateau. Getting back into a poetic state of mind, are we?"}, {"": "397", "document": "Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise.  Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired\nair, at a small table, and counting on his fingers.\n\nFIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish):\n  Fruits in nougat!\n\nSECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish):\n  Custard!\n\nTHIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers):\n  Peacock!\n\nFOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab):\n  Rissoles!\n\nFIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish):\n  Beef jelly!\n\nRAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head):\n  Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O\nRagueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song!  Anon shall\ncome the hour of the lute!--now 'tis the hour of the oven!\n(He rises.  To a cook):\n  You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short!\n\nTHE COOK:\n  How much too short?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Three feet.\n\n(He passes on farther.)\n\nTHE COOK:\n  What means he?\n\nFIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau):\n  The tart!\n\nSECOND PASTRY-COOK:\n  The pie!\n\nRAGUENEAU (before the fire):\n  My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze!\n(To a cook, showing him some loaves):\n  You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that\nthe coesura should be between the hemistiches?\n(To another, showing him an unfinished pasty):\n  To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . .\n(To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls):\n  And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb\nturkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate\nhis long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in\nstrophes, turn before the flame!\n\nANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin):\n  Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will\nplease you, I hope.\n\n(He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.)\n\nRAGUENEAU (enchanted):\n  A lyre!\n\nTHE APPRENTICE:\n  'Tis of brioche pastry.\n\nRAGUENEAU (touched):\n  With conserved fruits.\n\nTHE APPRENTICE:\n  The strings, see, are of sugar.\n\nRAGUENEAU (giving him a coin):\n  Go, drink my health!\n(Seeing Lise enter):\n  Hush!  My wife.  Bustle, pass on, and hide that money!\n(To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look):\n  Is it not beautiful?\n\nLISE:\n  'Tis passing silly!\n\n(She puts a pile of papers on the counter.)\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Bags?  Good.  I thank you.\n(He looks at them):\n  Heavens! my cherished leaves!  The poems of my friends!  Torn, dismembered,\nto make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again.\n. .Orpheus and the Bacchantes!\n\nLISE (dryly):\n  And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your\nwretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment?\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers!\n\nLISE:\n  Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not\ncall your wife ant and Bacchante!\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  To turn fair verse to such a use!\n\nLISE:\n  'Faith, 'tis all it's good for.\n\nRAGUENEAU:\n  Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose?\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The next morning Ragueneau is seen in his pastry shop. He is laboriously composing a poem while supervising his cooks. Lise, his practical wife, enters. She is carrying paper bags, which she made out of the sheets on which Ragueneau's poet friends have written their verses. Since the poets rarely pay for what they eat at the pastry shop, Lise at least wants to make use of the paper that they leave behind. Her husband protests, but Lise ignores him."}, {"": "398", "document": "SCENE IX.\nThe Roman camp\n\nFlourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door,\nCOMINIUS with the Romans; at another door, MARCIUS, with his arm\nin a scarf\n\n  COMINIUS. If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,\n    Thou't not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it\n    Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;\n    Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug,\n    I' th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted\n    And, gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull tribunes,\n    That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours,\n    Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods\n    Our Rome hath such a soldier.'\n    Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast,\n    Having fully din'd before.\n\n         Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit\n\n  LARTIUS. O General,\n    Here is the steed, we the caparison.\n    Hadst thou beheld-\n  MARCIUS. Pray now, no more; my mother,\n    Who has a charter to extol her blood,\n    When she does praise me grieves me. I have done\n    As you have done- that's what I can; induc'd\n    As you have been- that's for my country.\n    He that has but effected his good will\n    Hath overta'en mine act.\n  COMINIUS. You shall not be\n    The grave of your deserving; Rome must know\n    The value of her own. 'Twere a concealment\n    Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,\n    To hide your doings and to silence that\n    Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,\n    Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you,\n    In sign of what you are, not to reward\n    What you have done, before our army hear me.\n  MARCIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart\n    To hear themselves rememb'red.\n  COMINIUS. Should they not,\n    Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude\n    And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses-\n    Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store- of all\n    The treasure in this field achiev'd and city,\n    We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth\n    Before the common distribution at\n    Your only choice.\n  MARCIUS. I thank you, General,\n    But cannot make my heart consent to take\n    A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it,\n    And stand upon my common part with those\n    That have beheld the doing.\n\n           A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius, Marcius!'\n   cast up their caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare\n\n    May these same instruments which you profane\n    Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall\n    I' th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be\n    Made all of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows\n    Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made\n    An overture for th' wars. No more, I say.\n    For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled,\n    Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note\n    Here's many else have done, you shout me forth\n    In acclamations hyperbolical,\n    As if I lov'd my little should be dieted\n    In praises sauc'd with lies.\n  COMINIUS. Too modest are you;\n    More cruel to your good report than grateful\n    To us that give you truly. By your patience,\n    If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you-\n    Like one that means his proper harm- in manacles,\n    Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known,\n    As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius\n    Wears this war's garland; in token of the which,\n    My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,\n    With all his trim belonging; and from this time,\n    For what he did before Corioli, call him\n    With all th' applause-and clamour of the host,\n    Caius Marcius Coriolanus.\n    Bear th' addition nobly ever!\n                           [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums]\n  ALL. Caius Marcius Coriolanus!\n  CORIOLANUS. I will go wash;\n    And when my face is fair you shall perceive\n    Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you;\n    I mean to stride your steed, and at all times\n    To undercrest your good addition\n    To th' fairness of my power.\n  COMINIUS. So, to our tent;\n    Where, ere we do repose us, we will write\n    To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,\n    Must to Corioli back. Send us to Rome\n    The best, with whom we may articulate\n    For their own good and ours.\n  LARTIUS. I shall, my lord.\n  CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now\n    Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg\n    Of my Lord General.\n  COMINIUS. Take't- 'tis yours; what is't?\n  CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioli\n    At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly.\n    He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;\n    But then Aufidius was within my view,\n    And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you\n    To give my poor host freedom.\n  COMINIUS. O, well begg'd!\n    Were he the butcher of my son, he should\n    Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.\n  LARTIUS. Marcius, his name?\n  CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot!\n    I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd.\n    Have we no wine here?\n  COMINIUS. Go we to our tent.\n    The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time\n    It should be look'd to. Come.                         Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "As the scene opens, the Romans are celebrating their victory with flying chest bumps and stuff. Caius Martius is super embarrassed by all the attention and refuses to take his share of the war spoils. This, of course, makes him an even bigger rock-star. While the crowd of soldiers cheers him on, Martius gives a modest little victory speech about how he was just doing his military duty. Cominius declares that Caius Martius is so getting a new nickname name for his service to Rome. From here on out, he'll be called \"Caius Martius Coriolanus.\" You know, after the city he just destroyed. Next, Caius Martius Coriolanus says he really wants to help out a Volscian guy who was nice to him during his stay in Corioles. The only problem is, he can't remember the dude's name. Then he's all, \"Oops! Oh, well\" and runs off to wash all the sticky blood from his face."}, {"": "399", "document": "ACT V. SCENE 6.\nAnother part of the plain\n\nEnter AJAX\n\n  AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head.\n\n                     Enter DIOMEDES\n\n  DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where's Troilus?\n  AJAX. What wouldst thou?\n  DIOMEDES. I would correct him.\n  AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office\n    Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!\n\n                      Enter TROILUS\n\n  TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,\n    And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.\n  DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there?\n  AJAX. I'll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed.\n  DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon.\n  TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you\n                                     Exeunt fighting\n\n                      Enter HECTOR\n\n  HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!\n\n                     Enter ACHILLES\n\n  ACHILLES. Now do I see thee, ha! Have at thee, Hector!\n  HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt.\n  ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Troyan.\n    Be happy that my arms are out of use;\n    My rest and negligence befriends thee now,\n    But thou anon shalt hear of me again;\n    Till when, go seek thy fortune.\nExit\n  HECTOR. Fare thee well.\n    I would have been much more a fresher man,\n    Had I expected thee.\n\n                     Re-enter TROILUS\n\n    How now, my brother!\n  TROILUS. Ajax hath ta'en Aeneas. Shall it be?\n    No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,\n    He shall not carry him; I'll be ta'en too,\n    Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say:\n    I reck not though thou end my life to-day.\nExit\n\n                    Enter one in armour\n\n  HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark.\n    No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well;\n    I'll frush it and unlock the rivets all\n    But I'll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide?\n    Why then, fly on; I'll hunt thee for thy hide.\nExeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Ajax and Diomedes run around calling out for Troilus to show his face. So they can smash it in. They bicker about who gets to fight him, until Troilus gets fed up and says that he'll take them both on at the same time.Seriously? Maybe not a good move, dude. They fight their way off the stage as Achilles and Hector show up, going at it with their swords. Hector is getting the better of Achilles and offers to let the guy take a break. This is such a weird battle, you guys. Achilles talks some trash and says something like \"I'll be back\" as he runs off. Troilus runs back on stage and says that Ajax has captured Aeneas. He promises to rescue him and runs off. Next, an armored Greek soldier shows up, takes one look at Hector, and hightails it out of there. Hector says he really likes the guy's armor and wouldn't mind having it in his trophy case. Then he runs after the shiny trophy."}, {"": "400", "document": "\n\n'I told some of you last Thursday of the principles of the Time\nMachine, and showed you the actual thing itself, incomplete in the\nworkshop. There it is now, a little travel-worn, truly; and one of\nthe ivory bars is cracked, and a brass rail bent; but the rest of\nit's sound enough. I expected to finish it on Friday, but on Friday,\nwhen the putting together was nearly done, I found that one of the\nnickel bars was exactly one inch too short, and this I had to get\nremade; so that the thing was not complete until this morning. It\nwas at ten o'clock to-day that the first of all Time Machines began\nits career. I gave it a last tap, tried all the screws again, put\none more drop of oil on the quartz rod, and sat myself in the\nsaddle. I suppose a suicide who holds a pistol to his skull feels\nmuch the same wonder at what will come next as I felt then. I took\nthe starting lever in one hand and the stopping one in the other,\npressed the first, and almost immediately the second. I seemed to\nreel; I felt a nightmare sensation of falling; and, looking round,\nI saw the laboratory exactly as before. Had anything happened? For\na moment I suspected that my intellect had tricked me. Then I noted\nthe clock. A moment before, as it seemed, it had stood at a minute\nor so past ten; now it was nearly half-past three!\n\n'I drew a breath, set my teeth, gripped the starting lever with both\nhands, and went off with a thud. The laboratory got hazy and went\ndark. Mrs. Watchett came in and walked, apparently without seeing\nme, towards the garden door. I suppose it took her a minute or so to\ntraverse the place, but to me she seemed to shoot across the room\nlike a rocket. I pressed the lever over to its extreme position. The\nnight came like the turning out of a lamp, and in another moment\ncame to-morrow. The laboratory grew faint and hazy, then fainter\nand ever fainter. To-morrow night came black, then day again, night\nagain, day again, faster and faster still. An eddying murmur filled\nmy ears, and a strange, dumb confusedness descended on my mind.\n\n'I am afraid I cannot convey the peculiar sensations of time\ntravelling. They are excessively unpleasant. There is a feeling\nexactly like that one has upon a switchback--of a helpless headlong\nmotion! I felt the same horrible anticipation, too, of an imminent\nsmash. As I put on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a\nblack wing. The dim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to\nfall away from me, and I saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky,\nleaping it every minute, and every minute marking a day. I supposed\nthe laboratory had been destroyed and I had come into the open air.\nI had a dim impression of scaffolding, but I was already going too\nfast to be conscious of any moving things. The slowest snail that\never crawled dashed by too fast for me. The twinkling succession of\ndarkness and light was excessively painful to the eye. Then, in the\nintermittent darknesses, I saw the moon spinning swiftly through her\nquarters from new to full, and had a faint glimpse of the circling\nstars. Presently, as I went on, still gaining velocity, the\npalpitation of night and day merged into one continuous greyness;\nthe sky took on a wonderful deepness of blue, a splendid luminous\ncolor like that of early twilight; the jerking sun became a streak\nof fire, a brilliant arch, in space; the moon a fainter fluctuating\nband; and I could see nothing of the stars, save now and then a\nbrighter circle flickering in the blue.\n\n'The landscape was misty and vague. I was still on the hill-side\nupon which this house now stands, and the shoulder rose above me\ngrey and dim. I saw trees growing and changing like puffs of vapour,\nnow brown, now green; they grew, spread, shivered, and passed away.\nI saw huge buildings rise up faint and fair, and pass like dreams.\nThe whole surface of the earth seemed changed--melting and flowing\nunder my eyes. The little hands upon the dials that registered my\nspeed raced round faster and faster. Presently I noted that the sun\nbelt swayed up and down, from solstice to solstice, in a minute or\nless, and that consequently my pace was over a year a minute; and\nminute by minute the white snow flashed across the world, and\nvanished, and was followed by the bright, brief green of spring.\n\n'The unpleasant sensations of the start were less poignant now. They\nmerged at last into a kind of hysterical exhilaration. I remarked\nindeed a clumsy swaying of the machine, for which I was unable to\naccount. But my mind was too confused to attend to it, so with a\nkind of madness growing upon me, I flung myself into futurity. At\nfirst I scarce thought of stopping, scarce thought of anything but\nthese new sensations. But presently a fresh series of impressions\ngrew up in my mind--a certain curiosity and therewith a certain\ndread--until at last they took complete possession of me. What\nstrange developments of humanity, what wonderful advances upon our\nrudimentary civilization, I thought, might not appear when I came to\nlook nearly into the dim elusive world that raced and fluctuated\nbefore my eyes! I saw great and splendid architecture rising about\nme, more massive than any buildings of our own time, and yet, as it\nseemed, built of glimmer and mist. I saw a richer green flow up the\nhill-side, and remain there, without any wintry intermission. Even\nthrough the veil of my confusion the earth seemed very fair. And so\nmy mind came round to the business of stopping.\n\n'The peculiar risk lay in the possibility of my finding some\nsubstance in the space which I, or the machine, occupied. So long\nas I travelled at a high velocity through time, this scarcely\nmattered; I was, so to speak, attenuated--was slipping like a vapour\nthrough the interstices of intervening substances! But to come to\na stop involved the jamming of myself, molecule by molecule, into\nwhatever lay in my way; meant bringing my atoms into such intimate\ncontact with those of the obstacle that a profound chemical\nreaction--possibly a far-reaching explosion--would result, and blow\nmyself and my apparatus out of all possible dimensions--into the\nUnknown. This possibility had occurred to me again and again while I\nwas making the machine; but then I had cheerfully accepted it as an\nunavoidable risk--one of the risks a man has got to take! Now the\nrisk was inevitable, I no longer saw it in the same cheerful light.\nThe fact is that, insensibly, the absolute strangeness of everything,\nthe sickly jarring and swaying of the machine, above all, the\nfeeling of prolonged falling, had absolutely upset my nerve. I told\nmyself that I could never stop, and with a gust of petulance I\nresolved to stop forthwith. Like an impatient fool, I lugged over\nthe lever, and incontinently the thing went reeling over, and I was\nflung headlong through the air.\n\n'There was the sound of a clap of thunder in my ears. I may have\nbeen stunned for a moment. A pitiless hail was hissing round me,\nand I was sitting on soft turf in front of the overset machine.\nEverything still seemed grey, but presently I remarked that the\nconfusion in my ears was gone. I looked round me. I was on what\nseemed to be a little lawn in a garden, surrounded by rhododendron\nbushes, and I noticed that their mauve and purple blossoms were\ndropping in a shower under the beating of the hail-stones. The\nrebounding, dancing hail hung in a cloud over the machine, and drove\nalong the ground like smoke. In a moment I was wet to the skin.\n\"Fine hospitality,\" said I, \"to a man who has travelled innumerable\nyears to see you.\"\n\n'Presently I thought what a fool I was to get wet. I stood up and\nlooked round me. A colossal figure, carved apparently in some white\nstone, loomed indistinctly beyond the rhododendrons through the hazy\ndownpour. But all else of the world was invisible.\n\n'My sensations would be hard to describe. As the columns of hail\ngrew thinner, I saw the white figure more distinctly. It was very\nlarge, for a silver birch-tree touched its shoulder. It was of white\nmarble, in shape something like a winged sphinx, but the wings,\ninstead of being carried vertically at the sides, were spread so\nthat it seemed to hover. The pedestal, it appeared to me, was of\nbronze, and was thick with verdigris. It chanced that the face was\ntowards me; the sightless eyes seemed to watch me; there was the\nfaint shadow of a smile on the lips. It was greatly weather-worn,\nand that imparted an unpleasant suggestion of disease. I stood\nlooking at it for a little space--half a minute, perhaps, or half an\nhour. It seemed to advance and to recede as the hail drove before it\ndenser or thinner. At last I tore my eyes from it for a moment and\nsaw that the hail curtain had worn threadbare, and that the sky was\nlightening with the promise of the sun.\n\n'I looked up again at the crouching white shape, and the full\ntemerity of my voyage came suddenly upon me. What might appear when\nthat hazy curtain was altogether withdrawn? What might not have\nhappened to men? What if cruelty had grown into a common passion?\nWhat if in this interval the race had lost its manliness and had\ndeveloped into something inhuman, unsympathetic, and overwhelmingly\npowerful? I might seem some old-world savage animal, only the more\ndreadful and disgusting for our common likeness--a foul creature to\nbe incontinently slain.\n\n'Already I saw other vast shapes--huge buildings with intricate\nparapets and tall columns, with a wooded hill-side dimly creeping\nin upon me through the lessening storm. I was seized with a panic\nfear. I turned frantically to the Time Machine, and strove hard to\nreadjust it. As I did so the shafts of the sun smote through the\nthunderstorm. The grey downpour was swept aside and vanished like\nthe trailing garments of a ghost. Above me, in the intense blue\nof the summer sky, some faint brown shreds of cloud whirled into\nnothingness. The great buildings about me stood out clear and\ndistinct, shining with the wet of the thunderstorm, and picked out\nin white by the unmelted hailstones piled along their courses. I\nfelt naked in a strange world. I felt as perhaps a bird may feel in\nthe clear air, knowing the hawk wings above and will swoop. My fear\ngrew to frenzy. I took a breathing space, set my teeth, and again\ngrappled fiercely, wrist and knee, with the machine. It gave under\nmy desperate onset and turned over. It struck my chin violently. One\nhand on the saddle, the other on the lever, I stood panting heavily\nin attitude to mount again.\n\n'But with this recovery of a prompt retreat my courage recovered. I\nlooked more curiously and less fearfully at this world of the remote\nfuture. In a circular opening, high up in the wall of the nearer\nhouse, I saw a group of figures clad in rich soft robes. They had\nseen me, and their faces were directed towards me.\n\n'Then I heard voices approaching me. Coming through the bushes by\nthe White Sphinx were the heads and shoulders of men running. One of\nthese emerged in a pathway leading straight to the little lawn upon\nwhich I stood with my machine. He was a slight creature--perhaps\nfour feet high--clad in a purple tunic, girdled at the waist with a\nleather belt. Sandals or buskins--I could not clearly distinguish\nwhich--were on his feet; his legs were bare to the knees, and his\nhead was bare. Noticing that, I noticed for the first time how warm\nthe air was.\n\n'He struck me as being a very beautiful and graceful creature, but\nindescribably frail. His flushed face reminded me of the more\nbeautiful kind of consumptive--that hectic beauty of which we used\nto hear so much. At the sight of him I suddenly regained confidence.\nI took my hands from the machine.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The TT shows his audience the Time Machine, now in slight disrepair, though it still works. That morning, he uses it and quickly jumps ahead over five hours. He gives it a second run and watches the world around him as the advance of time continues to speed up. After a while, the laboratory disappears--he assumes by destruction--though he remains on the same hill in the open air. He watches trees and buildings rise and fall, and his pace soon rises to over one year for every minute of his existence. He looks forward to seeing more of the developments of civilization he witnesses, such as great buildings and lush environments. Though it is not a problem while he travels at such high speed, he worries about colliding with some substance when he stops. He finally does stop, and he and the machine are flung through the air and land in a garden during a hail-storm. He sees a huge winged statue of white marble in the distance through the hail. After the hail stops, he looks at the statue and worries about what might have befallen mankind. He sees other huge buildings and panics, and when the sky clears he feels vulnerable. As he attempts to readjust the Time Machine, it turns over and strikes him. Before he mounts the machine, however, his courage returns. The TT notices robed figures in a nearby house who are watching him. Some run toward him, and one approaches him. The creature is small, wears a purple tunic and sandals, and strikes the TT as beautiful but frail. Observing the creature's calm lack of fear, the TT regains his confidence and lets go of the machine."}, {"": "401", "document": "\nI want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not,\nwhy I could not even become an insect.  I tell you solemnly, that I\nhave many times tried to become an insect.  But I was not equal even to\nthat.  I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness--a\nreal thorough-going illness.  For man's everyday needs, it would have\nbeen quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is,\nhalf or a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated\nman of our unhappy nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal\nill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional\ntown on the whole terrestrial globe.  (There are intentional and\nunintentional towns.)  It would have been quite enough, for instance,\nto have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men\nof action live.  I bet you think I am writing all this from\naffectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action; and what is\nmore, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my\nofficer.  But, gentlemen, whoever can pride himself on his diseases and\neven swagger over them?\n\nThough, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves on\ntheir diseases, and I do, may be, more than anyone.  We will not\ndispute it; my contention was absurd.  But yet I am firmly persuaded\nthat a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in\nfact, is a disease.  I stick to that.  Let us leave that, too, for a\nminute.  Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the\nvery moments when I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all\nthat is \"sublime and beautiful,\" as they used to say at one time, it\nwould, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do\nsuch ugly things, such that ... Well, in short, actions that all,\nperhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the\nvery time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be\ncommitted.  The more conscious I was of goodness and of all that was\n\"sublime and beautiful,\" the more deeply I sank into my mire and the\nmore ready I was to sink in it altogether.  But the chief point was\nthat all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it\nwere bound to be so.  It was as though it were my most normal\ncondition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last\nall desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed.  It ended\nby my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was\nperhaps my normal condition.  But at first, in the beginning, what\nagonies I endured in that struggle!  I did not believe it was the same\nwith other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a\nsecret.  I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the\npoint of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in\nreturning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night,\nacutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action\nagain, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly\ngnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at\nlast the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness,\nand at last--into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into\nenjoyment!  I insist upon that.  I have spoken of this because I keep\nwanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment?  I\nwill explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness\nof one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had\nreached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not\nbe otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could\nbecome a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you\nto change into something different you would most likely not wish to\nchange; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because\nperhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into.\n\nAnd the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in\naccord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness,\nand with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that\nconsequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely\nnothing.  Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness,\nthat one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any\nconsolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realise that he\nactually is a scoundrel.  But enough....  Ech, I have talked a lot of\nnonsense, but what have I explained?  How is enjoyment in this to be\nexplained?  But I will explain it.  I will get to the bottom of it!\nThat is why I have taken up my pen....\n\nI, for instance, have a great deal of AMOUR PROPRE.  I am as suspicious\nand prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf.  But upon my word I\nsometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be slapped in the\nface I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it.  I say, in\nearnest, that I should probably have been able to discover even in that\na peculiar sort of enjoyment--the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but\nin despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one\nis very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position.  And\nwhen one is slapped in the face--why then the consciousness of being\nrubbed into a pulp would positively overwhelm one.  The worst of it is,\nlook at it which way one will, it still turns out that I was always the\nmost to blame in everything.  And what is most humiliating of all, to\nblame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of\nnature.  In the first place, to blame because I am cleverer than any of\nthe people surrounding me.  (I have always considered myself cleverer\nthan any of the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe\nit, have been positively ashamed of it.  At any rate, I have all my\nlife, as it were, turned my eyes away and never could look people\nstraight in the face.)  To blame, finally, because even if I had had\nmagnanimity, I should only have had more suffering from the sense of\nits uselessness.  I should certainly have never been able to do\nanything from being magnanimous--neither to forgive, for my assailant\nwould perhaps have slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannot\nforgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to\nthe laws of nature, it is insulting all the same.  Finally, even if I\nhad wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had desired on the contrary\nto revenge myself on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on\nany one for anything because I should certainly never have made up my\nmind to do anything, even if I had been able to.  Why should I not have\nmade up my mind?  About that in particular I want to say a few words.\n\n\n", "summary": "In this chapter we learn that the UM's illness is more than physical: he asserts that he has a psychological disease-he has too much consciousness. He admits that day after day he would rush home to hide in his \"corner,\" only to anguish and \"gnaw\" at himself, reconsidering the actions he had taken that day. At the same time, however, he finds a kind of pleasure in the humiliation and even despair caused by this \"overly acute consciousness"}, {"": "402", "document": "\nJimmie did not return home for a number of days after the fight with\nPete in the saloon.  When he did, he approached with extreme caution.\n\nHe found his mother raving.  Maggie had not returned home.  The parent\ncontinually wondered how her daughter could come to such a pass.  She\nhad never considered Maggie as a pearl dropped unstained into Rum Alley\nfrom Heaven, but she could not conceive how it was possible for her\ndaughter to fall so low as to bring disgrace upon her family.  She was\nterrific in denunciation of the girl's wickedness.\n\nThe fact that the neighbors talked of it, maddened her.  When women\ncame in, and in the course of their conversation casually asked,\n\"Where's Maggie dese days?\" the mother shook her fuzzy head at them and\nappalled them with curses.  Cunning hints inviting confidence she\nrebuffed with violence.\n\n\"An' wid all deh bringin' up she had, how could she?\" moaningly she\nasked of her son.  \"Wid all deh talkin' wid her I did an' deh t'ings I\ntol' her to remember?  When a girl is bringed up deh way I bringed up\nMaggie, how kin she go teh deh devil?\"\n\nJimmie was transfixed by these questions.  He could not conceive how\nunder the circumstances his mother's daughter and his sister could have\nbeen so wicked.\n\nHis mother took a drink from a squdgy bottle that sat on the table.\nShe continued her lament.\n\n\"She had a bad heart, dat girl did, Jimmie.  She was wicked teh deh\nheart an' we never knowed it.\"\n\nJimmie nodded, admitting the fact.\n\n\"We lived in deh same house wid her an' I brought her up an' we never\nknowed how bad she was.\"\n\nJimmie nodded again.\n\n\"Wid a home like dis an' a mudder like me, she went teh deh bad,\" cried\nthe mother, raising her eyes.\n\nOne day, Jimmie came home, sat down in a chair and began to wriggle\nabout with a new and strange nervousness.  At last he spoke\nshamefacedly.\n\n\"Well, look-a-here, dis t'ing queers us!  See?  We're queered!  An'\nmaybe it 'ud be better if I--well, I t'ink I kin look 'er up an'--maybe\nit 'ud be better if I fetched her home an'--\"\n\nThe mother started from her chair and broke forth into a storm of\npassionate anger.\n\n\"What!  Let 'er come an' sleep under deh same roof wid her mudder agin!\nOh, yes, I will, won't I?  Sure?  Shame on yehs, Jimmie Johnson, for\nsayin' such a t'ing teh yer own mudder--teh yer own mudder!  Little did\nI t'ink when yehs was a babby playin' about me feet dat ye'd grow up\nteh say sech a t'ing teh yer mudder--yer own mudder.  I never taut--\"\n\nSobs choked her and interrupted her reproaches.\n\n\"Dere ain't nottin' teh raise sech hell about,\" said Jimmie.  \"I on'y\nsays it 'ud be better if we keep dis t'ing dark, see?  It queers us!\nSee?\"\n\nHis mother laughed a laugh that seemed to ring through the city and be\nechoed and re-echoed by countless other laughs.  \"Oh, yes, I will,\nwon't I!  Sure!\"\n\n\"Well, yeh must take me fer a damn fool,\" said Jimmie, indignant at his\nmother for mocking him.  \"I didn't say we'd make 'er inteh a little tin\nangel, ner nottin', but deh way it is now she can queer us!  Don' che\nsee?\"\n\n\"Aye, she'll git tired of deh life atter a while an' den she'll wanna\nbe a-comin' home, won' she, deh beast!  I'll let 'er in den, won' I?\"\n\n\"Well, I didn' mean none of dis prod'gal bus'ness anyway,\" explained\nJimmie.\n\n\"It wasn't no prod'gal dauter, yeh damn fool,\" said the mother.  \"It\nwas prod'gal son, anyhow.\"\n\n\"I know dat,\" said Jimmie.\n\nFor a time they sat in silence.  The mother's eyes gloated on a scene\nher imagination could call before her.  Her lips were set in a\nvindictive smile.\n\n\"Aye, she'll cry, won' she, an' carry on, an' tell how Pete, or some\nodder feller, beats 'er an' she'll say she's sorry an' all dat an' she\nain't happy, she ain't, an' she wants to come home agin, she does.\"\n\nWith grim humor, the mother imitated the possible wailing notes of the\ndaughter's voice.\n\n\"Den I'll take 'er in, won't I, deh beast.  She kin cry 'er two eyes\nout on deh stones of deh street before I'll dirty deh place wid her.\nShe abused an' ill-treated her own mudder--her own mudder what loved\nher an' she'll never git anodder chance dis side of hell.\"\n\nJimmie thought he had a great idea of women's frailty, but he could not\nunderstand why any of his kin should be victims.\n\n\"Damn her,\" he fervidly said.\n\nAgain he wondered vaguely if some of the women of his acquaintance had\nbrothers.  Nevertheless, his mind did not for an instant confuse\nhimself with those brothers nor his sister with theirs.  After the\nmother had, with great difficulty, suppressed the neighbors, she went\namong them and proclaimed her grief.  \"May Gawd forgive dat girl,\" was\nher continual cry.  To attentive ears she recited the whole length and\nbreadth of her woes.\n\n\"I bringed 'er up deh way a dauter oughta be bringed up an' dis is how\nshe served me!  She went teh deh devil deh first chance she got!  May\nGawd forgive her.\"\n\nWhen arrested for drunkenness she used the story of her daughter's\ndownfall with telling effect upon the police justices.  Finally one of\nthem said to her, peering down over his spectacles: \"Mary, the records\nof this and other courts show that you are the mother of forty-two\ndaughters who have been ruined.  The case is unparalleled in the annals\nof this court, and this court thinks--\"\n\nThe mother went through life shedding large tears of sorrow.  Her red\nface was a picture of agony.\n\nOf course Jimmie publicly damned his sister that he might appear on a\nhigher social plane.  But, arguing with himself, stumbling about in\nways that he knew not, he, once, almost came to a conclusion that his\nsister would have been more firmly good had she better known why.\nHowever, he felt that he could not hold such a view.  He threw it\nhastily aside.\n\n\n", "summary": "When Jimmie finally makes it back home after fighting with Pete, Mary is fit to be tied--she says that Maggie is a good-for-nothing so-and-so who has compromised her morality and ruined the family's reputation. Mary concludes by describing her daughter as wicked. Jimmie makes a feeble attempt to defend Maggie, but it's a no go. He attempts to put himself in someone else's shoes... maybe all those women he has dated have brothers? Maybe he's no different from that cad Pete? On second thought: nah. In fact, Jimmie decides he's so definitely different from Pete that if anyone in the neighborhood brings up Maggie's relationship with the guy, Jimmie will not defend his sister's honor. Ouch."}, {"": "403", "document": "<CHAPTER>\n2--The People at Blooms-End Make Ready\n\n\nAll that afternoon the expected arrival of the subject of Eustacia's\nruminations created a bustle of preparation at Blooms-End. Thomasin had\nbeen persuaded by her aunt, and by an instinctive impulse of loyalty\ntowards her cousin Clym, to bestir herself on his account with an\nalacrity unusual in her during these most sorrowful days of her life. At\nthe time that Eustacia was listening to the rick-makers' conversation\non Clym's return, Thomasin was climbing into a loft over her aunt's\nfuelhouse, where the store-apples were kept, to search out the best and\nlargest of them for the coming holiday-time.\n\nThe loft was lighted by a semicircular hole, through which the pigeons\ncrept to their lodgings in the same high quarters of the premises; and\nfrom this hole the sun shone in a bright yellow patch upon the figure of\nthe maiden as she knelt and plunged her naked arms into the soft brown\nfern, which, from its abundance, was used on Egdon in packing away\nstores of all kinds. The pigeons were flying about her head with the\ngreatest unconcern, and the face of her aunt was just visible above\nthe floor of the loft, lit by a few stray motes of light, as she stood\nhalfway up the ladder, looking at a spot into which she was not climber\nenough to venture.\n\n\"Now a few russets, Tamsin. He used to like them almost as well as\nribstones.\"\n\nThomasin turned and rolled aside the fern from another nook, where more\nmellow fruit greeted her with its ripe smell. Before picking them out\nshe stopped a moment.\n\n\"Dear Clym, I wonder how your face looks now?\" she said, gazing\nabstractedly at the pigeon-hole, which admitted the sunlight so directly\nupon her brown hair and transparent tissues that it almost seemed to\nshine through her.\n\n\"If he could have been dear to you in another way,\" said Mrs. Yeobright\nfrom the ladder, \"this might have been a happy meeting.\"\n\n\"Is there any use in saying what can do no good, Aunt?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said her aunt, with some warmth. \"To thoroughly fill the air with\nthe past misfortune, so that other girls may take warning and keep clear\nof it.\"\n\nThomasin lowered her face to the apples again. \"I am a warning to\nothers, just as thieves and drunkards and gamblers are,\" she said in a\nlow voice. \"What a class to belong to! Do I really belong to them? 'Tis\nabsurd! Yet why, Aunt, does everybody keep on making me think that I do,\nby the way they behave towards me? Why don't people judge me by my acts?\nNow, look at me as I kneel here, picking up these apples--do I look\nlike a lost woman?... I wish all good women were as good as I!\" she added\nvehemently.\n\n\"Strangers don't see you as I do,\" said Mrs. Yeobright; \"they judge from\nfalse report. Well, it is a silly job, and I am partly to blame.\"\n\n\"How quickly a rash thing can be done!\" replied the girl. Her lips were\nquivering, and tears so crowded themselves into her eyes that she could\nhardly distinguish apples from fern as she continued industriously\nsearching to hide her weakness.\n\n\"As soon as you have finished getting the apples,\" her aunt said,\ndescending the ladder, \"come down, and we'll go for the holly. There is\nnobody on the heath this afternoon, and you need not fear being\nstared at. We must get some berries, or Clym will never believe in our\npreparations.\"\n\nThomasin came down when the apples were collected, and together they\nwent through the white palings to the heath beyond. The open hills were\nairy and clear, and the remote atmosphere appeared, as it often appears\non a fine winter day, in distinct planes of illumination independently\ntoned, the rays which lit the nearer tracts of landscape streaming\nvisibly across those further off; a stratum of ensaffroned light was\nimposed on a stratum of deep blue, and behind these lay still remoter\nscenes wrapped in frigid grey.\n\nThey reached the place where the hollies grew, which was in a conical\npit, so that the tops of the trees were not much above the general level\nof the ground. Thomasin stepped up into a fork of one of the bushes, as\nshe had done under happier circumstances on many similar occasions,\nand with a small chopper that they had brought she began to lop off the\nheavily berried boughs.\n\n\"Don't scratch your face,\" said her aunt, who stood at the edge of the\npit, regarding the girl as she held on amid the glistening green and\nscarlet masses of the tree. \"Will you walk with me to meet him this\nevening?\"\n\n\"I should like to. Else it would seem as if I had forgotten him,\" said\nThomasin, tossing out a bough. \"Not that that would matter much; I\nbelong to one man; nothing can alter that. And that man I must marry,\nfor my pride's sake.\"\n\n\"I am afraid--\" began Mrs. Yeobright.\n\n\"Ah, you think, 'That weak girl--how is she going to get a man to marry\nher when she chooses?' But let me tell you one thing, Aunt: Mr. Wildeve\nis not a profligate man, any more than I am an improper woman. He has\nan unfortunate manner, and doesn't try to make people like him if they\ndon't wish to do it of their own accord.\"\n\n\"Thomasin,\" said Mrs. Yeobright quietly, fixing her eye upon her niece,\n\"do you think you deceive me in your defence of Mr. Wildeve?\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"I have long had a suspicion that your love for him has changed its\ncolour since you have found him not to be the saint you thought him, and\nthat you act a part to me.\"\n\n\"He wished to marry me, and I wish to marry him.\"\n\n\"Now, I put it to you: would you at this present moment agree to be his\nwife if that had not happened to entangle you with him?\"\n\nThomasin looked into the tree and appeared much disturbed. \"Aunt,\"\nshe said presently, \"I have, I think, a right to refuse to answer that\nquestion.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have.\"\n\n\"You may think what you choose. I have never implied to you by word or\ndeed that I have grown to think otherwise of him, and I never will. And\nI shall marry him.\"\n\n\"Well, wait till he repeats his offer. I think he may do it, now that he\nknows--something I told him. I don't for a moment dispute that it is the\nmost proper thing for you to marry him. Much as I have objected to him\nin bygone days, I agree with you now, you may be sure. It is the only\nway out of a false position, and a very galling one.\"\n\n\"What did you tell him?\"\n\n\"That he was standing in the way of another lover of yours.\"\n\n\"Aunt,\" said Thomasin, with round eyes, \"what DO you mean?\"\n\n\"Don't be alarmed; it was my duty. I can say no more about it now, but\nwhen it is over I will tell you exactly what I said, and why I said it.\"\n\nThomasin was perforce content.\n\n\"And you will keep the secret of my would-be marriage from Clym for the\npresent?\" she next asked.\n\n\"I have given my word to. But what is the use of it? He must soon know\nwhat has happened. A mere look at your face will show him that something\nis wrong.\"\n\nThomasin turned and regarded her aunt from the tree. \"Now, hearken to\nme,\" she said, her delicate voice expanding into firmness by a force\nwhich was other than physical. \"Tell him nothing. If he finds out that I\nam not worthy to be his cousin, let him. But, since he loved me once, we\nwill not pain him by telling him my trouble too soon. The air is full of\nthe story, I know; but gossips will not dare to speak of it to him for\nthe first few days. His closeness to me is the very thing that will\nhinder the tale from reaching him early. If I am not made safe from\nsneers in a week or two I will tell him myself.\"\n\nThe earnestness with which Thomasin spoke prevented further objections.\nHer aunt simply said, \"Very well. He should by rights have been told at\nthe time that the wedding was going to be. He will never forgive you for\nyour secrecy.\"\n\n\"Yes, he will, when he knows it was because I wished to spare him, and\nthat I did not expect him home so soon. And you must not let me stand in\nthe way of your Christmas party. Putting it off would only make matters\nworse.\"\n\n\"Of course I shall not. I do not wish to show myself beaten before all\nEgdon, and the sport of a man like Wildeve. We have enough berries now,\nI think, and we had better take them home. By the time we have decked\nthe house with this and hung up the mistletoe, we must think of starting\nto meet him.\"\n\nThomasin came out of the tree, shook from her hair and dress the loose\nberries which had fallen thereon, and went down the hill with her aunt,\neach woman bearing half the gathered boughs. It was now nearly four\no'clock, and the sunlight was leaving the vales. When the west grew red\nthe two relatives came again from the house and plunged into the heath\nin a different direction from the first, towards a point in the distant\nhighway along which the expected man was to return.\n\n\n\n</CHAPTER>\n", "summary": "Mrs. Yeobright badgers Thomasin out of her funk and enlists her in Operation: Clym's Visit. The two women clean the house and prepare Clym's room. They then head outside to gather ferns and apples. Thomasin talks about her situation and is upset that she's being labeled as a scarlet woman when she hasn't done anything wrong. Her aunt kind of brushes her off with an \"oh well, tough luck\" and the two head off to gather some holly. Thomasin defends Wildeve and her situation, but her aunt tells her to come off it and tell the truth. Thomasin refuses to say whether or not she regrets getting involved with him and both women agree that the only thing to do now is to marry the guy, whether she even really wants to or not. Then Thomasin asks her aunt to keep everything a secret from Clym for as long as possible since she doesn't want him to think badly of her. The two agree that the Christmas party should go forward as planned too. Later the two women set off down a highway to meet Clym on his way home."}, {"": "404", "document": "THERE was no instance in which the social and kindly dispositions of the\nTypees were more forcibly evinced than in the manner the conducted their\ngreat fishing parties. Four times during my stay in the valley the young\nmen assembled near the full of the moon, and went together on these\nexcursions. As they were generally absent about forty-eight hours, I was\nled to believe that they went out towards the open sea, some distance\nfrom the bay. The Polynesians seldom use a hook and line, almost always\nemploying large well-made nets, most ingeniously fabricated from the\ntwisted fibres of a certain bark. I examined several of them which had\nbeen spread to dry upon the beach at Nukuheva. They resemble very much\nour own seines, and I should think they were nearly as durable.\n\nAll the South Sea Islanders are passionately fond of fish; but none\nof them can be more so than the inhabitants of Typee. I could not\ncomprehend, therefore, why they so seldom sought it in their waters, for\nit was only at stated times that the fishing parties were formed, and\nthese occasions were always looked forward to with no small degree of\ninterest.\n\nDuring their absence the whole population of the place were in a\nferment, and nothing was talked of but 'pehee, pehee' (fish, fish).\nTowards the time when they were expected to return the vocal telegraph\nwas put into operation--the inhabitants, who were scattered throughout\nthe length of the valley, leaped upon rocks and into trees, shouting\nwith delight at the thoughts of the anticipated treat. As soon as the\napproach of the party was announced, there was a general rush of the\nmen towards the beach; some of them remaining, however, about the Ti in\norder to get matters in readiness for the reception of the fish, which\nwere brought to the Taboo Groves in immense packages of leaves, each one\nof them being suspended from a pole carried on the shoulders of two men.\n\nI was present at the Ti on one of these occasions, and the sight was\nmost interesting. After all the packages had arrived, they were laid in\na row under the verandah of the building and opened.\n\nThe fish were all quite small, generally about the size of a herring,\nand of every variety. About one-eighth of the whole being reserved\nfor the use of the Ti itself, the remainder was divided into numerous\nsmaller packages, which were immediately dispatched in every direction\nto the remotest parts of the valley. Arrived at their destination, these\nwere in turn portioned out, and equally distributed among the various\nhouses of each particular district. The fish were under a strict Taboo,\nuntil the distribution was completed, which seemed to be effected in the\nmost impartial manner. By the operation of this system every man, woman,\nand child in the vale, were at one and the same time partaking of this\nfavourite article of food.\n\nOnce I remember the party arrived at midnight; but the unseasonableness\nof the tour did not repress the impatience of the islanders. The\ncarriers dispatched from the Ti were to be seen hurrying in all\ndirections through the deep groves; each individual preceded by a boy\nbearing a flaming torch of dried cocoanut boughs, which from time to\ntime was replenished from the materials scattered along the path. The\nwild glare of these enormous flambeaux, lighting up with a startling\nbrilliancy the innermost recesses of the vale, and seen moving rapidly\nalong beneath the canopy of leaves, the savage shout of the excited\nmessengers sounding the news of their approach, which was answered\non all sides, and the strange appearance of their naked bodies, seen\nagainst the gloomy background, produced altogether an effect upon my\nmind that I shall long remember.\n\nIt was on this same occasion that Kory-Kory awakened me at the dead\nhour of night, and in a sort of transport communicated the intelligence\ncontained in the words 'pehee perni' (fish come). As I happened to have\nbeen in a remarkably sound and refreshing slumber, I could not imagine\nwhy the information had not been deferred until morning, indeed, I felt\nvery much inclined to fly into a passion and box my valet's ears; but on\nsecond thoughts I got quietly up, and on going outside the house was not\na little interested by the moving illumination which I beheld.\n\nWhen old Marheyo received his share of the spoils, immediate\npreparations were made for a midnight banquet; calabashes of poee-poee\nwere filled to the brim; green bread-fruit were roasted; and a huge cake\nof 'amar' was cut up with a sliver of bamboo and laid out on an immense\nbanana-leaf.\n\nAt this supper we were lighted by several of the native tapers, held in\nthe hands of young girls. These tapers are most ingeniously made. There\nis a nut abounding in the valley, called by the Typees 'armor', closely\nresembling our common horse-chestnut. The shell is broken, and the\ncontents extracted whole. Any number of these are strung at pleasure\nupon the long elastic fibre that traverses the branches of the cocoanut\ntree. Some of these tapers are eight or ten feet in length; but being\nperfectly flexible, one end is held in a coil, while the other is\nlighted. The nut burns with a fitful bluish flame, and the oil that it\ncontains is exhausted in about ten minutes. As one burns down, the next\nbecomes ignited, and the ashes of the former are knocked into a cocoanut\nshell kept for the purpose. This primitive candle requires continual\nattention, and must be constantly held in the hand. The person so\nemployed marks the lapse of time by the number of nuts consumed, which\nis easily learned by counting the bits of tappa distributed at regular\nintervals along the string.\n\nI grieve to state so distressing a fact, but the inhabitants of\nTypee were in the habit of devouring fish much in the same way that\na civilized being would eat a radish, and without any more previous\npreparation. They eat it raw; scales, bones, gills, and all the inside.\nThe fish is held by the tail, and the head being introduced into the\nmouth, the animal disappears with a rapidity that would at first nearly\nlead one to imagine it had been launched bodily down the throat.\n\nRaw fish! Shall I ever forget my sensations when I first saw my island\nbeauty devour one. Oh, heavens! Fayaway, how could you ever have\ncontracted so vile a habit? However, after the first shock had subsided,\nthe custom grew less odious in my eyes, and I soon accustomed myself to\nthe sight. Let no one imagine, however, that the lovely Fayaway was in\nthe habit of swallowing great vulgar-looking fishes: oh, no; with her\nbeautiful small hand she would clasp a delicate, little, golden-hued\nlove of a fish and eat it as elegantly and as innocently as though it\nwere a Naples biscuit. But alas! it was after all a raw fish; and all I\ncan say is, that Fayaway ate it in a more ladylike manner than any other\ngirl of the valley.\n\nWhen at Rome do as the Romans do, I held to be so good a proverb, that\nbeing in Typee I made a point of doing as the Typees did. Thus I\nate poee-poee as they did; I walked about in a garb striking for its\nsimplicity; and I reposed on a community of couches; besides doing many\nother things in conformity with their peculiar habits; but the farthest\nI ever went in the way of conformity, was on several occasions to regale\nmyself with raw fish. These being remarkably tender, and quite small,\nthe undertaking was not so disagreeable in the main, and after a few\ntrials I positively began to relish them; however, I subjected them to a\nslight operation with a knife previously to making my repast.\n\n\n", "summary": "In order to further convince us of the Typee's kindness, Tommo describes their fishing parties, which occur after several young men have gone for two days to collect fish. The fish is divided until each household receives a packet, equitably. When a portion comes to Marheyo's household, they hold a midnight banquet. It is here that Tommo learns to eat fish whole, and raw ."}, {"": "405", "document": "CHAPTER XX. REAPPEARANCE OF ONE WHO MAY BE REMEMBERED.\n\n\nThe herb-doctor had not moved far away, when, in advance of him, this\nspectacle met his eye. A dried-up old man, with the stature of a boy of\ntwelve, was tottering about like one out of his mind, in rumpled clothes\nof old moleskin, showing recent contact with bedding, his ferret eyes,\nblinking in the sunlight of the snowy boat, as imbecilely eager, and, at\nintervals, coughing, he peered hither and thither as if in alarmed\nsearch for his nurse. He presented the aspect of one who, bed-rid, has,\nthrough overruling excitement, like that of a fire, been stimulated to\nhis feet.\n\n\"You seek some one,\" said the herb-doctor, accosting him. \"Can I assist\nyou?\"\n\n\"Do, do; I am so old and miserable,\" coughed the old man. \"Where is he?\nThis long time I've been trying to get up and find him. But I haven't\nany friends, and couldn't get up till now. Where is he?\"\n\n\"Who do you mean?\" drawing closer, to stay the further wanderings of one\nso weakly.\n\n\"Why, why, why,\" now marking the other's dress, \"why you, yes you--you,\nyou--ugh, ugh, ugh!\"\n\n\"I?\"\n\n\"Ugh, ugh, ugh!--you are the man he spoke of. Who is he?\"\n\n\"Faith, that is just what I want to know.\"\n\n\"Mercy, mercy!\" coughed the old man, bewildered, \"ever since seeing him,\nmy head spins round so. I ought to have a guard_ee_an. Is this a\nsnuff-colored surtout of yours, or ain't it? Somehow, can't trust my\nsenses any more, since trusting him--ugh, ugh, ugh!\"\n\n\"Oh, you have trusted somebody? Glad to hear it. Glad to hear of any\ninstance, of that sort. Reflects well upon all men. But you inquire\nwhether this is a snuff-colored surtout. I answer it is; and will add\nthat a herb-doctor wears it.\"\n\nUpon this the old man, in his broken way, replied that then he (the\nherb-doctor) was the person he sought--the person spoken of by the other\nperson as yet unknown. He then, with flighty eagerness, wanted to know\nwho this last person was, and where he was, and whether he could be\ntrusted with money to treble it.\n\n\"Aye, now, I begin to understand; ten to one you mean my worthy friend,\nwho, in pure goodness of heart, makes people's fortunes for them--their\neverlasting fortunes, as the phrase goes--only charging his one small\ncommission of confidence. Aye, aye; before intrusting funds with my\nfriend, you want to know about him. Very proper--and, I am glad to\nassure you, you need have no hesitation; none, none, just none in the\nworld; bona fide, none. Turned me in a trice a hundred dollars the other\nday into as many eagles.\"\n\n\"Did he? did he? But where is he? Take me to him.\"\n\n\"Pray, take my arm! The boat is large! We may have something of a hunt!\nCome on! Ah, is that he?\"\n\n\"Where? where?\"\n\n\"O, no; I took yonder coat-skirts for his. But no, my honest friend\nwould never turn tail that way. Ah!----\"\n\n\"Where? where?\"\n\n\"Another mistake. Surprising resemblance. I took yonder clergyman for\nhim. Come on!\"\n\nHaving searched that part of the boat without success, they went to\nanother part, and, while exploring that, the boat sided up to a landing,\nwhen, as the two were passing by the open guard, the herb-doctor\nsuddenly rushed towards the disembarking throng, crying out: \"Mr.\nTruman, Mr. Truman! There he goes--that's he. Mr. Truman, Mr.\nTruman!--Confound that steam-pipe., Mr. Truman! for God's sake, Mr.\nTruman!--No, no.--There, the plank's in--too late--we're off.\"\n\nWith that, the huge boat, with a mighty, walrus wallow, rolled away from\nthe shore, resuming her course.\n\n\"How vexatious!\" exclaimed the herb-doctor, returning. \"Had we been but\none single moment sooner.--There he goes, now, towards yon hotel, his\nportmanteau following. You see him, don't you?\"\n\n\"Where? where?\"\n\n\"Can't see him any more. Wheel-house shot between. I am very sorry. I\nshould have so liked you to have let him have a hundred or so of your\nmoney. You would have been pleased with the investment, believe me.\"\n\n\"Oh, I _have_ let him have some of my money,\" groaned the old man.\n\n\"You have? My dear sir,\" seizing both the miser's hands in both his own\nand heartily shaking them. \"My dear sir, how I congratulate you. You\ndon't know.\"\n\n\"Ugh, ugh! I fear I don't,\" with another groan. \"His name is Truman, is\nit?\"\n\n\"John Truman.\"\n\n\"Where does he live?\"\n\n\"In St. Louis.\"\n\n\"Where's his office?\"\n\n\"Let me see. Jones street, number one hundred and--no, no--anyway, it's\nsomewhere or other up-stairs in Jones street.\"\n\n\"Can't you remember the number? Try, now.\"\n\n\"One hundred--two hundred--three hundred--\"\n\n\"Oh, my hundred dollars! I wonder whether it will be one hundred, two\nhundred, three hundred, with them! Ugh, ugh! Can't remember the number?\"\n\n\"Positively, though I once knew, I have forgotten, quite forgotten it.\nStrange. But never mind. You will easily learn in St. Louis. He is well\nknown there.\"\n\n\"But I have no receipt--ugh, ugh! Nothing to show--don't know where I\nstand--ought to have a guard_ee_an--ugh, ugh! Don't know anything. Ugh,\nugh!\"\n\n\"Why, you know that you gave him your confidence, don't you?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\"\n\n\"Well, then?\"\n\n\"But what, what--how, how--ugh, ugh!\"\n\n\"Why, didn't he tell you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What! Didn't he tell you that it was a secret, a mystery?\"\n\n\"Oh--yes.\"\n\n\"Well, then?\"\n\n\"But I have no bond.\"\n\n\"Don't need any with Mr. Truman. Mr. Truman's word is his bond.\"\n\n\"But how am I to get my profits--ugh, ugh!--and my money back? Don't\nknow anything. Ugh, ugh!\"\n\n\"Oh, you must have confidence.\"\n\n\"Don't say that word again. Makes my head spin so. Oh, I'm so old and\nmiserable, nobody caring for me, everybody fleecing me, and my head\nspins so--ugh, ugh!--and this cough racks me so. I say again, I ought to\nhave a guard_ee_an.\"\n\n\"So you ought; and Mr. Truman is your guardian to the extent you\ninvested with him. Sorry we missed him just now. But you'll hear from\nhim. All right. It's imprudent, though, to expose yourself this way. Let\nme take you to your berth.\"\n\nForlornly enough the old miser moved slowly away with him. But, while\ndescending a stairway, he was seized with such coughing that he was fain\nto pause.\n\n\"That is a very bad cough.\"\n\n\"Church-yard--ugh, ugh!--church-yard cough.--Ugh!\"\n\n\"Have you tried anything for it?\"\n\n\"Tired of trying. Nothing does me any good--ugh! ugh! Not even the\nMammoth Cave. Ugh! ugh! Denned there six months, but coughed so bad the\nrest of the coughers--ugh! ugh!--black-balled me out. Ugh, ugh! Nothing\ndoes me good.\"\n\n\"But have you tried the Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator, sir?\"\n\n\"That's what that Truman--ugh, ugh!--said I ought to take.\nYarb-medicine; you are that yarb-doctor, too?\"\n\n\"The same. Suppose you try one of my boxes now. Trust me, from what I\nknow of Mr. Truman, he is not the gentleman to recommend, even in behalf\nof a friend, anything of whose excellence he is not conscientiously\nsatisfied.\"\n\n\"Ugh!--how much?\"\n\n\"Only two dollars a box.\"\n\n\"Two dollars? Why don't you say two millions? ugh, ugh! Two dollars,\nthat's two hundred cents; that's eight hundred farthings; that's two\nthousand mills; and all for one little box of yarb-medicine. My head, my\nhead!--oh, I ought to have a guard_ee_an for; my head. Ugh, ugh, ugh,\nugh!\"\n\n\"Well, if two dollars a box seems too much, take a dozen boxes at twenty\ndollars; and that will be getting four boxes for nothing, and you need\nuse none but those four, the rest you can retail out at a premium, and\nso cure your cough, and make money by it. Come, you had better do it.\nCash down. Can fill an order in a day or two. Here now,\" producing a\nbox; \"pure herbs.\"\n\nAt that moment, seized with another spasm, the miser snatched each\ninterval to fix his half distrustful, half hopeful eye upon the\nmedicine, held alluringly up. \"Sure--ugh! Sure it's all nat'ral? Nothing\nbut yarbs? If I only thought it was a purely nat'ral medicine now--all\nyarbs--ugh, ugh!--oh this cough, this cough--ugh, ugh!--shatters my\nwhole body. Ugh, ugh, ugh!\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake try my medicine, if but a single box. That it is pure\nnature you may be confident, Refer you to Mr. Truman.\"\n\n\"Don't know his number--ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh this cough. He did speak\nwell of this medicine though; said solemnly it would cure me--ugh, ugh,\nugh, ugh!--take off a dollar and I'll have a box.\"\n\n\"Can't sir, can't.\"\n\n\"Say a dollar-and-half. Ugh!\"\n\n\"Can't. Am pledged to the one-price system, only honorable one.\"\n\n\"Take off a shilling--ugh, ugh!\"\n\n\"Can't.\"\n\n\"Ugh, ugh, ugh--I'll take it.--There.\"\n\nGrudgingly he handed eight silver coins, but while still in his hand,\nhis cough took him and they were shaken upon the deck.\n\nOne by one, the herb-doctor picked them up, and, examining them, said:\n\"These are not quarters, these are pistareens; and clipped, and sweated,\nat that.\"\n\n\"Oh don't be so miserly--ugh, ugh!--better a beast than a miser--ugh,\nugh!\"\n\n\"Well, let it go. Anything rather than the idea of your not being cured\nof such a cough. And I hope, for the credit of humanity, you have not\nmade it appear worse than it is, merely with a view to working upon the\nweak point of my pity, and so getting my medicine the cheaper. Now,\nmind, don't take it till night. Just before retiring is the time. There,\nyou can get along now, can't you? I would attend you further, but I land\npresently, and must go hunt up my luggage.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The herb-doctor runs into the coughing miser who gave Tassel the $100. The miser is in a panic looking for Tassel. When the miser sees the herb-doctor, he realizes this is the guy Tassel had mentioned. The miser verifies his identity, and the herb-doctor is delighted to help search for Tassel--or John Thurman, as he calls him. Another name. Woot. The herb-doctor walks the miser around and around on the boat until catching sight of Thurman. The miser doesn't see him, but he follows close behind the herb-doctor as he calls for him. According to the herb-doctor's singular perspective, we get this: Oh, no, the boat is docking. Oh, no, Thurman is getting off the ship. Oh, no, the ship is heading back out again. Too bad, so sad. The herb-doctor tells the miser he wishes they could have caught Thurman so that the miser could invest. The miser repeats that he already has invested but needs a receipt. The herb-doctor is thrilled and says pish-posh to receipts--Thurman's got your back. The herb-doctor leads the miser back to his room, and they discuss the miser's cough. The miser buys a box of herbs, but he tries to cheat the herb-doctor by giving him Spanish coins of low value. The herb-doctor accepts the coins but tells the miser he hopes he isn't faking a cough to get discounted medicine. Anyway, the herb-doctor has to go now, because he's getting off the ship that night."}, {"": "406", "document": "BUILDING THE DAM\n\n\nEven a hammer makes a good pillow if one is tired enough, and the\nfreight-car family slept until the nine-o'clock church bells began to\nring faintly in the valley. There were at least a dozen churches, and\ntheir far-away bells sounded sweetly harmonious in so many different\nkeys.\n\n\"They almost play a tune,\" said Violet, as she listened.\n\n\"I like music all right,\" replied Henry in a business-like way, \"but I\nfor one shall have to get to work.\"\n\n\"This will be a good day to wash all the stockings,\" said Jess. \"We'll\nall be wading so much in the brook, anyway.\"\n\nAfter breakfast the first thing Henry did was to survey, with critical\neyes, the spot they had chosen for a pool. It was a hollow about three\nyards across. There were no stones in it at all.\n\n\"It's _big_ enough already,\" remarked Henry at last, \"but it hasn't\nenough water in it.\" He measured its depth with a stick. \"We'll have to\nguess at inches,\" he said.\n\n\"I have a little tape measure in my workbag,\" ventured his sister\nViolet.\n\nHenry flashed a smile at her. \"Is there anything you _haven't_ got in\nyour workbag?\" he asked her.\n\nThe children measured the wet stick carefully. The water was just ten\ninches deep in the deepest part.\n\nHenry explained his plan of engineering to his sisters. \"We will have to\nhaul some big logs across this narrow part and stuff them from this end\nwith stones and underbrush. It ought to be three feet deep before we get\nthrough.\"\n\n\"O Henry!\" protested Jess. \"Benny would get drowned.\"\n\n\"Drowned!\" echoed Henry. \"How tall do you think he is, anyhow?\"\n\nThey measured the little boy and found him to be forty-two inches tall.\nThat settled it; the pool was designed to be three feet in depth.\n\nLuckily the largest logs were not far away; but as it was, it was a\nmatter of great labor for the builders to drag them to the scene of\noperations.\n\n\"Let's get all the logs up here first,\" suggested Jess. \"Then we can\nhave the fun of laying them across.\"\n\nThe two older children dragged all the logs, while Violet and Benny\nattended to the stones, with the help of the cart. Occasionally Henry\nwas called upon to assist with a heavy stone, but for the most part\nBenny puffed out his cheeks and heaved the stones himself. In fact,\nHenry decided at this point to let Benny drop them into the water as he\ngathered them. \"Splash 'em right in, old fellow,\" he directed. \"Only\nkeep them in a nice straight line right across this place between these\ntwo trees. It won't make any difference how wet he gets,\" he added in an\naside to Jess. \"We can dry him in the sun.\"\n\nJess thought a little differently, although she said nothing. She took\noff Benny's little crinkled blouse and one pair of bloomers, and started\nto hang them on the line.\n\n\"Good time to wash them!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Let me wash them,\" begged Violet. \"You're more useful building the\ndam.\" There was wisdom in this suggestion, so Jess accepted it\ngratefully, and even added Henry's blouse to the laundry.\n\n\"When we finish the dam they will surely be dry,\" she said.\n\nAs for Henry, he was only too glad to work without it. \"Makes me feel\nlighter,\" he declared.\n\nRare and beautiful birds came and watched the barefooted children as\nthey scurried around, building their wall of masonry. But the children\ndid not have any eyes for birds then. They watched with delighted eyes\nas each stone was added to the wall under the clear water, and it began\nto rise almost to the surface.\n\n\"That makes a solid foundation for the logs, you see,\" explained Henry\nwith pride. \"They won't be floating off downstream the minute we lay\nthem on.\"\n\nThen at last the time arrived when they were to lay the logs on.\n\n\"Let's wedge the first one between these two trees,\" said Jess, with a\nhappy thought. \"Then if each end of the log is on the upper side of the\ntrees, the harder the water pounds the tighter the dam gets.\"\n\n\"Good work!\" exclaimed Henry admiringly. \"That's just what we'll do.\"\n\nBut the children were not at all prepared for what happened the moment\nthe first big log was splashed into its place on top of the stone wall.\n\nThe water, defeated in its course down the rocky bed, gurgled and chased\nabout as it met the opposing log, and found every possible hole to\nescape.\n\n\"Leaks,\" said Henry briefly, as the water began to rush around both ends\nand pour over the top of the log. \"We'll make the logs so thick it\n_can't_ get through. We'll lay three logs across, with three logs on top\nof them, and three more on top of that.\"\n\nThe children set about stubbornly to accomplish this. Violet held great\nsprays of fine underbrush in place until each log was laid. Wetter\nchildren never were seen. But nobody cared. They resolutely plugged the\nends with more stones, more underbrush, and more logs. Each time a leak\nwas discovered, someone dropped a stone over it. Even Benny caught the\nfever of conquering the mischievous water which slipped from their grasp\nlike quicksilver.\n\nWhen the three top logs were at last dropped into place, the excited\nchildren sat down to watch the pool fill. This it did slowly.\n\nFinding now no means of exit, the water was quieter. It rose steadily\nup the barricade of logs. It widened beautifully. Henry could not sit\nstill. \"It slopes!\" he cried. \"See how clear it is! And still! See how\nstill it is!\"\n\nAnd then the water began to overflow the logs. It spilled over the top\nwith a delightful curve. And on the other side it formed a second\nwaterfall--not high and narrow and graceful like the natural fall above,\nbut very low and wide. \"Just like a regular mill dam,\" said Henry.\n\nHe held the measuring stick out as far as he could and plunged it into\nthe water. It lacked an inch of being three feet deep.\n\n\"Deep enough,\" he declared.\n\nIn fact it looked so deep that Benny could not conceal a slight fear.\n\n\"That's the beauty of the slope,\" observed Jess. \"Benny can wade in just\nas far as he wants to, and no farther. We all know what the bed of the\npool is like--no holes or stones.\"\n\nThe girls had to leave to prepare dinner, but Henry could not be\npersuaded to leave the wonderful swimming pool. \"I'd rather swim than\neat,\" he said.\n\nLuckily for the children, their supply of provisions was the largest of\nany day since their flight. The girls lighted the fire and heated up the\nremainder of the stew and cut the bread. The butter, hard and cold in\nthe refrigerator, was taken out, and four portions cut from it. The two\ndoughnuts made four half rings for dessert.\n\nThe cooks rang the dinner bell. This was an ingenious arrangement hung\non a low branch. It consisted of a piece of bent steel swung on a\nstring. Violet hit it sharply with another piece of steel. It sounded\ndeeply and musically through the woods, and the boys understood it and\nobeyed at once.\n\nIt was evident the moment they appeared that at least three of the\nfamily had been swimming. Watch shook himself violently at intervals,\nspattering water drops in all directions. Henry and Benny, fresh and\nradiant, with plastered hair and clean dry stockings and blouses,\napparently liked to swim and eat, too.\n\n\"You can actually swim a few strokes in it, Jess, if you're careful,\"\nHenry said, with excusable pride, as he sat down to dinner.\n\nBuilding a dam is wonderful sauce for a dinner. \"I think stew is much\nbetter the second day,\" observed Benny, eating hungrily.\n\nThere remained two more adventures for the eventful day. The girls cut\ntheir hair. Violet's dark curls came off first. \"They're awfully in the\nway,\" explained Violet, \"and so much trouble when you're working.\"\n\nThey were tangled, too, and Jess cut them off evenly by a string, with\nViolet's little scissors. Jess' chestnut hair was long and silky and\nnicely braided, but she never murmured as it came off too. The two girls\nran to the brook mirror to see how they looked. The new haircut was very\nbecoming to both.\n\n\"I like you better that way,\" said Henry approvingly. \"Lots more\nsensible when you're living in the woods.\"\n\nAround four o'clock the children took a long walk in the opposite\ndirection from any of their other explorations. They were rewarded by\ntwo discoveries. One was a hollow tree literally filled with walnuts,\ngathered presumably by a thrifty squirrel the previous fall. The other\ndiscovery frightened them a little just at first. For with bristling\nback and a loud bark, Watch suddenly began to rout out something in the\nleaves, and that something began to cackle and half run and half fly\nfrom the intruders. It was a runaway hen. The children succeeded in\ncatching the dog and reducing him to order, although it was clear he\nliked very much to chase hens.\n\n\"She had some eggs, too,\" remarked Benny as if trying to make pleasant\nconversation.\n\nJess bent over incredulously and saw a rude nest in the moss in which\nthere were five eggs.\n\n\"A runaway hen!\" said Henry, hardly believing his eyes. \"She wants to\nhide her nest and raise chickens.\"\n\nThe children had no scruples at all about taking the eggs.\n\n\"Almost a gift from heaven,\" said Violet, stroking one of the eggs with\na delicate finger. \"It wouldn't be polite to refuse them.\"\n\nScrambled eggs made a delicious supper for the children. Jess broke all\nthe eggs into the biggest bowl and beat them vigorously with a spoon\nuntil they were light and foamy. Then she added milk and salt and\ndelegated Violet to beat them some more while she prepared the fire. The\nbig kettle, empty and clean, was hung over the low fire and butter was\ndropped in. Jess watched it anxiously, tipping the kettle slightly in\nall directions. When the butter had reached the exact shade of brown,\nJess poured in the eggs and stirred them carefully, holding her skirts\naway from the fire. She was amply repaid for her care when she saw her\nfamily attack the meal. Clearly this was a feast day.\n\n\"We shall have to be satisfied tomorrow to live on bread and milk,\" she\nobserved, scraping up the last delicious morsel.\n\nBut when tomorrow came they had more than bread and milk, as you will\nsoon see.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The kids sleep till 10 a.m. on Sunday morning, and after breakfast, they start to work on the swimming pool. It's going to be a group effort. They assess the brook and decide they need to build a dam. Jessie washes socks. Building a dam is hard work, but the Boxcar Children are basically perfect, so they don't mind. After the children lay some logs on top of a stack of stones, they realize they need to build a tall wall with more logs. Good thing they like hard work so much. Finally, the dam is finished, and the pool fills with water. You know what that means: It's swimming time. The boys get the first swim while the girls cook dinner. Shmoop thinks the boys got the better end of that deal. Jessie and Violet heat up the leftover stew. Then, Jessie rings the dinner bell. Guess what she made it from? More garbage from the dump. The children eat stew, wash dishes, and then set off on a walk. Watch begins to bark. Uh-oh, do you think it's the intruder? No, it's a runaway hen. Benny finds a nest with some eggs, and as luck would have it, Jessie knows how to cook eggs. That's dinner sorted. Jessie cooks the eggs and they're delish. She thanks Benny for finding them."}, {"": "407", "document": "\n\nThe Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and\nwhether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which\nCatherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with\nthe Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance.\nHer whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense,\nand everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should\nbe taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to\nproduce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made\nbut a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice indeed, since\nJames's engagement had taught her what could be done, she had got so\nfar as to indulge in a secret \"perhaps,\" but in general the felicity of\nbeing with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now\ncomprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for\nthat period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite\nbut little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this\nbusiness arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her\njoyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she\nexpressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay than Miss Tilney\ntold her of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath\nby the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of\nthe morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.\nCatherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she\nechoed Miss Tilney's concluding words, \"By the end of another week!\"\n\n\"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I\nthink a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends' arrival\nwhom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a\nhurry to get home.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry for it,\" said Catherine dejectedly; \"if I had known\nthis before--\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, \"you would be so\ngood--it would make me very happy if--\"\n\nThe entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine\nwas beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding.\nAfter addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his\ndaughter and said, \"Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being\nsuccessful in your application to your fair friend?\"\n\n\"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in.\"\n\n\"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My\ndaughter, Miss Morland,\" he continued, without leaving his daughter time\nto speak, \"has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has\nperhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells\nme that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope\nof seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of\nmy very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And\ncould we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a\nsingle regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene\nof public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in\nGloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its\npresumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath\nthan yourself. Modesty such as yours--but not for the world would I pain\nit by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit,\nyou will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you\nnothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither\nby amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain\nand unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make\nNorthanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable.\"\n\nNorthanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine's\nfeelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified\nheart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of\ntolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her\ncompany so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every\npresent enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her\nacceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation,\nwas eagerly given. \"I will write home directly,\" said she, \"and if they\ndo not object, as I dare say they will not--\"\n\nGeneral Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her\nexcellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of\nhis wishes. \"Since they can consent to part with you,\" said he, \"we may\nexpect philosophy from all the world.\"\n\nMiss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and\nthe affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary\nreference to Fullerton would allow.\n\nThe circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through\nthe varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were\nnow safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,\nwith Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she\nhurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on\nthe discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their\ndaughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had\nbeen formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their\nready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though\nnot more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being\nfavoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,\ncircumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her\nadvantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had\nbeen introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her.\nHer feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return.\nWherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The\naffection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys,\nthey, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of,\noutstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their\nintimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she\nwas to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society\nshe mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to\nbe the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in\ndegree to her passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and abbeys made\nusually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see\nand explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters\nof the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more\nthan the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.\nAnd yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house,\nhall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,\nand she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow\ncells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she\ncould not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some\nawful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.\n\nIt was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the\npossession of such a home, that the consciousness of it should be so\nmeekly borne. The power of early habit only could account for it. A\ndistinction to which they had been born gave no pride. Their superiority\nof abode was no more to them than their superiority of person.\n\nMany were the inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so\nactive were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she\nwas hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been\na richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having\nfallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,\nof a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the\npresent dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low\nin a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Allens and Catherine have been in Bath for six weeks and the Allens start thinking about going home. Catherine ponders her relationship with Henry, since Isabella's engagement has given her some ideas. But she decides to just be happy in the present and not worry about the future. Catherine has a nice fortune cookie world view. The Tilneys are leaving soon too, but they invite Catherine to come with them to their home, Northanger Abbey. The title finally makes sense. Well, Eleanor tries to invite Catherine, but the General barges in and interrupts her and then asks Catherine himself. The whole family wants her to come, though for varying implicit reasons. The General's reasons are totally ambiguous. Eleanor and Henry clearly just want their friend/almost girlfriend to visit. Catherine about dies from joy here. She says that her parents will probably be cool with her going. The Morlands write back soon with their consent and Catherine thinks about how awesome life is for her lately. The fact that the Tilneys, her favorite people, live in a Gothic abbey is just icing on the cake for her. Catherine assumes that Northanger Abbey will be just like the places she's read about. In other words: creepy, mysterious, exciting, and super \"Gothic.\""}, {"": "408", "document": "\n\n|ANNE'S homesickness wore off, greatly helped in the wearing by her\nweekend visits home. As long as the open weather lasted the Avonlea\nstudents went out to Carmody on the new branch railway every Friday\nnight. Diana and several other Avonlea young folks were generally on\nhand to meet them and they all walked over to Avonlea in a merry party.\nAnne thought those Friday evening gypsyings over the autumnal hills in\nthe crisp golden air, with the homelights of Avonlea twinkling beyond,\nwere the best and dearest hours in the whole week.\n\nGilbert Blythe nearly always walked with Ruby Gillis and carried her\nsatchel for her. Ruby was a very handsome young lady, now thinking\nherself quite as grown up as she really was; she wore her skirts as long\nas her mother would let her and did her hair up in town, though she had\nto take it down when she went home. She had large, bright-blue eyes,\na brilliant complexion, and a plump showy figure. She laughed a great\ndeal, was cheerful and good-tempered, and enjoyed the pleasant things of\nlife frankly.\n\n\"But I shouldn't think she was the sort of girl Gilbert would like,\"\nwhispered Jane to Anne. Anne did not think so either, but she would not\nhave said so for the Avery scholarship. She could not help thinking,\ntoo, that it would be very pleasant to have such a friend as Gilbert\nto jest and chatter with and exchange ideas about books and studies and\nambitions. Gilbert had ambitions, she knew, and Ruby Gillis did not seem\nthe sort of person with whom such could be profitably discussed.\n\nThere was no silly sentiment in Anne's ideas concerning Gilbert. Boys\nwere to her, when she thought about them at all, merely possible good\ncomrades. If she and Gilbert had been friends she would not have cared\nhow many other friends he had nor with whom he walked. She had a genius\nfor friendship; girl friends she had in plenty; but she had a vague\nconsciousness that masculine friendship might also be a good thing\nto round out one's conceptions of companionship and furnish broader\nstandpoints of judgment and comparison. Not that Anne could have put her\nfeelings on the matter into just such clear definition. But she thought\nthat if Gilbert had ever walked home with her from the train, over the\ncrisp fields and along the ferny byways, they might have had many and\nmerry and interesting conversations about the new world that was opening\naround them and their hopes and ambitions therein. Gilbert was a clever\nyoung fellow, with his own thoughts about things and a determination to\nget the best out of life and put the best into it. Ruby Gillis told Jane\nAndrews that she didn't understand half the things Gilbert Blythe said;\nhe talked just like Anne Shirley did when she had a thoughtful fit on\nand for her part she didn't think it any fun to be bothering about books\nand that sort of thing when you didn't have to. Frank Stockley had lots\nmore dash and go, but then he wasn't half as good-looking as Gilbert and\nshe really couldn't decide which she liked best!\n\nIn the Academy Anne gradually drew a little circle of friends about\nher, thoughtful, imaginative, ambitious students like herself. With the\n\"rose-red\" girl, Stella Maynard, and the \"dream girl,\" Priscilla Grant,\nshe soon became intimate, finding the latter pale spiritual-looking\nmaiden to be full to the brim of mischief and pranks and fun, while the\nvivid, black-eyed Stella had a heartful of wistful dreams and fancies,\nas aerial and rainbow-like as Anne's own.\n\nAfter the Christmas holidays the Avonlea students gave up going home\non Fridays and settled down to hard work. By this time all the Queen's\nscholars had gravitated into their own places in the ranks and\nthe various classes had assumed distinct and settled shadings of\nindividuality. Certain facts had become generally accepted. It was\nadmitted that the medal contestants had practically narrowed down\nto three--Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, and Lewis Wilson; the Avery\nscholarship was more doubtful, any one of a certain six being a possible\nwinner. The bronze medal for mathematics was considered as good as\nwon by a fat, funny little up-country boy with a bumpy forehead and a\npatched coat.\n\nRuby Gillis was the handsomest girl of the year at the Academy; in the\nSecond Year classes Stella Maynard carried off the palm for beauty, with\nsmall but critical minority in favor of Anne Shirley. Ethel Marr was\nadmitted by all competent judges to have the most stylish modes\nof hair-dressing, and Jane Andrews--plain, plodding, conscientious\nJane--carried off the honors in the domestic science course. Even Josie\nPye attained a certain preeminence as the sharpest-tongued young lady in\nattendance at Queen's. So it may be fairly stated that Miss Stacy's old\npupils held their own in the wider arena of the academical course.\n\nAnne worked hard and steadily. Her rivalry with Gilbert was as intense\nas it had ever been in Avonlea school, although it was not known in the\nclass at large, but somehow the bitterness had gone out of it. Anne no\nlonger wished to win for the sake of defeating Gilbert; rather, for the\nproud consciousness of a well-won victory over a worthy foeman. It\nwould be worth while to win, but she no longer thought life would be\ninsupportable if she did not.\n\nIn spite of lessons the students found opportunities for pleasant times.\nAnne spent many of her spare hours at Beechwood and generally ate her\nSunday dinners there and went to church with Miss Barry. The latter was,\nas she admitted, growing old, but her black eyes were not dim nor the\nvigor of her tongue in the least abated. But she never sharpened the\nlatter on Anne, who continued to be a prime favorite with the critical\nold lady.\n\n\"That Anne-girl improves all the time,\" she said. \"I get tired of other\ngirls--there is such a provoking and eternal sameness about them. Anne\nhas as many shades as a rainbow and every shade is the prettiest while\nit lasts. I don't know that she is as amusing as she was when she was\na child, but she makes me love her and I like people who make me love\nthem. It saves me so much trouble in making myself love them.\"\n\nThen, almost before anybody realized it, spring had come; out in\nAvonlea the Mayflowers were peeping pinkly out on the sere barrens where\nsnow-wreaths lingered; and the \"mist of green\" was on the woods and in\nthe valleys. But in Charlottetown harassed Queen's students thought and\ntalked only of examinations.\n\n\"It doesn't seem possible that the term is nearly over,\" said Anne.\n\"Why, last fall it seemed so long to look forward to--a whole winter\nof studies and classes. And here we are, with the exams looming up next\nweek. Girls, sometimes I feel as if those exams meant everything, but\nwhen I look at the big buds swelling on those chestnut trees and\nthe misty blue air at the end of the streets they don't seem half so\nimportant.\"\n\nJane and Ruby and Josie, who had dropped in, did not take this view\nof it. To them the coming examinations were constantly very important\nindeed--far more important than chestnut buds or Maytime hazes. It was\nall very well for Anne, who was sure of passing at least, to have her\nmoments of belittling them, but when your whole future depended on\nthem--as the girls truly thought theirs did--you could not regard them\nphilosophically.\n\n\"I've lost seven pounds in the last two weeks,\" sighed Jane. \"It's no\nuse to say don't worry. I _will_ worry. Worrying helps you some--it\nseems as if you were doing something when you're worrying. It would be\ndreadful if I failed to get my license after going to Queen's all winter\nand spending so much money.\"\n\n\"_I_ don't care,\" said Josie Pye. \"If I don't pass this year I'm coming\nback next. My father can afford to send me. Anne, Frank Stockley says\nthat Professor Tremaine said Gilbert Blythe was sure to get the medal\nand that Emily Clay would likely win the Avery scholarship.\"\n\n\"That may make me feel badly tomorrow, Josie,\" laughed Anne, \"but just\nnow I honestly feel that as long as I know the violets are coming out\nall purple down in the hollow below Green Gables and that little ferns\nare poking their heads up in Lovers' Lane, it's not a great deal of\ndifference whether I win the Avery or not. I've done my best and I begin\nto understand what is meant by the 'joy of the strife.' Next to trying\nand winning, the best thing is trying and failing. Girls, don't talk\nabout exams! Look at that arch of pale green sky over those houses\nand picture to yourself what it must look like over the purply-dark\nbeech-woods back of Avonlea.\"\n\n\"What are you going to wear for commencement, Jane?\" asked Ruby\npractically.\n\nJane and Josie both answered at once and the chatter drifted into a side\neddy of fashions. But Anne, with her elbows on the window sill, her soft\ncheek laid against her clasped hands, and her eyes filled with visions,\nlooked out unheedingly across city roof and spire to that glorious dome\nof sunset sky and wove her dreams of a possible future from the golden\ntissue of youth's own optimism. All the Beyond was hers with its\npossibilities lurking rosily in the oncoming years--each year a rose of\npromise to be woven into an immortal chaplet.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Anne settles into her classes and makes new friends. Meanwhile, Gilbert Blythe is \"walking home with\" Ruby and still not talking to Anne. Anne and her friends begin studying for examinations. If they pass, they'll get their teacher's certificates. If they pass at the top of their class, they have a chance to get the medal or Avery scholarship. Anne's friends are worried about passing at all. Anne alternates between worrying about the medal and scholarship and just enjoying the spring nature."}, {"": "409", "document": "\n\nWhen Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His blood was\nwarm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman who had\nstirred him so profoundly the night before.\n\n\"Here you are,\" he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and\nan elation which was tragic in itself.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie.\n\nThey walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood\ndrank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty skirt\nwas like music to him.\n\n\"Are you satisfied?\" he asked, thinking of how well she did the night\nbefore.\n\n\"Are you?\"\n\nHe tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.\n\n\"It was wonderful.\"\n\nCarrie laughed ecstatically.\n\n\"That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time,\" he added.\n\nHe was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening\nbefore, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now.\n\nCarrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for her.\nAlready she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt his drawing\ntoward her in every sound of his voice.\n\n\"Those were such nice flowers you sent me,\" she said, after a moment or\ntwo. \"They were beautiful.\"\n\n\"Glad you liked them,\" he answered, simply.\n\nHe was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being\ndelayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. All was\nripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in and\nexpostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words and\nfeeling for a way.\n\n\"You got home all right,\" he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tune\nmodifying itself to one of self-commiseration.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie, easily.\n\nHe looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her\nwith his eye.\n\nShe felt the flood of feeling.\n\n\"How about me?\" he asked.\n\nThis confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the flood-gates\nwere open. She didn't know exactly what to answer. \"I don't know,\" she\nanswered.\n\nHe took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let it\ngo. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his toe. He\nsearched her face with a tender, appealing glance.\n\n\"Won't you come away from him?\" he asked, intensely.\n\n\"I don't know,\" returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and finding\nnothing at which to catch.\n\nAs a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a\nman whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her,\nsufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed\nof a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen eyes,\nhis suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before her a\nman who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a\nfeeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the glow\nof his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from\nfeeling what he felt.\n\nAnd yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did\nhe know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or what?\nWould he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened, and her eyes\nwere lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if Drouet\nhad told him they were not married. There was never anything at all\nconvincing about what Drouet said.\n\nAnd yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of bitterness\nwas in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently sincere. His\npassion was real and warm. There was power in what he said. What should\nshe do? She went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing\naffectionately, and altogether drifting, until she was on a borderless\nsea of speculation.\n\n\"Why don't you come away?\" he said, tenderly. \"I will arrange for you\nwhatever--\"\n\n\"Oh, don't,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Don't what?\" he asked. \"What do you mean?\"\n\nThere was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering\nwhy that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by\na blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of\nmarriage.\n\nHe himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in.\nHe wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He\nwent beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely\nenlisted in his plan.\n\n\"Won't you come?\" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent\nfeeling. \"You know I can't do without you--you know it--it can't go on\nthis way--can it?\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"I wouldn't ask if I--I wouldn't argue with you if I could help it. Look\nat me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to stay away\nfrom me, do you?\"\n\nShe shook her head as if in deep thought. \"Then why not settle the whole\nthing, once and for all?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment me. Be\nserious.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Carrie, softly.\n\n\"You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love you.\nLook at last night.\"\n\nHis manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face and\nbody retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a\nsubtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of the man's nature\nwas distilling itself.\n\nCarrie made no answer.\n\n\"How can you act this way, dearest?\" he inquired, after a time. \"You\nlove me, don't you?\"\n\nHe turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. For\nthe moment all doubts were cleared away.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, frankly and tenderly.\n\n\"Well, then you'll come, won't you--come to-night?\"\n\nCarrie shook her head in spite of her distress.\n\n\"I can't wait any longer,\" urged Hurstwood. \"If that is too soon, come\nSaturday.\"\n\n\"When will we be married?\" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her\ndifficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's wife.\n\nThe manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more difficult\nthan hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to\nhis mind.\n\n\"Any time you say,\" he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his\npresent delight with this miserable problem.\n\n\"Saturday?\" asked Carrie.\n\nHe nodded his head.\n\n\"Well, if you will marry me then,\" she said, \"I'll go.\"\n\nThe manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so\ndifficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had\ngotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with reason. He\ndid not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much\nloveliness. He would accept the situation with all its difficulties; he\nwould not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon\nhim. He would promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to\ndisentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be\nthe result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty of\nstatement, all abandonment of truth.\n\nCarrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his\nshoulder, so delightful did it all seem. \"Well,\" she said, \"I'll try and\nget ready then.\"\n\nHurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows\nof wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more\nlovely.\n\n\"I'll see you again to-morrow,\" he said, joyously, \"and we'll talk over\nthe plans.\"\n\nHe walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the\nresult. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though\nthere was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began to\nrealise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the world.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully\nto his brave demeanour.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.\n\nThere had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing\nherself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome\nadorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they\nwould be happy.\n\n\n", "summary": "Hurstwood and Carrie meet again in secret. They chat about how great her performance in the play was, then things turn serious and he begs her to go away with him. Carrie's not sure. She's still wondering whether Hurstwood knows that she and Drouet aren't really married, and she wonders if Hurstwood wants to marry her. He continues to beg, pleading with her to come with him tonight or Saturday at the latest. She asks if they can get married Saturday and he says yes, so she agrees. They're both thrilled--never mind the minor issue of Carrie's live-in lover or the fact that old Hurstwood is already married. They're in love. They agree to meet the next day to further discuss their plans."}, {"": "410", "document": "FROM the time that my lameness had decreased I had made a daily practice\nof visiting Mehevi at the Ti, who invariably gave me a most cordial\nreception. I was always accompanied in these excursions by Fayaway\nand the ever-present Kory-Kory. The former, as soon as we reached the\nvicinity of the Ti--which was rigorously tabooed to the whole female\nsex--withdrew to a neighbouring hut, as if her feminine delicacy\n'restricted' her from approaching a habitation which might be regarded\nas a sort of Bachelor's Hall.\n\nAnd in good truth it might well have been so considered. Although it\nwas the permanent residence of several distinguished chiefs, and of\nthe noble Mehevi in particular, it was still at certain seasons the\nfavourite haunt of all the jolly, talkative, and elderly savages of\nthe vale, who resorted thither in the same way that similar characters\nfrequent a tavern in civilized countries. There they would remain hour\nafter hour, chatting, smoking, eating poee-poee, or busily engaged in\nsleeping for the good of their constitutions.\n\nThis building appeared to be the head-quarters of the valley, where all\nflying rumours concentrated; and to have seen it filled with a crowd\nof the natives, all males, conversing in animated clusters, while\nmultitudes were continually coming and going, one would have thought it\na kind of savage Exchange, where the rise and fall of Polynesian Stock\nwas discussed.\n\nMehevi acted as supreme lord over the place, spending the greater\nportion of his time there: and often when, at particular hours of the\nday, it was deserted by nearly every one else except the verd-antique\nlooking centenarians, who were fixtures in the building, the chief\nhimself was sure to be found enjoying his 'otium cum dignitate'--upon\nthe luxurious mats which covered the floor. Whenever I made my\nappearance he invariably rose, and like a gentleman doing the honours of\nhis mansion, invited me to repose myself wherever I pleased, and calling\nout 'tamaree!' (boy), a little fellow would appear, and then retiring\nfor an instant, return with some savoury mess, from which the chief\nwould press me to regale myself. To tell the truth, Mehevi was indebted\nto the excellence of his viands for the honour of my repeated visits--a\nmatter which cannot appear singular, when it is borne in mind that\nbachelors, all the world over, are famous for serving up unexceptionable\nrepasts.\n\nOne day, on drawing near to the Ti, I observed that extensive\npreparations were going forward, plainly betokening some approaching\nfestival. Some of the symptoms reminded me of the stir produced among\nthe scullions of a large hotel, where a grand jubilee dinner is about to\nbe given. The natives were hurrying about hither and thither, engaged in\nvarious duties, some lugging off to the stream enormous hollow\nbamboos, for the purpose of filling them with water; others chasing\nfurious-looking hogs through the bushes, in their endeavours to capture\nthem; and numbers employed in kneading great mountains of poee-poee\nheaped up in huge wooden vessels.\n\nAfter observing these lively indications for a while, I was attracted to\na neighbouring grove by a prodigious squeaking which I heard there. On\nreaching the spot I found it proceeded from a large hog which a number\nof natives were forcibly holding to the earth, while a muscular fellow,\narmed with a bludgeon, was ineffectually aiming murderous blows at the\nskull of the unfortunate porker. Again and again he missed his\nwrithing and struggling victim, but though puffing and panting with\nhis exertions, he still continued them; and after striking a sufficient\nnumber of blows to have demolished an entire drove of oxen, with one\ncrashing stroke he laid him dead at his feet.\n\nWithout letting any blood from the body, it was immediately carried to a\nfire which had been kindled near at hand and four savages taking hold of\nthe carcass by its legs, passed it rapidly to and fro in the flames.\nIn a moment the smell of burning bristles betrayed the object of this\nprocedure. Having got thus far in the matter, the body was removed to a\nlittle distance and, being disembowelled, the entrails were laid aside\nas choice parts, and the whole carcass thoroughly washed with water. An\nample thick green cloth, composed of the long thick leaves of a species\nof palm-tree, ingeniously tacked together with little pins of bamboo,\nwas now spread upon the ground, in which the body being carefully\nrolled, it was borne to an oven previously prepared to receive it. Here\nit was at once laid upon the heated stones at the bottom, and covered\nwith thick layers of leaves, the whole being quickly hidden from sight\nby a mound of earth raised over it.\n\nSuch is the summary style in which the Typees convert perverse-minded\nand rebellious hogs into the most docile and amiable pork; a morsel\nof which placed on the tongue melts like a soft smile from the lips of\nBeauty.\n\nI commend their peculiar mode of proceeding to the consideration of all\nbutchers, cooks, and housewives. The hapless porker whose fate I have\njust rehearsed, was not the only one who suffered in that memorable day.\nMany a dismal grunt, many an imploring squeak, proclaimed what was going\non throughout the whole extent of the valley; and I verily believe the\nfirst-born of every litter perished before the setting of that fatal\nsun.\n\nThe scene around the Ti was now most animated. Hogs and poee-poee were\nbaking in numerous ovens, which, heaped up with fresh earth into slight\nelevations, looked like so many ant-hills. Scores of the savages were\nvigorously plying their stone pestles in preparing masses of poee-poee,\nand numbers were gathering green bread-fruit and young cocoanuts in the\nsurrounding groves; when an exceeding great multitude, with a view of\nencouraging the rest in their labours, stood still, and kept shouting\nmost lustily without intermission.\n\nIt is a peculiarity among these people, that, when engaged in an\nemployment, they always make a prodigious fuss about it. So seldom do\nthey ever exert themselves, that when they do work they seem determined\nthat so meritorious an action shall not escape the observation of those\naround if, for example, they have occasion to remove a stone to a little\ndistance, which perhaps might be carried by two able-bodied men, a whole\nswarm gather about it, and, after a vast deal of palavering, lift it\nup among them, every one struggling to get hold of it, and bear it off\nyelling and panting as if accomplishing some mighty achievement. Seeing\nthem on these occasions, one is reminded of an infinity of black ants\nclustering about and dragging away to some hole the leg of a deceased\nfly.\n\nHaving for some time attentively observed these demonstrations of good\ncheer, I entered the Ti, where Mehevi sat complacently looking out upon\nthe busy scene, and occasionally issuing his orders. The chief appeared\nto be in an extraordinary flow of spirits and gave me to understand that\non the morrow there would be grand doings in the Groves generally, and\nat the Ti in particular; and urged me by no means to absent myself. In\ncommemoration of what event, however, or in honour of what\ndistinguished personage, the feast was to be given, altogether passed my\ncomprehension. Mehevi sought to enlighten my ignorance, but he failed as\nsignally as when he had endeavoured to initiate me into the perplexing\narcana of the taboo.\n\nOn leaving the Ti, Kory-Kory, who had as a matter of course accompanied\nme, observing that my curiosity remained unabated, resolved to make\neverything plain and satisfactory. With this intent, he escorted\nme through the Taboo Groves, pointing out to my notice a variety of\nobjects, and endeavoured to explain them in such an indescribable jargon\nof words, that it almost put me in bodily pain to listen to him. In\nparticular, he led me to a remarkable pyramidical structure some three\nyards square at the base, and perhaps ten feet in height, which had\nlately been thrown up, and occupied a very conspicuous position. It\nwas composed principally of large empty calabashes, with a few polished\ncocoanut shells, and looked not unlike a cenotaph of skulls. My cicerone\nperceived the astonishment with which I gazed at this monument of savage\ncrockery, and immediately addressed himself in the task of enlightening\nme: but all in vain; and to this hour the nature of the monument remains\na complete mystery to me. As, however, it formed so prominent a feature\nin the approaching revels, I bestowed upon the latter, in my own mind,\nthe title of the 'Feast of Calabashes'.\n\nThe following morning, awaking rather late, I perceived the whole of\nMarheyo's family busily engaged in preparing for the festival.\n\nThe old warrior himself was arranging in round balls the two grey locks\nof hair that were suffered to grow from the crown of his head; his\nearrings and spear, both well polished, lay beside him, while the highly\ndecorative pair of shoes hung suspended from a projecting cane against\nthe side of the house. The young men were similarly employed; and the\nfair damsels, including Fayaway, were anointing themselves with 'aka',\narranging their long tresses, and performing other matters connected\nwith the duties of the toilet.\n\nHaving completed their preparations, the girls now exhibited themselves\nin gala costume; the most conspicuous feature of which was a necklace\nof beautiful white flowers, with the stems removed, and strung closely\ntogether upon a single fibre of tappa. Corresponding ornaments were\ninserted in their ears, and woven garlands upon their heads. About their\nwaist they wore a short tunic of spotless white tappa, and some of them\nsuper-added to this a mantle of the same material, tied in an elaborate\nbow upon the left shoulder, and falling about the figure in picturesque\nfolds.\n\nThus arrayed, I would have matched the charming Fayaway against any\nbeauty in the world.\n\nPeople may say what they will about the taste evinced by our fashionable\nladies in dress. Their jewels, their feathers, their silks, and\ntheir furbelows, would have sunk into utter insignificance beside the\nexquisite simplicity of attire adopted by the nymphs of the vale on this\nfestive occasion. I should like to have seen a gallery of coronation\nbeauties, at Westminster Abbey, confronted for a moment by this band of\nisland girls; their stiffness, formality, and affectation, contrasted\nwith the artless vivacity and unconcealed natural graces of these savage\nmaidens. It would be the Venus de' Medici placed beside a milliner's\ndoll. It was not long before Kory-Kory and myself were left alone in the\nhouse, the rest of its inmates having departed for the Taboo Groves.\nMy valet was all impatience to follow them; and was as fidgety about my\ndilatory movements as a diner out waiting hat in hand at the bottom\nof the stairs for some lagging companion. At last, yielding to his\nimportunities, I set out for the Ti. As we passed the houses peeping out\nfrom the groves through which our route lay, I noticed that they were\nentirely deserted by their inhabitants.\n\nWhen we reached the rock that abruptly terminated the path, and\nconcealed from us the festive scene, wild shouts and a confused blending\nof voices assured me that the occasion, whatever it might be, had\ndrawn together a great multitude. Kory-Kory, previous to mounting the\nelevation, paused for a moment, like a dandy at a ball-room door, to put\na hasty finish to his toilet. During this short interval, the thought\nstruck me that I ought myself perhaps to be taking some little pains\nwith my appearance.\n\nBut as I had no holiday raiment, I was not a little puzzled to devise\nsome means of decorating myself. However, as I felt desirous to create a\nsensation, I determined to do all that lay in my power; and knowing that\nI could not delight the savages more than by conforming to their style\nof dress, I removed from my person the large robe of tappa which I was\naccustomed to wear over my shoulders whenever I sallied into the open\nair, and remained merely girt about with a short tunic descending from\nmy waist to my knees.\n\nMy quick-witted attendant fully appreciated the compliment I was paying\nto the costume of his race, and began more sedulously to arrange the\nfolds of the one only garment which remained to me. Whilst he was doing\nthis, I caught sight of a knot of young lasses, who were sitting near us\non the grass surrounded by heaps of flowers which they were forming into\ngarlands. I motioned to them to bring some of their handywork to me;\nand in an instant a dozen wreaths were at my disposal. One of them I\nput round the apology for a hat which I had been forced to construct for\nmyself out of palmetto-leaves, and some of the others I converted into a\nsplendid girdle. These operations finished, with the slow and dignified\nstep of a full-dressed beau I ascended the rock.\n\n\n", "summary": "Tommo visits the Ti everyday to spend time with Mehevi, since the Ti is one of the best places to be for good conversation and the best food. One day, Tommo senses great commotion around the Ti and learns that a large festival will take place on the following day. Pigs are being caught to be roasted and many calabashes of poee-poee are being prepared. After asking for the meaning of the festival, Kory-Kory takes him to the Taboo grove and points out a large pyramidal structure that has been made of calabashes and empty coconut shells. Tommo still does not understand the meaning of the festival, but he decides to call it the \"Feast of the Calabashes. The following day everyone dresses in his or her finest attire. To honor the holiday, Tommo too dresses in a Typee style costume of white tappa and adorns himself with flowers"}, {"": "411", "document": "\n\nThe schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school,\nboth being modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old\nhouse in which his teacher Sue had a lodging.  The arrangement had\nbeen concluded very quickly.  A pupil-teacher who was to have been\ntransferred to Mr. Phillotson's school had failed him, and Sue had\nbeen taken as stop-gap.  All such provisional arrangements as these\ncould only last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose\napproval was necessary to make them permanent.  Having taught for\nsome two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation of\nlate, Miss Bridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought\nthere would be no difficulty in retaining her services, which he\nalready wished to do, though she had only been with him three or four\nweeks.  He had found her quite as bright as Jude had described her;\nand what master-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who\nsaves him half his labour?\n\nIt was a little over half-past eight o'clock in the morning and he\nwas waiting to see her cross the road to the school, when he would\nfollow.  At twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed\non her head; and he watched her as a curiosity.  A new emanation,\nwhich had nothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to\nsurround her this morning.  He went to the school also, and Sue\nremained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day\nunder his eye.  She certainly was an excellent teacher.\n\nIt was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening,\nand some article in the Code made it necessary that a respectable,\nelderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and\nthe taught were of different sexes.  Richard Phillotson thought of\nthe absurdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough\nto be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat\ndown with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose house\nSue lodged, occupied herself with sewing.  The regulation was,\nindeed, not easy to evade, for there was no other sitting-room in the\ndwelling.\n\nSometimes as she figured--it was arithmetic that they were working\nat--she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile\nat him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive\nall that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong.  Phillotson was\nnot really thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel\nway which somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor.  Perhaps she\nknew that he was thinking of her thus.\n\nFor a few weeks their work had gone on with a monotony which in\nitself was a delight to him.  Then it happened that the children were\nto be taken to Christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the\nshape of a model of Jerusalem, to which schools were admitted at\na penny a head in the interests of education.  They marched along\nthe road two and two, she beside her class with her simple cotton\nsunshade, her little thumb cocked up against its stem; and Phillotson\nbehind in his long dangling coat, handling his walking-stick\ngenteelly, in the musing mood which had come over him since her\narrival.  The afternoon was one of sun and dust, and when they\nentered the exhibition room few people were present but themselves.\nThe model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment,\nand the proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy written on his\nfeatures, walked round it with a pointer in his hand, showing the\nyoung people the various quarters and places known to them by name\nfrom reading their Bibles; Mount Moriah, the Valley of Jehoshaphat,\nthe City of Zion, the walls and the gates, outside one of which there\nwas a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little white\ncross.  The spot, he said, was Calvary.\n\n\"I think,\" said Sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a\nlittle in the background, \"that this model, elaborate as it is, is a\nvery imaginary production.  How does anybody know that Jerusalem was\nlike this in the time of Christ?  I am sure this man doesn't.\"\n\n\"It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits\nto the city as it now exists.\"\n\n\"I fancy we have had enough of Jerusalem,\" she said, \"considering we\nare not descended from the Jews.  There was nothing first-rate about\nthe place, or people, after all--as there was about Athens, Rome,\nAlexandria, and other old cities.\"\n\n\"But my dear girl, consider what it is to us!\"\n\nShe was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived\nbehind the group of children clustered round the model a young man\nin a white flannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent\ninspection of the Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost\nhidden from view by the Mount of Olives.  \"Look at your cousin Jude,\"\ncontinued the schoolmaster.  \"He doesn't think we have had enough of\nJerusalem!\"\n\n\"Ah--I didn't see him!\" she cried in her quick, light voice.\n\"Jude--how seriously you are going into it!\"\n\nJude started up from his reverie, and saw her.  \"Oh--Sue!\" he said,\nwith a glad flush of embarrassment.  \"These are your school-children,\nof course!  I saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and\nthought you might come; but I got so deeply interested that I didn't\nremember where I was.  How it carries one back, doesn't it!  I could\nexamine it for hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately;\nfor I am in the middle of a job out here.\"\n\n\"Your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it\nunmercifully,\" said Phillotson, with good-humoured satire.  \"She is\nquite sceptical as to its correctness.\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Phillotson, I am not--altogether!  I hate to be what is\ncalled a clever girl--there are too many of that sort now!\" answered\nSue sensitively.  \"I only meant--I don't know what I meant--except\nthat it was what you don't understand!\"\n\n\"_I_ know your meaning,\" said Jude ardently (although he did not).\n\"And I think you are quite right.\"\n\n\"That's a good Jude--I know YOU believe in me!\"  She impulsively\nseized his hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster\nturned away to Jude, her voice revealing a tremor which she herself\nfelt to be absurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle.  She had not\nthe least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at\nthis momentary revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was\nbuilding up thereby in the futures of both.\n\nThe model wore too much of an educational aspect for the children not\nto tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon they were all\nmarched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work.  He watched the\njuvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the\nstreet towards the country beside Phillotson and Sue, and a sad,\ndissatisfied sense of being out of the scheme of the latters' lives\nhad possession of him.  Phillotson had invited him to walk out\nand see them on Friday evening, when there would be no lessons to\ngive to Sue, and Jude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the\nopportunity.\n\nMeanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next\nday, on looking on the blackboard in Sue's class, Phillotson was\nsurprised to find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a perspective\nview of Jerusalem, with every building shown in its place.\n\n\"I thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at\nit?\" he said.\n\n\"I hardly did,\" said she, \"but I remembered that much of it.\"\n\n\"It is more than I had remembered myself.\"\n\nHer Majesty's school-inspector was at that time paying\n\"surprise-visits\" in this neighbourhood to test the teaching\nunawares; and two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons,\nthe latch of the door was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman,\nthe king of terrors--to pupil-teachers.\n\nTo Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the\nstory, he had been played that trick too many times to be unprepared.\nBut Sue's class was at the further end of the room, and her back was\ntowards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind\nher and watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware\nof his presence.  She turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment\nhad come.  The effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a\ncry of fright.  Phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude\nquite beyond his control, was at her side just in time to prevent her\nfalling from faintness.  She soon recovered herself, and laughed;\nbut when the inspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was\nso white that Phillotson took her into his room, and gave her some\nbrandy to bring her round.  She found him holding her hand.\n\n\"You ought to have told me,\" she gasped petulantly, \"that one of the\ninspector's surprise-visits was imminent!  Oh, what shall I do!  Now\nhe'll write and tell the managers that I am no good, and I shall be\ndisgraced for ever!\"\n\n\"He won't do that, my dear little girl.  You are the best teacher\never I had!\"\n\nHe looked so gently at her that she was moved, and regretted that she\nhad upbraided him.  When she was better she went home.\n\nJude in the meantime had been waiting impatiently for Friday.  On\nboth Wednesday and Thursday he had been so much under the influence\nof his desire to see her that he walked after dark some distance\nalong the road in the direction of the village, and, on returning to\nhis room to read, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind\non the page.  On Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he\nthought Sue would like to see him, and made a hasty tea, he set\nout, notwithstanding that the evening was wet.  The trees overhead\ndeepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him,\nimpressing him with forebodings--illogical forebodings; for though he\nknew that he loved her he also knew that he could not be more to her\nthan he was.\n\nOn turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that\ngreeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella coming\nout of the vicarage gate.  He was too far back for them to notice\nhim, but he knew in a moment that they were Sue and Phillotson.  The\nlatter was holding the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently\nbeen paying a visit to the vicar--probably on some business connected\nwith the school work.  And as they walked along the wet and deserted\nlane Jude saw Phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist;\nwhereupon she gently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it\nremain, looking quickly round her with an air of misgiving.  She did\nnot look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who\nsank into the hedge like one struck with a blight.  There he remained\nhidden till they had reached Sue's cottage and she had passed in,\nPhillotson going on to the school hard by.\n\n\"Oh, he's too old for her--too old!\" cried Jude in all the terrible\nsickness of hopeless, handicapped love.\n\nHe could not interfere.  Was he not Arabella's?  He was unable to\ngo on further, and retraced his steps towards Christminster.  Every\ntread of his feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account\nstand in the schoolmaster's way with Sue.  Phillotson was perhaps\ntwenty years her senior, but many a happy marriage had been made\nin such conditions of age.  The ironical clinch to his sorrow was\ngiven by the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the\nschoolmaster had been brought about entirely by himself.\n\n\n", "summary": "On Sunday Jude goes to Marygreen to visit Aunt Drusilla, who is now bed-ridden. He cannot help talking about Sue and Aunt Drusilla immediately warns him to stay away from his cousin. His aunt's nurse recounts tales about Sue as a child: her skill at recitation, her cleverness and her unconventional ways. Sue comes across as a fiercely independent child. Jude, on his way back to Christminster, meets some villagers who inquire as to whether he has succeeded in entering the university. They imply that such places are only for those with money. Jude is spurred to make inquiries at Christminster and writes to several masters of colleges for advice. He waits several days but on receiving no response becomes dejected. In the meantime he hears that Phillotson is moving to a bigger school in mid-Wessex, and Jude wonders what implications this transfer will have. Jude starts making indirect inquiries about entering the university and realizes that an open scholarship is the only solution. But he would need a good deal of coaching for that to be possible. He would not be able to compete with those who have had the benefit of trained teachers all their lives. Buying\" his way into the university is impossible; it would take him fifteen years. The task seems hopeless and he realizes how impractical his illusions have been. He has been stumbling in the dark with his private study. Finally, one night he gets a note from one of the heads of a college. He advises Jude to stick to his own trade. Although he knows this is sensible advice, Jude is unable to accept it. In utter despair he goes out and starts drinking. He wanders about, enters a music-hall concert and realizes that there are two Christminsters: the population of students and teachers inhabiting the prestigious colleges which forbid him entry and the other Christminster, made of ordinary, common folk and workers. In a fit of rebellion he scrawls a few lines from Job on the walls of the college to which he was denied entry."}, {"": "412", "document": "Oh, she let me know as soon as, round the corner of the house, she\nloomed again into view. \"What in the name of goodness is the matter--?\"\nShe was now flushed and out of breath.\n\nI said nothing till she came quite near. \"With me?\" I must have made a\nwonderful face. \"Do I show it?\"\n\n\"You're as white as a sheet. You look awful.\"\n\nI considered; I could meet on this, without scruple, any innocence. My\nneed to respect the bloom of Mrs. Grose's had dropped, without a rustle,\nfrom my shoulders, and if I wavered for the instant it was not with what\nI kept back. I put out my hand to her and she took it; I held her hard\na little, liking to feel her close to me. There was a kind of support in\nthe shy heave of her surprise. \"You came for me for church, of course,\nbut I can't go.\"\n\n\"Has anything happened?\"\n\n\"Yes. You must know now. Did I look very queer?\"\n\n\"Through this window? Dreadful!\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I've been frightened.\" Mrs. Grose's eyes expressed\nplainly that SHE had no wish to be, yet also that she knew too well her\nplace not to be ready to share with me any marked inconvenience. Oh,\nit was quite settled that she MUST share! \"Just what you saw from the\ndining room a minute ago was the effect of that. What _I_ saw--just\nbefore--was much worse.\"\n\nHer hand tightened. \"What was it?\"\n\n\"An extraordinary man. Looking in.\"\n\n\"What extraordinary man?\"\n\n\"I haven't the least idea.\"\n\nMrs. Grose gazed round us in vain. \"Then where is he gone?\"\n\n\"I know still less.\"\n\n\"Have you seen him before?\"\n\n\"Yes--once. On the old tower.\"\n\nShe could only look at me harder. \"Do you mean he's a stranger?\"\n\n\"Oh, very much!\"\n\n\"Yet you didn't tell me?\"\n\n\"No--for reasons. But now that you've guessed--\"\n\nMrs. Grose's round eyes encountered this charge. \"Ah, I haven't\nguessed!\" she said very simply. \"How can I if YOU don't imagine?\"\n\n\"I don't in the very least.\"\n\n\"You've seen him nowhere but on the tower?\"\n\n\"And on this spot just now.\"\n\nMrs. Grose looked round again. \"What was he doing on the tower?\"\n\n\"Only standing there and looking down at me.\"\n\nShe thought a minute. \"Was he a gentleman?\"\n\nI found I had no need to think. \"No.\" She gazed in deeper wonder. \"No.\"\n\n\"Then nobody about the place? Nobody from the village?\"\n\n\"Nobody--nobody. I didn't tell you, but I made sure.\"\n\nShe breathed a vague relief: this was, oddly, so much to the good. It\nonly went indeed a little way. \"But if he isn't a gentleman--\"\n\n\"What IS he? He's a horror.\"\n\n\"A horror?\"\n\n\"He's--God help me if I know WHAT he is!\"\n\nMrs. Grose looked round once more; she fixed her eyes on the duskier\ndistance, then, pulling herself together, turned to me with abrupt\ninconsequence. \"It's time we should be at church.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not fit for church!\"\n\n\"Won't it do you good?\"\n\n\"It won't do THEM--! I nodded at the house.\n\n\"The children?\"\n\n\"I can't leave them now.\"\n\n\"You're afraid--?\"\n\nI spoke boldly. \"I'm afraid of HIM.\"\n\nMrs. Grose's large face showed me, at this, for the first time, the\nfaraway faint glimmer of a consciousness more acute: I somehow made out\nin it the delayed dawn of an idea I myself had not given her and that\nwas as yet quite obscure to me. It comes back to me that I thought\ninstantly of this as something I could get from her; and I felt it to be\nconnected with the desire she presently showed to know more. \"When was\nit--on the tower?\"\n\n\"About the middle of the month. At this same hour.\"\n\n\"Almost at dark,\" said Mrs. Grose.\n\n\"Oh, no, not nearly. I saw him as I see you.\"\n\n\"Then how did he get in?\"\n\n\"And how did he get out?\" I laughed. \"I had no opportunity to ask him!\nThis evening, you see,\" I pursued, \"he has not been able to get in.\"\n\n\"He only peeps?\"\n\n\"I hope it will be confined to that!\" She had now let go my hand; she\nturned away a little. I waited an instant; then I brought out: \"Go to\nchurch. Goodbye. I must watch.\"\n\nSlowly she faced me again. \"Do you fear for them?\"\n\nWe met in another long look. \"Don't YOU?\" Instead of answering she came\nnearer to the window and, for a minute, applied her face to the glass.\n\"You see how he could see,\" I meanwhile went on.\n\nShe didn't move. \"How long was he here?\"\n\n\"Till I came out. I came to meet him.\"\n\nMrs. Grose at last turned round, and there was still more in her face.\n\"_I_ couldn't have come out.\"\n\n\"Neither could I!\" I laughed again. \"But I did come. I have my duty.\"\n\n\"So have I mine,\" she replied; after which she added: \"What is he like?\"\n\n\"I've been dying to tell you. But he's like nobody.\"\n\n\"Nobody?\" she echoed.\n\n\"He has no hat.\" Then seeing in her face that she already, in this, with\na deeper dismay, found a touch of picture, I quickly added stroke to\nstroke. \"He has red hair, very red, close-curling, and a pale face, long\nin shape, with straight, good features and little, rather queer whiskers\nthat are as red as his hair. His eyebrows are, somehow, darker; they\nlook particularly arched and as if they might move a good deal. His eyes\nare sharp, strange--awfully; but I only know clearly that they're rather\nsmall and very fixed. His mouth's wide, and his lips are thin, and\nexcept for his little whiskers he's quite clean-shaven. He gives me a\nsort of sense of looking like an actor.\"\n\n\"An actor!\" It was impossible to resemble one less, at least, than Mrs.\nGrose at that moment.\n\n\"I've never seen one, but so I suppose them. He's tall, active, erect,\"\nI continued, \"but never--no, never!--a gentleman.\"\n\nMy companion's face had blanched as I went on; her round eyes started\nand her mild mouth gaped. \"A gentleman?\" she gasped, confounded,\nstupefied: \"a gentleman HE?\"\n\n\"You know him then?\"\n\nShe visibly tried to hold herself. \"But he IS handsome?\"\n\nI saw the way to help her. \"Remarkably!\"\n\n\"And dressed--?\"\n\n\"In somebody's clothes.\" \"They're smart, but they're not his own.\"\n\nShe broke into a breathless affirmative groan: \"They're the master's!\"\n\nI caught it up. \"You DO know him?\"\n\nShe faltered but a second. \"Quint!\" she cried.\n\n\"Quint?\"\n\n\"Peter Quint--his own man, his valet, when he was here!\"\n\n\"When the master was?\"\n\nGaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all together. \"He never wore\nhis hat, but he did wear--well, there were waistcoats missed. They were\nboth here--last year. Then the master went, and Quint was alone.\"\n\nI followed, but halting a little. \"Alone?\"\n\n\"Alone with US.\" Then, as from a deeper depth, \"In charge,\" she added.\n\n\"And what became of him?\"\n\nShe hung fire so long that I was still more mystified. \"He went, too,\"\nshe brought out at last.\n\n\"Went where?\"\n\nHer expression, at this, became extraordinary. \"God knows where! He\ndied.\"\n\n\"Died?\" I almost shrieked.\n\nShe seemed fairly to square herself, plant herself more firmly to utter\nthe wonder of it. \"Yes. Mr. Quint is dead.\"\n", "summary": "Mrs. Grose, breathless, asks the governess why she looks so frightened. The governess responds by saying she cannot go to church and claims that what Mrs. Grose saw was not half as bad as what she herself saw just a few moments ago. She then bewilders and frightens her colleague by detailing her experience with the intruder at the window and, earlier, at the tower. Calling the man \"a horror,\" the governess tells Mrs. Grose that she feels compelled to stay and watch their home instead of going to church. Mrs. Grose asks what the man looked like, and the governess describes him as without a hat, with very red hair and a pale face. Mrs. Grose suddenly makes an expression of recognition and names the intruder as Peter Quint, her employer's former valet. At the governess's questioning, Mrs. Grose reveals that Quint was in charge of Bly last year until his death."}, {"": "413", "document": "\nTHE EBB-TIDE RUNS\n\n\nThe coracle--as I had ample reason to know before I was done with\nher--was a very safe boat for a person of my height and weight, both\nbuoyant and clever in a sea-way; but she was the most cross-grained,\nlopsided craft to manage. Do as you pleased, she always made more leeway\nthan anything else, and turning round and round was the maneuver she was\nbest at. Even Ben Gunn himself has admitted that she was \"queer to\nhandle till you knew her way.\"\n\nCertainly I did not know her way. She turned in every direction but the\none I was bound to go; the most part of the time we were broadside on,\nand I am very sure I never should have made the ship at all but for the\ntide. By good fortune, paddle as I pleased, the tide was still sweeping\nme down; and there lay the _Hispaniola_ right in the fairway, hardly to\nbe missed.\n\nFirst she loomed before me like a blot of something yet blacker than\ndarkness, then her spars and hull began to take shape, and the next\nmoment, as it seemed (for the further I went the brisker grew the\ncurrent of the ebb), I was alongside of her hawser, and had laid hold.\n\nThe hawser was as taut as a bowstring and the current so strong she\npulled upon her anchor. All round the hull, in the blackness, the\nrippling current bubbled and chattered like a little mountain stream.\nOne cut with my sea gully, and the _Hispaniola_ would go humming down\nthe tide.\n\nSo far so good; but it next occurred to my recollection that a taut\nhawser, suddenly cut, is a thing as dangerous as a kicking horse. Ten to\none, if I were so foolhardy as to cut the _Hispaniola_ from her anchor,\nI and the coracle would be knocked clean out of the water.\n\nThis brought me to a full stop, and if fortune had not again\nparticularly favored me, I should have had to abandon my design. But the\nlight airs which had begun blowing from the southeast and south had\nhauled round after nightfall into the southwest. Just while I was\nmeditating, a puff came, caught the _Hispaniola_, and forced her up into\nthe current; and, to my great joy, I felt the hawser slacken in my\ngrasp, and the hand by which I held it dip for a second under water.\n\nWith that I made my mind up, took out my gully, opened it with my teeth,\nand cut one strand after another, till the vessel swung only by two.\nThen I lay quiet, waiting to sever these last when the strain should be\nonce more lightened by a breath of wind.\n\nAll this time I had heard the sound of loud voices from the cabin; but,\nto say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts\nthat I had scarcely given ear. Now, however, when I had nothing else to\ndo, I began to pay more heed.\n\nOne I recognized for the coxswain's, Israel Hands, that had been Flint's\ngunner in former days. The other was, of course, my friend of the red\nnightcap. Both men were plainly the worse of drink, and they were still\ndrinking; for, even while I was listening, one of them, with a drunken\ncry, opened the stern window and threw out something, which I divined\nto be an empty bottle. But they were not only tipsy; it was plain that\nthey were furiously angry. Oaths flew like hailstones, and every now and\nthen there came forth such an explosion as I thought was sure to end in\nblows. But each time the quarrel passed off, and the voices grumbled\nlower for a while, until the next crisis came, and, in its turn, passed\naway without result.\n\nOn shore, I could see the glow of the great camp fire burning warmly\nthrough the shore-side trees. Someone was singing a dull, old droning\nsailor's song, with a droop and a quaver at the end of every verse, and\nseemingly no end to it at all but the patience of the singer. I had\nheard it on the voyage more than once, and remembered these words:\n\n    \"But one man of the crew alive,\n    What put to sea with seventy-five.\"\n\nAnd I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appropriate for a\ncompany that had met such cruel losses in the morning. But, indeed, from\nwhat I saw, all these buccaneers were as callous as the sea they sailed\non.\n\nAt last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer in the\ndark; I felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a good, tough\neffort, cut the last fibers through.\n\nThe breeze had but little action on the coracle, and I was almost\ninstantly swept against the bows of the _Hispaniola_. At the same time\nthe schooner began to turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end,\nacross the current.\n\nI wrought like a fiend, for I expected every moment to be swamped; and\nsince I found I could not push the coracle directly off, I now shoved\nstraight astern. At length I was clear of my dangerous neighbor, and\njust as I gave the last impulsion, my hands came across a light cord\nthat was trailing overboard across the stern bulwarks. Instantly I\ngrasped it.\n\nWhy I should have done so I can hardly say. It was at first mere\ninstinct, but once I had it in my hands and found it fast, curiosity\nbegan to get the upper hand, and I determined I should have one look\nthrough the cabin window.\n\nI pulled in hand over hand on the cord, and, when I judged myself near\nenough, rose at infinite risk to about half my height, and thus\ncommanded the roof and a slice of the interior of the cabin.\n\nBy this time the schooner and her little consort were gliding pretty\nswiftly through the water; indeed, we had already fetched up level with\nthe camp fire. The ship was talking, as sailors say, loudly, treading\nthe innumerable ripples with an incessant weltering splash; and until I\ngot my eye above the window sill I could not comprehend why the watchmen\nhad taken no alarm. One glance, however, was sufficient; and it was only\none glance that I durst take from that unsteady skiff. It showed me\nHands and his companion locked together in deadly wrestle, each with a\nhand upon the other's throat.\n\nI dropped upon the thwart again, none too soon, for I was near\noverboard. I could see nothing for the moment but these two furious,\nencrimsoned faces, swaying together under the smoky lamp; and I shut my\neyes to let them grow once more familiar with the darkness.\n\nThe endless ballad had come to an end at last, and the whole diminished\ncompany about the camp fire had broken into the chorus I had heard so\noften:\n\n    \"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--\n      Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!\n    Drink and the devil had done for the rest--\n      Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!\"\n\nI was just thinking how busy drink and the devil were at that very\nmoment in the cabin of the _Hispaniola_, when I was surprised by a\nsudden lurch of the coracle. At the same moment she yawed sharply and\nseemed to change her course. The speed in the meantime had strangely\nincreased.\n\nI opened my eyes at once. All around me were little ripples, combing\nover with a sharp, bristling sound and slightly phosphorescent. The\n_Hispaniola_ herself, a few yards in whose wake I was still being\nwhirled along, seemed to stagger in her course, and I saw her spars toss\na little against the blackness of the night; nay, as I looked longer, I\nmade sure she also was wheeling to the southward.\n\nI glanced over my shoulder and my heart jumped against my ribs. There,\nright behind me, was the glow of the camp fire. The current had turned\nat right angles, sweeping round along with it the tall schooner and the\nlittle dancing coracle; ever quickening, ever bubbling higher, ever\nmuttering louder, it went spinning through the narrows for the open sea.\n\nSuddenly the schooner in front of me gave a violent yaw, turning,\nperhaps, through twenty degrees; and almost at the same moment one shout\nfollowed another from on board. I could hear feet pounding on the\ncompanion ladder, and I knew that the two drunkards had at last been\ninterrupted in their quarrel and awakened to a sense of their disaster.\n\nI lay down flat in the bottom of that wretched skiff and devoutly\nrecommended my spirit to its Maker. At the end of the straits I made\nsure we must fall into some bar of raging breakers, where all my\ntroubles would be ended speedily; and though I could perhaps bear to\ndie, I could not bear to look upon my fate as it approached.\n\nSo I must have lain for hours, continually beaten to and fro upon the\nbillows, now and again wetted with flying sprays, and never ceasing to\nexpect death at the next plunge. Gradually weariness grew upon me; a\nnumbness, an occasional stupor, fell upon my mind even in the midst of\nmy terrors, until sleep at last intervened, and in my sea-tossed coracle\nI lay and dreamed of home and the old \"Admiral Benbow.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jim finds that Ben Gunn's boat is light and floats well, but it's really hard to handle. He's really struggling to get the boat to go in the right direction. Luckily for Jim, the current brings his tiny boat right to the Hispaniola. Jim realizes that if he cuts the cope while it's pulled tight, it'll snap back and pull both him and his boat out of the water. Again, luckily for Jim, the current shifts the Hispaniola so the rope is slack and he can cut it without danger. During all this, Jim hears voices coming from the cabin of the ship. He overhears Israel Hands talking to another pirate, the man with the red nightcap who was the only surviving attacker on the fort earlier in the day. They're incredibly angry and drunk. On shore Jim can see a campfire with the remaining pirates. Someone is singing that old shanty \"Dead Man's Chest.\" Jim saws through the last strands of rope attaching the Hispaniola to its anchor. He's having trouble rowing his little boat away from the much-larger ship because of the strong currents. Jim grabs hold of a loose piece of rope. He suddenly feels curious: what's happening in the cabin? He climbs up for a last look. He only has time to glimpse Israel Hands and the red-hatted pirate trying to strangle each other. The fact that they're fighting like this is lucky - it means neither of them have noticed that the Hispaniola has started to move quickly on the current. Jim's little boat suddenly lurches: it's being carried in the wake of the Hispaniola. Jim worries that he's going to be swept out to open sea. The Hispaniola turns so sharply that even the two fighting drunks inside realize something is wrong. Jim tries to hide in the bottom of his boat, sure that he's about to run aground on rocks and die. He finally grows so exhausted that he falls asleep in his boat and dreams of his old life back at the Admiral Benbow Inn."}, {"": "414", "document": "\n\nSummer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his\nassent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set out on our first ride\nto join her cousin.  It was a close, sultry day: devoid of sunshine, but\nwith a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain: and our place of\nmeeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, by the cross-roads.  On\narriving there, however, a little herd-boy, despatched as a messenger,\ntold us that,--'Maister Linton wer just o' this side th' Heights: and\nhe'd be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.'\n\n'Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,' I\nobserved: 'he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at\nonce.'\n\n'Well, we'll turn our horses' heads round when we reach him,' answered my\ncompanion; 'our excursion shall lie towards home.'\n\nBut when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from\nhis own door, we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount,\nand leave ours to graze.  He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach, and\ndid not rise till we came within a few yards.  Then he walked so feebly,\nand looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,--'Why, Master\nHeathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning.  How ill\nyou do look!'\n\nCatherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed the\nejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm; and the congratulation on\ntheir long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were worse\nthan usual?\n\n'No--better--better!' he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if\nhe needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over\nher; the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the\nlanguid expression they once possessed.\n\n'But you have been worse,' persisted his cousin; 'worse than when I saw\nyou last; you are thinner, and--'\n\n'I'm tired,' he interrupted, hurriedly.  'It is too hot for walking, let\nus rest here.  And, in the morning, I often feel sick--papa says I grow\nso fast.'\n\nBadly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.\n\n'This is something like your paradise,' said she, making an effort at\ncheerfulness.  'You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the\nplace and way each thought pleasantest?  This is nearly yours, only there\nare clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow: it is nicer than\nsunshine.  Next week, if you can, we'll ride down to the Grange Park, and\ntry mine.'\n\nLinton did not appear to remember what she talked of and he had evidently\ngreat difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation.  His lack of\ninterest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity to\ncontribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not\nconceal her disappointment.  An indefinite alteration had come over his\nwhole person and manner.  The pettishness that might be caressed into\nfondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the peevish\ntemper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be soothed, and\nmore of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling\nconsolation, and ready to regard the good-humoured mirth of others as an\ninsult.  Catherine perceived, as well as I did, that he held it rather a\npunishment, than a gratification, to endure our company; and she made no\nscruple of proposing, presently, to depart.  That proposal, unexpectedly,\nroused Linton from his lethargy, and threw him into a strange state of\nagitation.  He glanced fearfully towards the Heights, begging she would\nremain another half-hour, at least.\n\n'But I think,' said Cathy, 'you'd be more comfortable at home than\nsitting here; and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, and\nsongs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six months; you\nhave little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I could amuse you,\nI'd willingly stay.'\n\n'Stay to rest yourself,' he replied.  'And, Catherine, don't think or say\nthat I'm _very_ unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that make me\ndull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal for me.  Tell\nuncle I'm in tolerable health, will you?'\n\n'I'll tell him that _you_ say so, Linton.  I couldn't affirm that you\nare,' observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion of\nwhat was evidently an untruth.\n\n'And be here again next Thursday,' continued he, shunning her puzzled\ngaze.  'And give him my thanks for permitting you to come--my best\nthanks, Catherine.  And--and, if you _did_ meet my father, and he asked\nyou about me, don't lead him to suppose that I've been extremely silent\nand stupid: don't look sad and downcast, as you are doing--he'll be\nangry.'\n\n'I care nothing for his anger,' exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be\nits object.\n\n'But I do,' said her cousin, shuddering.  '_Don't_ provoke him against\nme, Catherine, for he is very hard.'\n\n'Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?' I inquired.  'Has he grown\nweary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?'\n\nLinton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by\nhis side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on his\nbreast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of exhaustion or\npain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for bilberries, and sharing\nthe produce of her researches with me: she did not offer them to him, for\nshe saw further notice would only weary and annoy.\n\n'Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?' she whispered in my ear, at last.  'I\ncan't tell why we should stay.  He's asleep, and papa will be wanting us\nback.'\n\n'Well, we must not leave him asleep,' I answered; 'wait till he wakes,\nand be patient.  You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to\nsee poor Linton has soon evaporated!'\n\n'Why did _he_ wish to see me?' returned Catherine.  'In his crossest\nhumours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his present curious\nmood.  It's just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform--this\ninterview--for fear his father should scold him.  But I'm hardly going to\ncome to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure; whatever reason he may have for\nordering Linton to undergo this penance.  And, though I'm glad he's\nbetter in health, I'm sorry he's so much less pleasant, and so much less\naffectionate to me.'\n\n'You think _he is_ better in health, then?' I said.\n\n'Yes,' she answered; 'because he always made such a great deal of his\nsufferings, you know.  He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell\npapa; but he's better, very likely.'\n\n'There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,' I remarked; 'I should conjecture\nhim to be far worse.'\n\nLinton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if\nany one had called his name.\n\n'No,' said Catherine; 'unless in dreams.  I cannot conceive how you\nmanage to doze out of doors, in the morning.'\n\n'I thought I heard my father,' he gasped, glancing up to the frowning nab\nabove us.  'You are sure nobody spoke?'\n\n'Quite sure,' replied his cousin.  'Only Ellen and I were disputing\nconcerning your health.  Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we\nseparated in winter?  If you be, I'm certain one thing is not\nstronger--your regard for me: speak,--are you?'\n\nThe tears gushed from Linton's eyes as he answered, 'Yes, yes, I am!'\nAnd, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze wandered up\nand down to detect its owner.\n\nCathy rose.  'For to-day we must part,' she said.  'And I won't conceal\nthat I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I'll mention\nit to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr. Heathcliff.'\n\n'Hush,' murmured Linton; 'for God's sake, hush!  He's coming.'  And he\nclung to Catherine's arm, striving to detain her; but at that\nannouncement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who\nobeyed her like a dog.\n\n'I'll be here next Thursday,' she cried, springing to the saddle.\n'Good-bye. Quick, Ellen!'\n\nAnd so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so absorbed was\nhe in anticipating his father's approach.\n\nBefore we reached home, Catherine's displeasure softened into a perplexed\nsensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague, uneasy doubts\nabout Linton's actual circumstances, physical and social: in which I\npartook, though I counselled her not to say much; for a second journey\nwould make us better judges.  My master requested an account of our\nongoings.  His nephew's offering of thanks was duly delivered, Miss Cathy\ngently touching on the rest: I also threw little light on his inquiries,\nfor I hardly knew what to hide and what to reveal.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Edgar allows Cathy to meet with Linton, as long as they stay on Grange property. Nelly and Cathy end up going past the property line and encounter Linton looking worse than ever. He is feeble, pale, and unable to follow the conversation. Something is up--Linton is very worried about what Heathcliff thinks of his behavior toward Cathy. Linton falls asleep and Cathy is now eager to head back to the Grange. They take off just as Heathcliff arrives."}, {"": "415", "document": "Scena Secunda.\n\n\nEnter Bastard.\n\n  Bast. Thou Nature art my Goddesse, to thy Law\nMy seruices are bound, wherefore should I\nStand in the plague of custome, and permit\nThe curiosity of Nations, to depriue me?\nFor that I am some twelue, or fourteene Moonshines\nLag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base?\nWhen my Dimensions are as well compact,\nMy minde as generous, and my shape as true\nAs honest Madams issue? Why brand they vs\nWith Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base?\nWho in the lustie stealth of Nature, take\nMore composition, and fierce qualitie,\nThen doth within a dull stale tyred bed\nGoe to th' creating a whole tribe of Fops\nGot 'tweene a sleepe, and wake? Well then,\nLegitimate Edgar, I must haue your land,\nOur Fathers loue, is to the Bastard Edmond,\nAs to th' legitimate: fine word: Legitimate.\nWell, my Legittimate, if this Letter speed,\nAnd my inuention thriue, Edmond the base\nShall to'th' Legitimate: I grow, I prosper:\nNow Gods, stand vp for Bastards.\nEnter Gloucester.\n\n  Glo. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choller parted?\nAnd the King gone to night? Prescrib'd his powre,\nConfin'd to exhibition? All this done\nVpon the gad? Edmond, how now? What newes?\n  Bast. So please your Lordship, none\n\n   Glou. Why so earnestly seeke you to put vp y Letter?\n  Bast. I know no newes, my Lord\n\n   Glou. What Paper were you reading?\n  Bast. Nothing my Lord\n\n   Glou. No? what needed then that terrible dispatch of\nit into your Pocket? The quality of nothing, hath not\nsuch neede to hide it selfe. Let's see: come, if it bee nothing,\nI shall not neede Spectacles\n\n   Bast. I beseech you Sir, pardon mee; it is a Letter\nfrom my Brother, that I haue not all ore-read; and for so\nmuch as I haue perus'd, I finde it not fit for your ore-looking\n\n   Glou. Giue me the Letter, Sir\n\n   Bast. I shall offend, either to detaine, or giue it:\nThe Contents, as in part I vnderstand them,\nAre too blame\n\n   Glou. Let's see, let's see\n\n   Bast. I hope for my Brothers iustification, hee wrote\nthis but as an essay, or taste of my Vertue\n\n   Glou. reads. This policie, and reuerence of Age, makes the\nworld bitter to the best of our times: keepes our Fortunes from\nvs, till our oldnesse cannot rellish them. I begin to finde an idle\nand fond bondage, in the oppression of aged tyranny, who swayes\nnot as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of\nthis I may speake more. If our Father would sleepe till I wak'd\nhim, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew for euer, and liue the\nbeloued of your Brother. Edgar.\nHum? Conspiracy? Sleepe till I wake him, you should\nenioy halfe his Reuennew: my Sonne Edgar, had hee a\nhand to write this? A heart and braine to breede it in?\nWhen came you to this? Who brought it?\n  Bast. It was not brought mee, my Lord; there's the\ncunning of it. I found it throwne in at the Casement of\nmy Closset\n\n   Glou. You know the character to be your Brothers?\n  Bast. If the matter were good my Lord, I durst swear\nit were his: but in respect of that, I would faine thinke it\nwere not\n\n   Glou. It is his\n\n   Bast. It is his hand, my Lord: but I hope his heart is\nnot in the Contents\n\n   Glo. Has he neuer before sounded you in this busines?\n  Bast. Neuer my Lord. But I haue heard him oft maintaine\nit to be fit, that Sonnes at perfect age, and Fathers\ndeclin'd, the Father should bee as Ward to the Son, and\nthe Sonne manage his Reuennew\n\n   Glou. O Villain, villain: his very opinion in the Letter.\nAbhorred Villaine, vnnaturall, detested, brutish\nVillaine; worse then brutish: Go sirrah, seeke him: Ile\napprehend him. Abhominable Villaine, where is he?\n  Bast. I do not well know my L[ord]. If it shall please you to\nsuspend your indignation against my Brother, til you can\nderiue from him better testimony of his intent, you shold\nrun a certaine course: where, if you violently proceed against\nhim, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great\ngap in your owne Honor, and shake in peeces, the heart of\nhis obedience. I dare pawne downe my life for him, that\nhe hath writ this to feele my affection to your Honor, &\nto no other pretence of danger\n\n   Glou. Thinke you so?\n  Bast. If your Honor iudge it meete, I will place you\nwhere you shall heare vs conferre of this, and by an Auricular\nassurance haue your satisfaction, and that without\nany further delay, then this very Euening\n\n   Glou. He cannot bee such a Monster. Edmond seeke\nhim out: winde me into him, I pray you: frame the Businesse\nafter your owne wisedome. I would vnstate my\nselfe, to be in a due resolution\n\n   Bast. I will seeke him Sir, presently: conuey the businesse\nas I shall find meanes, and acquaint you withall\n\n   Glou. These late Eclipses in the Sun and Moone portend\nno good to vs: though the wisedome of Nature can\nreason it thus, and thus, yet Nature finds it selfe scourg'd\nby the sequent effects. Loue cooles, friendship falls off,\nBrothers diuide. In Cities, mutinies; in Countries, discord;\nin Pallaces, Treason; and the Bond crack'd, 'twixt\nSonne and Father. This villaine of mine comes vnder the\nprediction; there's Son against Father, the King fals from\nbyas of Nature, there's Father against Childe. We haue\nseene the best of our time. Machinations, hollownesse,\ntreacherie, and all ruinous disorders follow vs disquietly\nto our Graues. Find out this Villain, Edmond, it shall lose\nthee nothing, do it carefully: and the Noble & true-harted\nKent banish'd; his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange.\n\nExit\n\n  Bast. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that\nwhen we are sicke in fortune, often the surfets of our own\nbehauiour, we make guilty of our disasters, the Sun, the\nMoone, and Starres, as if we were villaines on necessitie,\nFooles by heauenly compulsion, Knaues, Theeues, and\nTreachers by Sphericall predominance. Drunkards, Lyars,\nand Adulterers by an inforc'd obedience of Planatary\ninfluence; and all that we are euill in, by a diuine thrusting\non. An admirable euasion of Whore-master-man,\nto lay his Goatish disposition on the charge of a Starre,\nMy father compounded with my mother vnder the Dragons\ntaile, and my Natiuity was vnder Vrsa Maior, so\nthat it followes, I am rough and Leacherous. I should\nhaue bin that I am, had the maidenlest Starre in the Firmament\ntwinkled on my bastardizing.\nEnter Edgar.\n\nPat: he comes like the Catastrophe of the old Comedie:\nmy Cue is villanous Melancholly, with a sighe like Tom\no' Bedlam. - O these Eclipses do portend these diuisions.\nFa, Sol, La, Me\n\n   Edg. How now Brother Edmond, what serious contemplation\nare you in?\n  Bast. I am thinking Brother of a prediction I read this\nother day, what should follow these Eclipses\n\n   Edg. Do you busie your selfe with that?\n  Bast. I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeede\nvnhappily.\nWhen saw you my Father last?\n  Edg. The night gone by\n\n   Bast. Spake you with him?\n  Edg. I, two houres together\n\n   Bast. Parted you in good termes? Found you no displeasure\nin him, by word, nor countenance?\n  Edg. None at all,\n  Bast. Bethink your selfe wherein you may haue offended\nhim: and at my entreaty forbeare his presence, vntill\nsome little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure,\nwhich at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischiefe\nof your person, it would scarsely alay\n\n   Edg. Some Villaine hath done me wrong\n\n   Edm. That's my feare, I pray you haue a continent\nforbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower: and as\nI say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will\nfitly bring you to heare my Lord speake: pray ye goe,\nthere's my key: if you do stirre abroad, goe arm'd\n\n   Edg. Arm'd, Brother?\n  Edm. Brother, I aduise you to the best, I am no honest\nman, if ther be any good meaning toward you: I haue told\nyou what I haue seene, and heard: But faintly. Nothing\nlike the image, and horror of it, pray you away\n\n   Edg. Shall I heare from you anon?\nEnter.\n\n  Edm. I do serue you in this businesse:\nA Credulous Father, and a Brother Noble,\nWhose nature is so farre from doing harmes,\nThat he suspects none: on whose foolish honestie\nMy practises ride easie: I see the businesse.\nLet me, if not by birth, haue lands by wit,\nAll with me's meete, that I can fashion fit.\nEnter.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Edmund, Gloucester's illegitimate son, delivers a soliloquy . He complains to the audience about the way society treats younger brothers and \"illegitimate\" children. Edmund argues that he's just as smart, attractive, and talented as his father's eldest and legitimate son, Edgar. But because of a technicality of birth, Edgar will get property and an important position and he, Edmund, will get nothing. We interrupt this program for a history snack: Edmund's beef about the way society treats younger brothers is a reference to primogeniture, the system by which eldest sons inherit all their fathers' wealth, titles, lands, power, debt, etc. In other words, younger brothers get shafted. As you can guess, this system tends to create a whole lot of family drama. The same system would have applied to Lear's family if Lear had a son to inherit the crown by lineal succession. Since the king doesn't have a son, he's decided to divvy up the kingdom between his daughters and sons-in-law, as we know. Now, back to our program: Edmund also insists that, since his parents had such an awesome and \"lusty\" time in bed when he was conceived, he's far more superior to any person legitimately conceived in a \"stale tired bed.\" One way or another, Edmund is going to get his brother's land, and we doubt that he's interested in a time share. Edmund also points out that Gloucester loves him as much as he loves Edgar , which seems like evidence that society shouldn't make such a big deal about the difference between \"legitimate\" and \"illegitimate\" offspring. Finally, Edmund calls on the gods to \"stand up for bastards!\" When Gloucester comes in, Edmund puts his plan into action. Acting intentionally nervous, he very conspicuously puts away a letter he's supposedly been reading. When his father asks him what it is, Edmund acts flustered. He hints that the contents of the letter, which is from his brother, are pretty bad and will probably offend Gloucester. Edmund suggests his brother sent the letter as a test. Gloucester takes the bait and demands to see what the big deal is. The letter--supposedly from brother Edgar--suggests that the brothers conspire to kill their father. In the letter, \"Edgar\" claims that obedience to one's elders is a total drag and highly overrated. Plus, by the time Gloucester dies and Edgar gets his inheritance, he'll be too old to enjoy it. But, if Edmund were to help Edgar get rid of their old man, they could both split the profits. Gloucester, naturally, is shocked and outraged. He asks Edmund how he came upon the letter, and whether this is really Edgar's handwriting. Edmund, who's beginning to look a lot like an evil genius, says someone threw it in his bedroom window. It just breaks his heart to have to tell his beloved father that the handwriting is definitely Edgar's. Edmund then goes on to say that while Edgar never specifically planned a \"let's murder-our-father\" meeting, he's always running around saying he can't wait for Gloucester to kick the bucket. Gloucester immediately declares Edgar to be an \"unnatural\" villain. Edmund, pretending to be the virtuous younger brother, says Gloucester shouldn't jump to any hasty conclusions. Perhaps Edgar wrote this letter to test Edmund's love for their father? Edmund then promises he can provide his father with some kind of resolution: that very evening, he'll have a conversation with Edgar on which Gloucester can spy. Edmund will talk to Edgar of the business, and Gloucester can form his own conclusion. While Gloucester is clearly confused and upset by the suggestion that his son Edgar, whom he loves dearly, is a bad guy, he's still up to hearing the proof. Gloucester then laments that the recent solar and lunar eclipses in Britain are portentous, predicting failed loves, civil wars, treason, mutinies, divided brothers, and even the breaking of bonds between father and son . As further evidence that something really awful is going to happen, Gloucester points out that Lear has recently had a falling out with his child, Cordelia. We interrupt this program for another tasty history snack: when Gloucester says the \"late eclipses of the sun and moon\" are a bad omen, Shakespeare may have had in mind the actual eclipses that were seen in London in October and September of 1605 . Just thought you'd like to know, especially since some literary critics point to this as evidence that Shakespeare could not have written King Lear before 1605. Gloucester worries that they've already seen the best days of their lives, and that only disorder and grief will come with the future. Gloucester fusses about this mess, reminds Edmund that it's now up to him to sort out Edgar. He also wonders at the rash banishment of Kent. After Gloucester exits, Edmund takes time to snicker gleefully about the fact that people are often ready to blame their own failings and circumstances on the stars and their fates, as if they couldn't help being as villainous as they are. Edmund, who we see is pretty dang self-aware, knows that even if he'd been born during the best zodiacal circumstances, he'd still be a rotten guy. Then Edgar walks in, a prime opportunity for Part Two of Edmund's plan: Edmund makes a little speech about the horoscope promising death and division that will impact both states and families. After Edgar teases about how silly horoscopes are, Edmund convinces Edgar that his father is angry at him, and that he should lie low for a while. Edgar suggests that his father could only think badly of him because some villain has done him wrong, and Edmund agrees that's probably the case, though he stops short of saying, \"A-ha! That villain is me!\" Edmund lays it on thick about how Edgar should worry about his enemies, even suggesting Edgar shouldn't go out without a weapon. Edmund also provides a plan, saying if Edgar goes back to his place, he'll drop by and fetch him to speak to their father when the time is right. Edgar leaves, convinced that Edmund has his best interests in mind. Like his father, Edgar is a gullible guy. Edmund, alone, crows over how lucky he is to have a brother and father so good that they won't suspect his treachery, simply because they couldn't fathom it. This will make his evil deeds easy. Edmund declares he's sure to get Gloucester's land, if not by rightful inheritance, then by his own wits."}, {"": "416", "document": "XI. Dusk\n\n\nThe wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under\nthe sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no\nsound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was\nshe of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment\nit, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.\n\nThe Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,\nthe Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's\nemptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood\nstretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face\nbut love and consolation.\n\n\"If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if\nyou would have so much compassion for us!\"\n\nThere was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had\ntaken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the\nshow in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, \"Let her embrace\nhim then; it is but a moment.\" It was silently acquiesced in, and they\npassed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by\nleaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.\n\n\"Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We\nshall meet again, where the weary are at rest!\"\n\nThey were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.\n\n\"I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer\nfor me. A parting blessing for our child.\"\n\n\"I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by\nyou.\"\n\n\"My husband. No! A moment!\" He was tearing himself apart from her.\n\"We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart\nby-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God\nwill raise up friends for her, as He did for me.\"\n\nHer father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both\nof them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:\n\n\"No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel\nto us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what\nyou underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We\nknow now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for\nher dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and\nduty. Heaven be with you!\"\n\nHer father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,\nand wring them with a shriek of anguish.\n\n\"It could not be otherwise,\" said the prisoner. \"All things have worked\ntogether as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to\ndischarge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence\nnear you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in\nnature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven\nbless you!\"\n\nAs he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him\nwith her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and\nwith a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting\nsmile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head\nlovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his\nfeet.\n\nThen, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,\nSydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were\nwith her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.\nYet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a\nflush of pride in it.\n\n\"Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.\"\n\nHe carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a\ncoach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat\nbeside the driver.\n\nWhen they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not\nmany hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of\nthe street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up\nthe staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where\nher child and Miss Pross wept over her.\n\n\"Don't recall her to herself,\" he said, softly, to the latter, \"she is\nbetter so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.\"\n\n\"Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!\" cried little Lucie, springing up and\nthrowing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. \"Now that\nyou have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to\nsave papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who\nlove her, bear to see her so?\"\n\nHe bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He\nput her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.\n\n\"Before I go,\" he said, and paused--\"I may kiss her?\"\n\nIt was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face\nwith his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to\nhim, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a\nhandsome old lady, that she heard him say, \"A life you love.\"\n\nWhen he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry\nand her father, who were following, and said to the latter:\n\n\"You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least\nbe tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to\nyou, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?\"\n\n\"Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the\nstrongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.\" He returned the\nanswer in great trouble, and very slowly.\n\n\"Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few\nand short, but try.\"\n\n\"I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.\"\n\n\"That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before\nnow--though never,\" he added, with a smile and a sigh together, \"such\ngreat things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse\nit, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it\nwere not.\"\n\n\"I will go,\" said Doctor Manette, \"to the Prosecutor and the President\nstraight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will\nwrite too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no\none will be accessible until dark.\"\n\n\"That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the\nforlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you\nspeed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen\nthese dread powers, Doctor Manette?\"\n\n\"Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from\nthis.\"\n\n\"It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I\ngo to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from\nour friend or from yourself?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"May you prosper!\"\n\nMr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the\nshoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.\n\n\"I have no hope,\" said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.\n\n\"Nor have I.\"\n\n\"If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare\nhim--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's\nto them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the\ncourt.\"\n\n\"And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.\"\n\nMr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.\n\n\"Don't despond,\" said Carton, very gently; \"don't grieve. I encouraged\nDoctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be\nconsolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly\nthrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes,\" returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, \"you are right.\nBut he will perish; there is no real hope.\"\n\n\"Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,\" echoed Carton.\n\nAnd walked with a settled step, down-stairs.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Dusk The courtroom crowd pours into the streets to celebrate Darnay's condemnation. John Barsad, charged with ushering Darnay back to his cell, lets Lucie embrace her husband one last time. Darnay insists that Doctor Manette not blame himself for the trial's outcome. Darnay is escorted back to his cell to await his execution the following morning, and Carton escorts the grieving Lucie to her apartment. Carton tells Manette to try his influence one last time with the prosecutors and then meet him at Tellson's, though Lorry feels certain that there is no hope for Darnay, and Carton echoes the sentiment"}, {"": "417", "document": "\n\nChristmas was approaching. Grandmother brought me materials, and I busied\nmyself making some new garments and little playthings for my children. Were\nit not that hiring day is near at hand, and many families are fearfully\nlooking forward to the probability of separation in a few days, Christmas\nmight be a happy season for the poor slaves. Even slave mothers try to\ngladden the hearts of their little ones on that occasion. Benny and Ellen\nhad their Christmas stockings filled. Their imprisoned mother could not\nhave the privilege of witnessing their surprise and joy. But I had the\npleasure of peeping at them as they went into the street with their new\nsuits on. I heard Benny ask a little playmate whether Santa Claus brought\nhim any thing. \"Yes,\" replied the boy; \"but Santa Claus ain't a real man.\nIt's the children's mothers that put things into the stockings.\" \"No, that\ncan't be,\" replied Benny, \"for Santa Claus brought Ellen and me these new\nclothes, and my mother has been gone this long time.\"\n\nHow I longed to tell him that his mother made those garments, and that many\na tear fell on them while she worked!\n\nEvery child rises early on Christmas morning to see the Johnkannaus.\nWithout them, Christmas would be shorn of its greatest attraction. They\nconsist of companies of slaves from the plantations, generally of the lower\nclass. Two athletic men, in calico wrappers, have a net thrown over them,\ncovered with all manner of bright-colored stripes. Cows' tails are fastened\nto their backs, and their heads are decorated with horns. A box, covered\nwith sheepskin, is called the gumbo box. A dozen beat on this, while other\nstrike triangles and jawbones, to which bands of dancers keep time. For a\nmonth previous they are composing songs, which are sung on this occasion.\nThese companies, of a hundred each, turn out early in the morning, and are\nallowed to go round till twelve o'clock, begging for contributions. Not a\ndoor is left unvisited where there is the least chance of obtaining a penny\nor a glass of rum. They do not drink while they are out, but carry the rum\nhome in jugs, to have a carousal. These Christmas donations frequently\namount to twenty or thirty dollars. It is seldom that any white man or\nchild refuses to give them a trifle. If he does, they regale his ears with\nthe following song:--\n\n   Poor massa, so dey say;\n   Down in de heel, so dey say;\n   Got no money, so dey say;\n   Not one shillin, so dey say;\n   God A'mighty bress you, so dey say.\n\nChristmas is a day of feasting, both with white and colored people. Slaves,\nwho are lucky enough to have a few shillings, are sure to spend them for\ngood eating; and many a turkey and pig is captured, without saying, \"By\nyour leave, sir.\" Those who cannot obtain these, cook a 'possum, or a\nraccoon, from which savory dishes can be made. My grandmother raised\npoultry and pigs for sale and it was her established custom to have both a\nturkey and a pig roasted for Christmas dinner.\n\nOn this occasion, I was warned to keep extremely quiet, because two guests\nhad been invited. One was the town constable, and the other was a free\ncolored man, who tried to pass himself off for white, and who was always\nready to do any mean work for the sake of currying favor with white people.\nMy grandmother had a motive for inviting them. She managed to take them all\nover the house. All the rooms on the lower floor were thrown open for them\nto pass in and out; and after dinner, they were invited up stairs to look\nat a fine mocking bird my uncle had just brought home. There, too, the\nrooms were all thrown open that they might look in. When I heard them\ntalking on the piazza, my heart almost stood still. I knew this colored man\nhad spent many nights hunting for me. Every body knew he had the blood of a\nslave father in his veins; but for the sake of passing himself off for\nwhite, he was ready to kiss the slaveholders' feet. How I despised him! As\nfor the constable, he wore no false colors. The duties of his office were\ndespicable, but he was superior to his companion, inasmuch as he did not\npretend to be what he was not. Any white man, who could raise money enough\nto buy a slave, would have considered himself degraded by being a\nconstable; but the office enabled its possessor to exercise authority. If\nhe found any slave out after nine o'clock, he could whip him as much as he\nliked; and that was a privilege to be coveted. When the guests were ready\nto depart, my grandmother gave each of them some of her nice pudding, as a\npresent for their wives. Through my peep-hole I saw them go out of the\ngate, and I was glad when it closed after them. So passed the first\nChristmas in my den.\n\n\n", "summary": "Even in that tiny space, Linda manages to sew new clothes for her children. She can't even watch them open their presents--although at least she gets to see them walking by in their fancy new outfits. Worst Christmas ever."}, {"": "418", "document": "SCENE II.\n\nThe same.\n\nEnter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nVery reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of\na good conscience.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nThe deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as\nthe pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo,\nthe sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on\nthe face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nTruly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly\nvaried, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye it was\na buck of the first head.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nSir Nathaniel, haud credo.\n\nDULL.\nTwas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nMost barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation,\nas it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were,\nreplication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his\ninclination,--after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated,\nunpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest,\nunconfirmed fashion,--to insert again my haud credo for a deer.\n\nDULL.\nI sthe deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nTwice sod simplicity, bis coctus!\nO! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!\n\nNATHANIEL.\nSir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book;\nhe hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his\nintellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible\nin the duller parts:\nAnd such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should\nbe,\nWhich we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do\nfructify in us more than he;\nFor as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool,\nSo, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school.\nBut, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father's mind:\nMany can brook the weather that love not the wind.\n\nDULL.\nYou two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit,\nWhat was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five weeks old\nas yet?\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nDictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull.\n\nDULL.\nWhat is Dictynna?\n\nNATHANIEL.\nA title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nThe moon was a month old when Adam was no more,\nAnd raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.\nThe allusion holds in the exchange.\n\nDULL.\n'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nGod comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in\nthe exchange.\n\nDULL.\nAnd I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is\nnever but a month old; and I say beside that 'twas a pricket\nthat the Princess killed.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nSir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death\nof the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer\nthe Princess killed, a pricket.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nPerge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please\nyou to abrogate scurrility.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nI will something affect the letter; for it argues facility.\nThe preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing\npricket;\n  Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with\nshooting.\nThe dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket-\n  Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting.\nIf sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel!\nOf one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more L.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nA rare talent!\n\nDULL.\n[Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a\ntalent.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nThis is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish\nextravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects,\nideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in\nthe ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and\ndelivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in\nthose in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nSir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for\ntheir sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit\nvery greatly under you: you are a good member of the\ncommonwealth.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nMehercle! if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no\ninstruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to\nthem; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth\nus.\n\n[Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.]\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nGod give you good morrow, Master parson.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nMaster parson, quasi pers-on. And if one should be\npierced, which is the one?\n\nCOSTARD.\nMarry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nPiercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf\nof earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis\npretty; it is well.\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nGood Master parson [Giving a letter to NATHANIEL.], be so good as\nread me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from\nDon Armado: I beseech you read it.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\n'Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat,'\nand so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as\nthe traveller doth of Venice:\n     --Venetia, Venetia,\n     Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia.\nOld Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not,\nloves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what\nare the contents? or rather as Horace says in his-- What, my\nsoul, verses?\n\nNATHANIEL.\nAy, sir, and very learned.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nLet me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nIf love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?\n  Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd;\nThough to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove;\n  Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed.\nStudy his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,\n  Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend:\nIf knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice.\n  Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;\nAll ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;\n  Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire.\nThy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,\n  Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.\nCelestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong,\nThat sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nYou find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent:\nlet me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified;\nbut, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy,\ncaret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso but for\nsmelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of\ninvention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the\nape his keeper, the 'tired horse his rider. But, damosella\nvirgin, was this directed to you?\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nAy, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange\nqueen's lords.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nI will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white\nhand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on\nthe intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party\nwriting to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all\ndesired employment, Berowne.'--Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one\nof the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter\nto a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally, or by\nthe way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet;\ndeliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may\nconcern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu.\n\nJAQUENETTA.\nGood Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life!\n\nCOSTARD.\nHave with thee, my girl.\n\n[Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.]\n\nNATHANIEL.\nSir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously;\nand, as a certain Father saith--\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nSir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But\nto return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?\n\nNATHANIEL.\nMarvellous well for the pen.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nI do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of\nmine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify\nthe table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the\nparents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben\nvenuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned,\nneither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your\nsociety.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nAnd thank you too; for society,--saith the text,--is the\nhappiness of life.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nAnd certes, the text most infallibly concludes it.\n[To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay:\npauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to\nour recreation.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The constable, the curate, and the pendant sit and comment about the deer the Princess killed on her hunt. As they talk, they are approached by Jaquenetta who asks them to read her the letter she has received from Armando. They read it, and realize that the letter was delivered into the wrong hand. They tell Jaquenetta to take the letter to the King because it was written by one of his men that vowed to stay away from women. Jaquenetta agrees but asks Costard to come with her."}, {"": "419", "document": "\nWHAT I HEARD IN THE APPLE BARREL\n\n\n\"No, not I,\" said Silver. \"Flint was cap'n; I was quartermaster, along\nof my timber leg. The same broadside I lost my leg, old Pew lost his\ndeadlights. It was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me--out of\ncollege and all--Latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged\nlike a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at Corso Castle. That was\nRoberts' men, that was, and comed of changing names to their\nships--_Royal Fortune_ and so on. Now, what a ship was christened, so\nlet her stay, I says. So it was with the _Cassandra_, as brought us all\nsafe home from Malabar, after England took the _Viceroy of the Indies_;\nso it was with the old _Walrus_, Flint's old ship, as I've seen a-muck\nwith the red blood and fit to sink with gold.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and\nevidently full of admiration, \"he was the flower of the flock, was\nFlint!\"\n\n\"Davis was a man, too, by all accounts,\" said Silver. \"I never sailed\nalong of him; first with England, then with Flint, that's my story; and\nnow here on my own account, in a manner of speaking. I laid by nine\nhundred safe, from England, and two thousand after Flint. That ain't bad\nfor a man before the mast--all safe in bank. 'Tain't earning now, it's\nsaving does it, you may lay to that. Where's all England's men now? I\ndunno. Where's Flint's? Why, most of 'em aboard here, and glad to get\nthe duff--been begging before that, some of 'em. Old Pew, as had lost\nhis sight, and might have thought shame, spends twelve hundred pounds in\na year, like a lord in Parliament. Where is he now? Well, he's dead now\nand under hatches; but for two years before that, shiver my timbers! the\nman was starving. He begged, and he stole, and he cut throats, and\nstarved at that, by the powers!\"\n\n\"Well, it ain't much use, after all,\" said the young seaman.\n\n\"'Tain't much use for fools, you may lay to it--that, nor nothing,\"\ncried Silver. \"But now, you look here; you're young, you are, but you're\nas smart as paint. I see that when I set my eyes on you, and I'll talk\nto you like a man.\"\n\nYou can imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable old rogue\naddressing another in the very same words of flattery as he had used to\nmyself. I think, if I had been able, that I would have killed him\nthrough the barrel. Meantime he ran on, little supposing he was\noverheard.\n\n\"Here it is about gentlemen of fortune. They lives rough, and they risk\nswinging, but they eat and drink like fighting-cocks, and when a cruise\nis done, why it's hundreds of pounds instead of hundreds of farthings in\ntheir pockets. Now, the most goes for rum and a good fling, and to sea\nagain in their shirts. But that's not the course I lay. I puts it all\naway, some here, some there, and none too much anywheres, by reason of\nsuspicion. I'm fifty, mark you; once back from this cruise I set up\ngentleman in earnest. Time enough, too, says you. Ah, but I've lived\neasy in the meantime; never denied myself o' nothing heart desires, and\nslept soft and ate dainty all my days, but when at sea. And how did I\nbegin? Before the mast, like you!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the other, \"but all the other money's gone now, ain't it?\nYou daren't show face in Bristol after this.\"\n\n\"Why, where might you suppose it was?\" asked Silver, derisively.\n\n\"At Bristol, in banks and places,\" answered his companion.\n\n\"It were,\" said the cook; \"it were when we weighed anchor. But my old\nmissis has it all by now. And the 'Spy-glass' is sold, lease and good\nwill and rigging; and the old girl's off to meet me. I would tell you\nwhere, for I trust you; but it 'ud make jealousy among the mates.\"\n\n\"And you can trust your missis?\" asked the other.\n\n\"Gentlemen of fortune,\" returned the cook, \"usually trust little among\nthemselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. But I have a way with\nme, I have. When a mate brings a slip on his cable--one as knows me, I\nmean--it won't be in the same world with old John. There was some that\nwas feared of Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own\nself was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the roughest\ncrew afloat, was Flint's; the devil himself would have been feared to go\nto sea with them. Well, now, I tell you, I'm not a boasting man, and you\nseen yourself how easy I keep company; but when I was quartermaster,\n_lambs_ wasn't the word for Flint's old buccaneers. Ah, you may be sure\nof yourself in old John's ship.\"\n\n\"Well, I tell you now,\" replied the lad, \"I didn't half a quarter like\nthe job till I had this talk with you, John, but there's my hand on it\nnow.\"\n\n\"And a brave lad you were, and smart, too,\" answered Silver, shaking\nhands so heartily that all the barrel shook, \"and a finer figurehead for\na gentleman of fortune I never clapped my eyes on.\"\n\nBy this time I had begun to understand the meaning of their terms. By a\n\"gentleman of fortune\" they plainly meant neither more nor less than a\ncommon pirate, and the little scene that I had overheard was the last\nact in the corruption of one of the honest hands--perhaps of the last\none left aboard. But on this point I was soon to be relieved, for,\nSilver giving a little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by\nthe party.\n\n\"Dick's square,\" said Silver.\n\n\"Oh, I know'd Dick was square,\" returned the voice of the coxswain,\nIsrael Hands. \"He's no fool, is Dick.\" And he turned his quid and spat.\n\"But, look here,\" he went on, \"here's what I want to know, Barbecue--how\nlong are we a-going to stand off and on like a blessed bumboat? I've had\na'most enough o' Cap'n Smollett; he's hazed me long enough, by thunder!\nI want to go into that cabin, I do. I want their pickles and wines, and\nthat.\"\n\n\"Israel,\" said Silver, \"your head ain't much account, nor never was. But\nyou're able to hear, I reckon; leastways your ears is big enough. Now,\nhere's what I say--you'll berth forward, and you'll live hard, and\nyou'll speak soft, and you'll keep sober, till I give the word; and you\nmay lay to that, my son.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't say no, do I?\" growled the coxswain. \"What I say is,\nwhen? That's what I say.\"\n\n\"When! by the powers!\" cried Silver. \"Well, now, if you want to know,\nI'll tell you when. The last moment I can manage; and that's when.\nHere's a first-rate seaman, Cap'n Smollett, sails the blessed ship for\nus. Here's this squire and doctor with a map and such--I don't know\nwhere it is, do I? No more do you, says you. Well, then, I mean this\nsquire and doctor shall find the stuff, and help us to get it aboard, by\nthe powers! Then we'll see. If I was sure of you all, sons of double\nDutchmen, I'd have Cap'n Smollett navigate us halfway back again before\nI struck.\"\n\n\"Why, we're all seamen aboard here, I should think,\" said the lad Dick.\n\n\"We're all foc's'le hands, you mean,\" snapped Silver. \"We can steer a\ncourse, but who's to set one? That's what all you gentlemen split on,\nfirst and last. If I had my way, I'd have Cap'n Smollett work us back\ninto the trades at least; then we'd have no blessed miscalculations and\na spoonful of water a day. But I know the sort you are. I'll finish with\n'em at the island, as soon's the blunt's on board, and a pity it is. But\nyou're never happy till you're drunk. Split my sides, I've a sick heart\nto sail with the likes of you!\"\n\n\"Easy all, Long John,\" cried Israel. \"Who's a-crossin' of you?\"\n\n\"Why, how many tall ships, think ye, now, have I seen laid aboard? and\nhow many brisk lads drying in the sun at Execution Dock?\" cried Silver;\n\"and all for this same hurry and hurry and hurry. You hear me? I seen a\nthing or two at sea, I have. If you would on'y lay your course, and a\np'int to windward, you would ride in carriages, you would. But not you!\nI know you. You'll have your mouthful of rum to-morrow, and go hang.\"\n\n\"Everybody know'd you was a kind of a chapling, John; but there's others\nas could hand and steer as well as you,\" said Israel. \"They liked a bit\no' fun, they did. They wasn't so high and dry, nohow, but took their\nfling, like jolly companions, everyone.\"\n\n\"So?\" said Silver. \"Well, and where are they now? Pew was that sort, and\nhe died a beggar-man. Flint was, and he died of rum at Savannah. Ah,\nthey was a sweet crew, they was! on'y, where are they?\"\n\n\"But,\" asked Dick, \"when we do lay 'em athwart, what are we to do with\n'em, anyhow?\"\n\n\"There's the man for me!\" cried the cook, admiringly. \"That's what I\ncall business. Well, what would you think? Put 'em ashore like maroons?\nThat would have been England's way. Or cut 'em down like that much pork?\nThat would have been Flint's or Billy Bones's.\"\n\n\"Billy was the man for that,\" said Israel. \"'Dead men don't bite,' says\nhe. Well, he's dead now, hisself; he knows the long and short on it now;\nand if ever a rough hand come to port, it was Billy.\"\n\n\"Right you are,\" said Silver, \"rough and ready. But mark you here: I'm\nan easy man--I'm quite the gentleman, says you; but this time it's\nserious. Dooty is dooty, mates. I give my vote--death. When I'm in\nParlyment, and riding in my coach, I don't want none of these\nsea-lawyers in the cabin a-coming home, unlooked for, like the devil at\nprayers. Wait is what I say; but when the time comes, why let her rip!\"\n\n\"John,\" cried the coxswain, \"you're a man!\"\n\n\"You'll say so, Israel, when you see,\" said Silver. \"Only one thing I\nclaim--I claim Trelawney. I'll wring his calf's head off his body with\nthese hands. Dick!\" he added, breaking off, \"you must jump up, like a\nsweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like.\"\n\nYou may fancy the terror I was in! I should have leaped out and run for\nit, if I had found the strength; but my limbs and heart alike misgave\nme. I heard Dick begin to rise, and then some one seemingly stopped him,\nand the voice of Hands exclaimed:\n\n\"Oh, stow that! Don't you get sucking of that bilge, John. Let's have a\ngo of the rum.\"\n\n\"Dick,\" said Silver, \"I trust you. I've a gauge on the keg, mind.\nThere's the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up.\"\n\nTerrified as I was, I could not help thinking to myself that this must\nhave been how Mr. Arrow got the strong waters that destroyed him.\n\nDick was gone but a little while, and during his absence Israel spoke\nstraight on in the cook's ear. It was but a word or two that I could\ncatch, and yet I gathered some important news; for, besides other scraps\nthat tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible: \"Not\nanother man of them'll jine.\" Hence there were still faithful men on\nboard.\n\nWhen Dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and\ndrank--one \"To luck\"; another with a \"Here's to old Flint,\" and Silver\nhimself saying, in a kind of song, \"Here's to ourselves, and hold your\nluff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff.\"\n\nJust then a sort of brightness fell upon me in the barrel, and, looking\nup, I found the moon had risen, and was silvering the mizzen-top and\nshining white on the luff of the foresail, and almost at the same time\nthe voice on the lookout shouted, \"Land ho!\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Long John Silver is in the middle of telling a story to the youngest sailor on board, Dick. He's telling Dick about his time serving under Captain Flint. Apparently most of the men under Flint's command are now aboard the Hispaniola - this very ship! Long John Silver says the pirating business has gone downhill. Look at Pew, who had to retire after he went blind. After living like a king, Pew spent all of his cash and had to beg for his supper. Long John Silver compliments Dick for being \"smart as paint\" . Jim hears this and gets totally jealous: Jim thought he was supposed to be smart as paint. Long John Silver gives Dick a recruitment pitch for piracy: sure, it's dangerous, but the profits are great. After this last trip is done, Long John Silver plans to set himself up as a gentleman, but he started out his piracy career as a lowly sailor just like Dick. Dick says that all Long John Silver's money is gone anyway - it's not like he can go back to Bristol after all of this. Long John Silver explains that his wife will empty all of his accounts in Bristol and join him in some secret place where the two of them will settle down. Dick is impressed by Long John Silver and agrees to join him. Just then someone else strolls up to the two men. It's Israel Hands. Long John Silver tells Israel that Dick is going to join them. Israel wants to know why they haven't mutinied yet - he really wants to get rid of Captain Smollett. Long John Silver tells Israel to wait. Why rise up sooner than they have to, so long as Captain Smollett keeps sailing their ship for them? Dick reminds Long John Silver that they're all sailors. Long John Silver answers that they're all crewmen. Who is supposed to set the course for them? He doesn't know where Doctor Livesey and the squire keep the map, after all. Long John Silver warns them to be patient or they'll all hang. Captain Flint and Pew were impatient and fun-loving and look where they are now: dead. Long John Silver wants them to wait until the right time, but then they should kill all of the officers: after all, dead men tell no tales. Long John Silver wants to be the one to kill Squire Trelawney. Listening to all of this, Jim is terrified. Long John Silver and Israel Hands send Dick to get some alcohol to celebrate. Israel Hands whispers to Long John Silver that Dick's the last of the crewmen who will join. Jim realizes that some of the crew must still be loyal to the captain. Long John Silver, Israel Hands, and Dick drink a toast. Just then, the shout rings out: \"Land ho!\" ."}, {"": "420", "document": "CHAPTER VII. OF THE ENDS OR RESOLUTIONS OF DISCOURSE\n\n\n\nOf all Discourse, governed by desire of Knowledge, there is at last\nan End, either by attaining, or by giving over. And in the chain of\nDiscourse, wheresoever it be interrupted, there is an End for that time.\n\n\n\n\nJudgement, or Sentence Final; Doubt\n\nIf the Discourse be meerly Mentall, it consisteth of thoughts that the\nthing will be, and will not be; or that it has been, and has not been,\nalternately. So that wheresoever you break off the chayn of a mans\nDiscourse, you leave him in a Praesumption of It Will Be, or, It Will\nNot Be; or it Has Been, or, Has Not Been. All which is Opinion. And that\nwhich is alternate Appetite, in Deliberating concerning Good and Evil,\nthe same is alternate Opinion in the Enquiry of the truth of Past, and\nFuture. And as the last Appetite in Deliberation is called the Will, so\nthe last Opinion in search of the truth of Past, and Future, is called\nthe JUDGEMENT, or Resolute and Final Sentence of him that Discourseth.\nAnd as the whole chain of Appetites alternate, in the question of Good\nor Bad is called Deliberation; so the whole chain of Opinions alternate,\nin the question of True, or False is called DOUBT.\n\nNo Discourse whatsoever, can End in absolute knowledge of Fact, past, or\nto come. For, as for the knowledge of Fact, it is originally, Sense; and\never after, Memory. And for the knowledge of consequence, which I have\nsaid before is called Science, it is not Absolute, but Conditionall. No\nman can know by Discourse, that this, or that, is, has been, or will\nbe; which is to know absolutely: but onely, that if This be, That is; if\nThis has been, That has been; if This shall be, That shall be: which\nis to know conditionally; and that not the consequence of one thing to\nanother; but of one name of a thing, to another name of the same thing.\n\n\n\n\nScience Opinion Conscience\n\nAnd therefore, when the Discourse is put into Speech, and begins with\nthe Definitions of Words, and proceeds by Connexion of the same into\ngeneral Affirmations, and of these again into Syllogismes, the end or\nlast sum is called the Conclusion; and the thought of the mind by it\nsignified is that conditional Knowledge, or Knowledge of the consequence\nof words, which is commonly called Science. But if the first ground of\nsuch Discourse be not Definitions, or if the Definitions be not rightly\njoyned together into Syllogismes, then the End or Conclusion is again\nOPINION, namely of the truth of somewhat said, though sometimes in\nabsurd and senslesse words, without possibility of being understood.\nWhen two, or more men, know of one and the same fact, they are said\nto be CONSCIOUS of it one to another; which is as much as to know it\ntogether. And because such are fittest witnesses of the facts of one\nanother, or of a third, it was, and ever will be reputed a very Evill\nact, for any man to speak against his Conscience; or to corrupt or force\nanother so to do: Insomuch that the plea of Conscience, has been always\nhearkened unto very diligently in all times. Afterwards, men made use\nof the same word metaphorically, for the knowledge of their own secret\nfacts, and secret thoughts; and therefore it is Rhetorically said that\nthe Conscience is a thousand witnesses. And last of all, men, vehemently\nin love with their own new opinions, (though never so absurd,) and\nobstinately bent to maintain them, gave those their opinions also that\nreverenced name of Conscience, as if they would have it seem unlawful,\nto change or speak against them; and so pretend to know they are true,\nwhen they know at most but that they think so.\n\n\n\n\nBeliefe Faith\n\nWhen a mans Discourse beginneth not at Definitions, it beginneth either\nat some other contemplation of his own, and then it is still called\nOpinion; Or it beginneth at some saying of another, of whose ability to\nknow the truth, and of whose honesty in not deceiving, he doubteth\nnot; and then the Discourse is not so much concerning the Thing, as the\nPerson; And the Resolution is called BELEEFE, and FAITH: Faith, In the\nman; Beleefe, both Of the man, and Of the truth of what he sayes. So\nthen in Beleefe are two opinions; one of the saying of the man; the\nother of his vertue. To Have Faith In, or Trust To, or Beleeve A Man,\nsignifie the same thing; namely, an opinion of the veracity of the man:\nBut to Beleeve What Is Said, signifieth onely an opinion of the truth\nof the saying. But wee are to observe that this Phrase, I Beleeve In;\nas also the Latine, Credo In; and the Greek, Pisteno Eis, are never used\nbut in the writings of Divines. In stead of them, in other writings are\nput, I Beleeve Him; I Have Faith In Him; I Rely On Him: and in Latin,\nCredo Illi; Fido Illi: and in Greek, Pisteno Anto: and that this\nsingularity of the Ecclesiastical use of the word hath raised many\ndisputes about the right object of the Christian Faith.\n\nBut by Beleeving In, as it is in the Creed, is meant, not trust in the\nPerson; but Confession and acknowledgement of the Doctrine. For not\nonely Christians, but all manner of men do so believe in God, as to hold\nall for truth they heare him say, whether they understand it, or not;\nwhich is all the Faith and trust can possibly be had in any person\nwhatsoever: But they do not all believe the Doctrine of the Creed.\n\nFrom whence we may inferre, that when wee believe any saying whatsoever\nit be, to be true, from arguments taken, not from the thing it selfe, or\nfrom the principles of naturall Reason, but from the Authority, and\ngood opinion wee have, of him that hath sayd it; then is the speaker, or\nperson we believe in, or trust in, and whose word we take, the object of\nour Faith; and the Honour done in Believing, is done to him onely. And\nconsequently, when wee Believe that the Scriptures are the word of God,\nhaving no immediate revelation from God himselfe, our Beleefe, Faith,\nand Trust is in the Church; whose word we take, and acquiesce therein.\nAnd they that believe that which a Prophet relates unto them in the\nname of God, take the word of the Prophet, do honour to him, and in him\ntrust, and believe, touching the truth of what he relateth, whether he\nbe a true, or a false Prophet. And so it is also with all other History.\nFor if I should not believe all that is written By Historians, of the\nglorious acts of Alexander, or Caesar; I do not think the Ghost of\nAlexander, or Caesar, had any just cause to be offended; or any body\nelse, but the Historian. If Livy say the Gods made once a Cow speak, and\nwe believe it not; wee distrust not God therein, but Livy. So that it is\nevident, that whatsoever we believe, upon no other reason, than what is\ndrawn from authority of men onely, and their writings; whether they be\nsent from God or not, is Faith in men onely.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Hold on to your hydrogen breathers, Shmoopsters, because we're back in Deryn Sharp's world now. The men on the ground finally notice the storm front and start to bring her down. It's too late, of course, and she's five hundred feet in the air when the rain starts. The ground men really struggle to get her down, and she has to do some serious aerobatics to keep the Huxley from plummeting her to her death. Finally, she has to cut the Huxley free of its ground tethers to keep it from crashing into the ground, which means she's now free-ballooning over London with no control over the Huxley at all and no clear idea of how to get down. All in all, it's kind of like anyone's first day at a new job."}, {"": "421", "document": "\n\nYesterday was bright, calm, and frosty.  I went to the Heights as I\nproposed: my housekeeper entreated me to bear a little note from her to\nher young lady, and I did not refuse, for the worthy woman was not\nconscious of anything odd in her request.  The front door stood open, but\nthe jealous gate was fastened, as at my last visit; I knocked and invoked\nEarnshaw from among the garden-beds; he unchained it, and I entered.  The\nfellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen.  I took particular notice\nof him this time; but then he does his best apparently to make the least\nof his advantages.\n\nI asked if Mr. Heathcliff were at home?  He answered, No; but he would be\nin at dinner-time.  It was eleven o'clock, and I announced my intention\nof going in and waiting for him; at which he immediately flung down his\ntools and accompanied me, in the office of watchdog, not as a substitute\nfor the host.\n\nWe entered together; Catherine was there, making herself useful in\npreparing some vegetables for the approaching meal; she looked more\nsulky and less spirited than when I had seen her first. She hardly\nraised her eyes to notice me, and continued her employment with the same\ndisregard to common forms of politeness as before; never returning my\nbow and good-morning by the slightest acknowledgment.\n\n'She does not seem so amiable,' I thought, 'as Mrs. Dean would persuade\nme to believe.  She's a beauty, it is true; but not an angel.'\n\nEarnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen.  'Remove them\nyourself,' she said, pushing them from her as soon as she had done; and\nretiring to a stool by the window, where she began to carve figures of\nbirds and beasts out of the turnip-parings in her lap.  I approached her,\npretending to desire a view of the garden; and, as I fancied, adroitly\ndropped Mrs. Dean's note on to her knee, unnoticed by Hareton--but she\nasked aloud, 'What is that?'  And chucked it off.\n\n'A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange,' I\nanswered; annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, and fearful lest it\nshould be imagined a missive of my own.  She would gladly have gathered\nit up at this information, but Hareton beat her; he seized and put it in\nhis waistcoat, saying Mr. Heathcliff should look at it first.  Thereat,\nCatherine silently turned her face from us, and, very stealthily, drew\nout her pocket-handkerchief and applied it to her eyes; and her cousin,\nafter struggling awhile to keep down his softer feelings, pulled out the\nletter and flung it on the floor beside her, as ungraciously as he could.\nCatherine caught and perused it eagerly; then she put a few questions to\nme concerning the inmates, rational and irrational, of her former home;\nand gazing towards the hills, murmured in soliloquy:\n\n'I should like to be riding Minny down there!  I should like to be\nclimbing up there!  Oh!  I'm tired--I'm _stalled_, Hareton!'  And she\nleant her pretty head back against the sill, with half a yawn and half a\nsigh, and lapsed into an aspect of abstracted sadness: neither caring nor\nknowing whether we remarked her.\n\n'Mrs. Heathcliff,' I said, after sitting some time mute, 'you are not\naware that I am an acquaintance of yours? so intimate that I think it\nstrange you won't come and speak to me.  My housekeeper never wearies of\ntalking about and praising you; and she'll be greatly disappointed if I\nreturn with no news of or from you, except that you received her letter\nand said nothing!'\n\nShe appeared to wonder at this speech, and asked,--\n\n'Does Ellen like you?'\n\n'Yes, very well,' I replied, hesitatingly.\n\n'You must tell her,' she continued, 'that I would answer her letter, but\nI have no materials for writing: not even a book from which I might tear\na leaf.'\n\n'No books!' I exclaimed.  'How do you contrive to live here without them?\nif I may take the liberty to inquire.  Though provided with a large\nlibrary, I'm frequently very dull at the Grange; take my books away, and\nI should be desperate!'\n\n'I was always reading, when I had them,' said Catherine; 'and Mr.\nHeathcliff never reads; so he took it into his head to destroy my books.\nI have not had a glimpse of one for weeks.  Only once, I searched through\nJoseph's store of theology, to his great irritation; and once, Hareton, I\ncame upon a secret stock in your room--some Latin and Greek, and some\ntales and poetry: all old friends.  I brought the last here--and you\ngathered them, as a magpie gathers silver spoons, for the mere love of\nstealing!  They are of no use to you; or else you concealed them in the\nbad spirit that, as you cannot enjoy them, nobody else shall.  Perhaps\n_your_ envy counselled Mr. Heathcliff to rob me of my treasures?  But\nI've most of them written on my brain and printed in my heart, and you\ncannot deprive me of those!'\n\nEarnshaw blushed crimson when his cousin made this revelation of his\nprivate literary accumulations, and stammered an indignant denial of her\naccusations.\n\n'Mr. Hareton is desirous of increasing his amount of knowledge,' I said,\ncoming to his rescue.  'He is not _envious_, but _emulous_ of your\nattainments.  He'll be a clever scholar in a few years.'\n\n'And he wants me to sink into a dunce, meantime,' answered Catherine.\n'Yes, I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and pretty blunders\nhe makes!  I wish you would repeat Chevy Chase as you did yesterday: it\nwas extremely funny.  I heard you; and I heard you turning over the\ndictionary to seek out the hard words, and then cursing because you\ncouldn't read their explanations!'\n\nThe young man evidently thought it too bad that he should be laughed at\nfor his ignorance, and then laughed at for trying to remove it.  I had a\nsimilar notion; and, remembering Mrs. Dean's anecdote of his first\nattempt at enlightening the darkness in which he had been reared, I\nobserved,--'But, Mrs. Heathcliff, we have each had a commencement, and\neach stumbled and tottered on the threshold; had our teachers scorned\ninstead of aiding us, we should stumble and totter yet.'\n\n'Oh!' she replied, 'I don't wish to limit his acquirements: still, he has\nno right to appropriate what is mine, and make it ridiculous to me with\nhis vile mistakes and mispronunciations!  Those books, both prose and\nverse, are consecrated to me by other associations; and I hate to have\nthem debased and profaned in his mouth!  Besides, of all, he has selected\nmy favourite pieces that I love the most to repeat, as if out of\ndeliberate malice.'\n\nHareton's chest heaved in silence a minute: he laboured under a severe\nsense of mortification and wrath, which it was no easy task to suppress.\nI rose, and, from a gentlemanly idea of relieving his embarrassment, took\nup my station in the doorway, surveying the external prospect as I stood.\nHe followed my example, and left the room; but presently reappeared,\nbearing half a dozen volumes in his hands, which he threw into\nCatherine's lap, exclaiming,--'Take them!  I never want to hear, or read,\nor think of them again!'\n\n'I won't have them now,' she answered.  'I shall connect them with you,\nand hate them.'\n\nShe opened one that had obviously been often turned over, and read a\nportion in the drawling tone of a beginner; then laughed, and threw it\nfrom her.  'And listen,' she continued, provokingly, commencing a verse\nof an old ballad in the same fashion.\n\nBut his self-love would endure no further torment: I heard, and not\naltogether disapprovingly, a manual check given to her saucy tongue.  The\nlittle wretch had done her utmost to hurt her cousin's sensitive though\nuncultivated feelings, and a physical argument was the only mode he had\nof balancing the account, and repaying its effects on the inflictor.  He\nafterwards gathered the books and hurled them on the fire.  I read in his\ncountenance what anguish it was to offer that sacrifice to spleen.  I\nfancied that as they consumed, he recalled the pleasure they had already\nimparted, and the triumph and ever-increasing pleasure he had anticipated\nfrom them; and I fancied I guessed the incitement to his secret studies\nalso.  He had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments,\ntill Catherine crossed his path.  Shame at her scorn, and hope of her\napproval, were his first prompters to higher pursuits; and instead of\nguarding him from one and winning him to the other, his endeavours to\nraise himself had produced just the contrary result.\n\n'Yes that's all the good that such a brute as you can get from them!'\ncried Catherine, sucking her damaged lip, and watching the conflagration\nwith indignant eyes.\n\n'You'd _better_ hold your tongue, now,' he answered fiercely.\n\nAnd his agitation precluded further speech; he advanced hastily to the\nentrance, where I made way for him to pass.  But ere he had crossed the\ndoor-stones, Mr. Heathcliff, coming up the causeway, encountered him, and\nlaying hold of his shoulder asked,--'What's to do now, my lad?'\n\n'Naught, naught,' he said, and broke away to enjoy his grief and anger in\nsolitude.\n\nHeathcliff gazed after him, and sighed.\n\n'It will be odd if I thwart myself,' he muttered, unconscious that I was\nbehind him.  'But when I look for his father in his face, I find _her_\nevery day more!  How the devil is he so like?  I can hardly bear to see\nhim.'\n\nHe bent his eyes to the ground, and walked moodily in.  There was a\nrestless, anxious expression in his countenance.  I had never remarked\nthere before; and he looked sparer in person.  His daughter-in-law, on\nperceiving him through the window, immediately escaped to the kitchen, so\nthat I remained alone.\n\n'I'm glad to see you out of doors again, Mr. Lockwood,' he said, in reply\nto my greeting; 'from selfish motives partly: I don't think I could\nreadily supply your loss in this desolation.  I've wondered more than\nonce what brought you here.'\n\n'An idle whim, I fear, sir,' was my answer; 'or else an idle whim is\ngoing to spirit me away.  I shall set out for London next week; and I\nmust give you warning that I feel no disposition to retain Thrushcross\nGrange beyond the twelve months I agreed to rent it.  I believe I shall\nnot live there any more.'\n\n'Oh, indeed; you're tired of being banished from the world, are you?' he\nsaid.  'But if you be coming to plead off paying for a place you won't\noccupy, your journey is useless: I never relent in exacting my due from\nany one.'\n\n'I'm coming to plead off nothing about it,' I exclaimed, considerably\nirritated.  'Should you wish it, I'll settle with you now,' and I drew my\nnote-book from my pocket.\n\n'No, no,' he replied, coolly; 'you'll leave sufficient behind to cover\nyour debts, if you fail to return: I'm not in such a hurry.  Sit down and\ntake your dinner with us; a guest that is safe from repeating his visit\ncan generally be made welcome.  Catherine! bring the things in: where are\nyou?'\n\nCatherine reappeared, bearing a tray of knives and forks.\n\n'You may get your dinner with Joseph,' muttered Heathcliff, aside, 'and\nremain in the kitchen till he is gone.'\n\nShe obeyed his directions very punctually: perhaps she had no temptation\nto transgress.  Living among clowns and misanthropists, she probably\ncannot appreciate a better class of people when she meets them.\n\nWith Mr. Heathcliff, grim and saturnine, on the one hand, and Hareton,\nabsolutely dumb, on the other, I made a somewhat cheerless meal, and bade\nadieu early.  I would have departed by the back way, to get a last\nglimpse of Catherine and annoy old Joseph; but Hareton received orders to\nlead up my horse, and my host himself escorted me to the door, so I could\nnot fulfil my wish.\n\n'How dreary life gets over in that house!' I reflected, while riding down\nthe road.  'What a realisation of something more romantic than a fairy\ntale it would have been for Mrs. Linton Heathcliff, had she and I struck\nup an attachment, as her good nurse desired, and migrated together into\nthe stirring atmosphere of the town!'\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Lockwood makes a trip to Wuthering Heights and carries a note from Nelly to Cathy. Hareton takes the note at first, but noticing Cathy's tears, returns it to her. She in turn still treats him coolly and makes fun of his attempts at reading. Embarrassed, Hareton flings his books into the fire. When Heathcliff returns, he comments that Hareton favors Catherine more and more each day. This is something Heathcliff did not foresee and seems to disturb him. Now, in addition to the memories of his lost love, Heathcliff must also deal with Hareton's resemblance to his Aunt Catherine. Both the memories and physical reminder are beginning to take their toll on Heathcliff."}, {"": "422", "document": "ACT V. SCENE I.\nRome. A public place\n\nEnter MENENIUS, COMINIUS, SICINIUS and BRUTUS, the two Tribunes,\nwith others\n\n  MENENIUS. No, I'll not go. You hear what he hath said\n    Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him\n    In a most dear particular. He call'd me father;\n    But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him:\n    A mile before his tent fall down, and knee\n    The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd\n    To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home.\n  COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me.\n  MENENIUS. Do you hear?\n  COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name.\n    I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops\n    That we have bled together. 'Coriolanus'\n    He would not answer to; forbid all names;\n    He was a kind of nothing, titleless,\n    Till he had forg'd himself a name i' th' fire\n    Of burning Rome.\n  MENENIUS. Why, so! You have made good work.\n    A pair of tribunes that have wrack'd for Rome\n    To make coals cheap- a noble memory!\n  COMINIUS. I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon\n    When it was less expected; he replied,\n    It was a bare petition of a state\n    To one whom they had punish'd.\n  MENENIUS. Very well.\n    Could he say less?\n  COMINIUS. I offer'd to awaken his regard\n    For's private friends; his answer to me was,\n    He could not stay to pick them in a pile\n    Of noisome musty chaff. He said 'twas folly,\n    For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt\n    And still to nose th' offence.\n  MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two!\n    I am one of those. His mother, wife, his child,\n    And this brave fellow too- we are the grains:\n    You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt\n    Above the moon. We must be burnt for you.\n  SICINIUS. Nay, pray be patient; if you refuse your aid\n    In this so never-needed help, yet do not\n    Upbraid's with our distress. But sure, if you\n    Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue,\n    More than the instant army we can make,\n    Might stop our countryman.\n  MENENIUS. No; I'll not meddle.\n  SICINIUS. Pray you go to him.\n  MENENIUS. What should I do?\n  BRUTUS. Only make trial what your love can do\n    For Rome, towards Marcius.\n  MENENIUS. Well, and say that Marcius\n    Return me, as Cominius is return'd,\n    Unheard- what then?\n    But as a discontented friend, grief-shot\n    With his unkindness? Say't be so?\n  SICINIUS. Yet your good will\n    Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure\n    As you intended well.\n  MENENIUS. I'll undertake't;\n    I think he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip\n    And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me.\n    He was not taken well: he had not din'd;\n    The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then\n    We pout upon the morning, are unapt\n    To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd\n    These pipes and these conveyances of our blood\n    With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls\n    Than in our priest-like fasts. Therefore I'll watch him\n    Till he be dieted to my request,\n    And then I'll set upon him.\n  BRUTUS. You know the very road into his kindness\n    And cannot lose your way.\n  MENENIUS. Good faith, I'll prove him,\n    Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge\n    Of my success.                                          Exit\n  COMINIUS. He'll never hear him.\n  SICINIUS. Not?\n  COMINIUS. I tell you he does sit in gold, his eye\n    Red as 'twould burn Rome, and his injury\n    The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him;\n    'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise'; dismiss'd me\n    Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do,\n    He sent in writing after me; what he would not,\n    Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions;\n    So that all hope is vain,\n    Unless his noble mother and his wife,\n    Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him\n    For mercy to his country. Therefore let's hence,\n    And with our fair entreaties haste them on.           Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "This scene opens with the entrance of Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, and Brutus, who are all perturbed by the imminent Volscian attack on Rome led by Coriolanus. Menenius refuses to go to Coriolanus and beg for mercy; instead, he suggests that those principally responsible for banishing him should go, meaning the tribunes. Cominius tells them of his futile efforts to get Coriolanus to renounce his plans to invade Rome; the warrior would not even acknowledge that he knows him. Apparently he has sworn off any connection to his former life. When the tribunes plead with Menenius again to try and save Rome, the man finally agrees to go to Coriolanus. He leaves, filled with confidence of succeeding in his endeavor. Cominius, however, remarks to the tribunes that Coriolanus will not listen to Menenius. He suggests instead that Coriolanus wife and mother may be able to solicit his mercy. At this suggestion, the nobles leave for Coriolanus house to entreat Volumnia and Virgilia to intercede on behalf of Rome."}, {"": "423", "document": "THE INEBRIATES' HOME SPRINGFIELD LODGE, DENMARK HILL.\n\nThis house, which has a fine garden attached, was a gentleman's\nresidence purchased by the Salvation Army, to serve as an Inebriates'\nHome for the better class of patients. With the exception of a few who\ngive their services in connexion with the work of the place as a\nreturn for their treatment, it is really a Home for gentlefolk. When I\nvisited it, some of the inmates, of whom there are usually from\ntwenty-five to thirty, were talented ladies who could speak several\nlanguages, or paint, or play very well. All these came here to be\ncured of the drink or drug habit. The fee for the course ranges from a\nguinea to 10_s_. per week, according to the ability of the patient to\npay, but some who lack this ability pay nothing at all.\n\nThe lady in charge remarked drily on this point, that many people\nseemed to think that as the place belonged to the Salvation Army it\ndid not matter if they paid or not. As is the practice at Hillsborough\nHouse, a vegetarian diet is insisted upon as a condition of\nthe patient receiving treatment at the Home. Often this is a cause of\nmuch remonstrance, as the inmates, who are mostly persons in middle or\nadvanced life, think that it will kill them. The actual results,\nhowever, are found to be most satisfactory, as the percentage of\nsuccesses is found to be 50 per cent, after a year in the Home and\nthree years' subsequent supervision. I was told that a while ago, Sir\nThomas Barlow, the well-known physician, challenged this statement. He\nwas asked to see for himself, he examined a number of the patients,\ninspected the books and records, and finally satisfied himself that it\nwas absolutely correct.\n\nThe Army attaches much importance to what may be called the after-care\nof the cases, for the lack of which so many people who pass through\nHomes and then return to ordinary life, break down, and become,\nperhaps, worse than they were before. The seven devils of Scripture\nare always ready to re-occupy the swept and garnished soul, especially\nif they be the devils of drink.\n\nMoreover, the experience of the Army is that relatives and friends are\nextraordinarily thoughtless in this matter. Often enough they will, as\nit were, thrust spirituous liquors down the throat of the\nnewly-reformed drunkard, or at the least will pass them before their\neyes and drink them in their presence as usual, with results that may\nbe imagined. One taste and in four cases out of six the thing is done.\nThe old longings awake again and must be satisfied.\n\nFor these reasons the highly-skilled Officers of the Salvation Army\nhold that reclaimed inebriates should be safeguarded, watched, and, so\nfar as the circumstances may allow, kept under the influences that\nhave brought about their partial recovery. They say that they owe much\nof their remarkable success in those cases to a strict observance of\nsuch preventive methods for a period of three years. After that time\npatients must stand upon their own feet. These remarks apply also to\nthe victims of the drug habit, who are even more difficult to deal\nwith than common drunkards.\n\nAt this Home I had a conversation with a fine young woman, an\nex-hospital nurse, who gave me a very interesting account of her\nexperiences of laudanum drinking. She said that in an illness she had\ngone through while she was a nurse a doctor dosed her with laudanum to\ndeaden her pain and induce sleep. The upshot was that she could not\nsleep without the help of laudanum or other opiates, and thus the\nfatal habit was formed. She described the effects of the drug upon\nher, which appeared to be temporary exhilaration and freedom from all\ncare, coupled with sensations of great vigour. She spoke also of\ndelightful visions; but when I asked her to describe the visions, she\nwent back upon that statement, perhaps because their nature was such\nas she did not care to set out. She added, however, that the sleep\nwhich followed was haunted by terrible dreams.\n\nAnother effect of the habit, according to this lady, is forgetfulness,\nwhich showed itself in all kinds of mistakes, and in the loss of power\nof accurate expression, which caused her to say things she did not\nmean and could not remember when she had said them. She told me that\nthe process of weaning herself from the drug was extremely painful and\ndifficult; but that she now slept well and desired it no more.\n\nTo be plain, I was not satisfied with the truth of this last\nstatement, for there was a strange look in her eyes which suggested\nthat she still desired it very much; also she seemed to me to\nprevaricate upon certain points. Further, those in charge of her\nallowed that this diagnosis was probably correct, especially as she is\nnow in the Home for the second time, although her first visit there\nwas a very short one. Still they thought that she would be cured in\nthe end. Let us hope that they were right.\n\nThe Army has also another Home in this neighbourhood, run on similar\nlines, for the treatment of middle-class and poor people.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "After lunch, Dr. Yealland prepares to treat Callan, seemingly enthusiastic about the task. Rivers follows Yealland into a room that is pitch-black except for a small light illuminating a battery powering the electroshock machine. In the center of the room sits what looks like a dentist's chair with restraining straps. Dr. Rivers finds an inconspicuous seat against a far wall. As he is strapped into the chair, Callan is filled with fear and apprehension. Dr. Yealland informs Callan that the door is locked and he will only be allowed to leave once he speaks as well as he did before becoming mute. Dr. Yealland pushes an electrode into the back of Callan's throat, causing the patient to spasm from the force of the shock. He keeps shocking Callan repeatedly for over an hour, until the soldier produces a small \"ah\". Dr. Yealland is pleased, lording over his patient and insisting that he has complete control over him. Yealland then forces Callan to march around the battery, even though the man is exhausted and near collapse. Afterwards, Callan resignedly motions for the doctor to continue his treatment. Dr. Yealland informs Callan that he has no control over when the treatment will begin again: the timing and frequency of the shocks are subject only to the doctor's whim. Dr. Rivers is horrified watching Callan struggle to speak, remembering his own difficulties with stammering. After another round of shocks, Callan is able to produce a \"bah\" sound before he collapses in tears. He asks for water and then attempts to break out of the room, pounding on the locked door. Dr. Yealland condescendingly informs Callan that he must live up to his status as a war hero before turning up the current to resume the treatment. Eventually, after several hours, Callan begins tentatively forming words, then phrases, and eventually, fully-formed sentences. At the end of the session, Callan smiles in a way that irritates Dr. Yealland; the doctor forces him back into the chair and shocks his mouth to take the smile off his face. Callan, completely broken, thanks Dr. Yealland as he leaves"}, {"": "424", "document": "\nThere was never anything so gallant, so spruce, so brilliant, and so\nwell disposed as the two armies. Trumpets, fifes, hautboys, drums, and\ncannon made music such as Hell itself had never heard. The cannons first\nof all laid flat about six thousand men on each side; the muskets swept\naway from this best of worlds nine or ten thousand ruffians who infested\nits surface. The bayonet was also a _sufficient reason_ for the death of\nseveral thousands. The whole might amount to thirty thousand souls.\nCandide, who trembled like a philosopher, hid himself as well as he\ncould during this heroic butchery.\n\nAt length, while the two kings were causing Te Deum to be sung each in\nhis own camp, Candide resolved to go and reason elsewhere on effects and\ncauses. He passed over heaps of dead and dying, and first reached a\nneighbouring village; it was in cinders, it was an Abare village which\nthe Bulgarians had burnt according to the laws of war. Here, old men\ncovered with wounds, beheld their wives, hugging their children to their\nbloody breasts, massacred before their faces; there, their daughters,\ndisembowelled and breathing their last after having satisfied the\nnatural wants of Bulgarian heroes; while others, half burnt in the\nflames, begged to be despatched. The earth was strewed with brains,\narms, and legs.\n\nCandide fled quickly to another village; it belonged to the Bulgarians;\nand the Abarian heroes had treated it in the same way. Candide, walking\nalways over palpitating limbs or across ruins, arrived at last beyond\nthe seat of war, with a few provisions in his knapsack, and Miss\nCunegonde always in his heart. His provisions failed him when he arrived\nin Holland; but having heard that everybody was rich in that country,\nand that they were Christians, he did not doubt but he should meet with\nthe same treatment from them as he had met with in the Baron's castle,\nbefore Miss Cunegonde's bright eyes were the cause of his expulsion\nthence.\n\nHe asked alms of several grave-looking people, who all answered him,\nthat if he continued to follow this trade they would confine him to the\nhouse of correction, where he should be taught to get a living.\n\nThe next he addressed was a man who had been haranguing a large assembly\nfor a whole hour on the subject of charity. But the orator, looking\naskew, said:\n\n\"What are you doing here? Are you for the good cause?\"\n\n\"There can be no effect without a cause,\" modestly answered Candide;\n\"the whole is necessarily concatenated and arranged for the best. It was\nnecessary for me to have been banished from the presence of Miss\nCunegonde, to have afterwards run the gauntlet, and now it is necessary\nI should beg my bread until I learn to earn it; all this cannot be\notherwise.\"\n\n\"My friend,\" said the orator to him, \"do you believe the Pope to be\nAnti-Christ?\"\n\n\"I have not heard it,\" answered Candide; \"but whether he be, or whether\nhe be not, I want bread.\"\n\n\"Thou dost not deserve to eat,\" said the other. \"Begone, rogue; begone,\nwretch; do not come near me again.\"\n\nThe orator's wife, putting her head out of the window, and spying a man\nthat doubted whether the Pope was Anti-Christ, poured over him a\nfull.... Oh, heavens! to what excess does religious zeal carry the\nladies.\n\nA man who had never been christened, a good Anabaptist, named James,\nbeheld the cruel and ignominious treatment shown to one of his\nbrethren, an unfeathered biped with a rational soul, he took him home,\ncleaned him, gave him bread and beer, presented him with two florins,\nand even wished to teach him the manufacture of Persian stuffs which\nthey make in Holland. Candide, almost prostrating himself before him,\ncried:\n\n\"Master Pangloss has well said that all is for the best in this world,\nfor I am infinitely more touched by your extreme generosity than with\nthe inhumanity of that gentleman in the black coat and his lady.\"\n\nThe next day, as he took a walk, he met a beggar all covered with scabs,\nhis eyes diseased, the end of his nose eaten away, his mouth distorted,\nhis teeth black, choking in his throat, tormented with a violent cough,\nand spitting out a tooth at each effort.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Chapter 3 takes place in the midst of a giant battle between the Bulgars and the Abares. While writing this, Voltaire was probably considering the Seven Years' War , which was fought between the French and the Prussians. Here, Voltaire's anti-war sentiments become obvious. Casually describing the thousands of dead soldiers on both sides, Voltaire underscores how wasteful these \"heroes\" are of human life. Candide, his protagonist, hides, doing his best to keep away from the needless bloodshed and \"heroic butchery. After the battle subsides, he escapes through the battlefield, seeing the \"scattered brains and severed limbs\" that \"littered the ground. Soon reaching the country of Holland, where he believes everyone is wealthy and Christian, he expects to be treated very well. He stumbles across a Protestant preacher of sorts who is lecturing on the topic of charity. Ironically, when the man sees Candide, he attacks the traveler, telling him that he doesn't deserve any bread. Voltaire, thus, also indicts religion , which he believed was often hypocritical. Luckily, a man names Jacques befriends Candide, offering him food and shelter. Candide is elated that such fortune has found him, and he regains his confidence in Pangloss' philosophy. All seems to be well again"}, {"": "425", "document": "Scene 2.\n\nEnter the Constables, Borachio, and the Towne Clerke in gownes.\n\n  Keeper. Is our whole dissembly appeard?\n  Cowley. O a stoole and a cushion for the Sexton\n\n   Sexton. Which be the malefactors?\n  Andrew. Marry that am I, and my partner\n\n   Cowley. Nay that's certaine, wee haue the exhibition\nto examine\n\n   Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined,\nlet them come before master Constable\n\n   Kemp. Yea marry, let them come before mee, what is\nyour name, friend?\n  Bor. Borachio\n\n   Kem. Pray write downe Borachio. Yours sirra\n\n   Con. I am a Gentleman sir, and my name is Conrade\n\n   Kee. Write downe Master gentleman Conrade: maisters,\ndoe you serue God: maisters, it is proued alreadie\nthat you are little better than false knaues, and it will goe\nneere to be thought so shortly, how answer you for your\nselues?\n  Con. Marry sir, we say we are none\n\n   Kemp. A maruellous witty fellow I assure you, but I\nwill goe about with him: come you hither sirra, a word\nin your eare sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false\nknaues\n\n   Bor. Sir, I say to you, we are none\n\n   Kemp. Well, stand aside, 'fore God they are both in\na tale: haue you writ downe that they are none?\n  Sext. Master Constable, you goe not the way to examine,\nyou must call forth the watch that are their accusers\n\n   Kemp. Yea marry, that's the eftest way, let the watch\ncome forth: masters, I charge you in the Princes name,\naccuse these men\n\n   Watch 1. This man said sir, that Don Iohn the Princes\nbrother was a villaine\n\n   Kemp. Write down, Prince Iohn a villaine: why this\nis flat periurie, to call a Princes brother villaine\n\n   Bora. Master Constable\n\n   Kemp. Pray thee fellow peace, I do not like thy looke\nI promise thee\n\n   Sexton. What heard you him say else?\n  Watch 2. Mary that he had receiued a thousand Dukates\nof Don Iohn, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully\n\n   Kemp. Flat Burglarie as euer was committed\n\n   Const. Yea by th' masse that it is\n\n   Sexton. What else fellow?\n  Watch 1. And that Count Claudio did meane vpon his\nwords, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and\nnot marry her\n\n   Kemp. O villaine! thou wilt be condemn'd into euerlasting\nredemption for this\n\n   Sexton. What else?\n  Watch. This is all\n\n   Sexton. And this is more masters then you can deny,\nPrince Iohn is this morning secretly stolne away: Hero\nwas in this manner accus'd, in this very manner refus'd,\nand vpon the griefe of this sodainely died: Master Constable,\nlet these men be bound, and brought to Leonato,\nI will goe before, and shew him their examination\n\n   Const. Come, let them be opinion'd\n\n   Sex. Let them be in the hands of Coxcombe\n\n   Kem. Gods my life, where's the Sexton? let him write\ndowne the Princes Officer Coxcombe: come, binde them\nthou naughty varlet\n\n   Couley. Away, you are an asse, you are an asse\n\n   Kemp. Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not\nsuspect my yeeres? O that hee were heere to write mee\ndowne an asse! but masters, remember that I am an asse:\nthough it be not written down, yet forget not y I am an\nasse: No thou villaine, y art full of piety as shall be prou'd\nvpon thee by good witnesse, I am a wise fellow, and\nwhich is more, an officer, and which is more, a houshoulder,\nand which is more, as pretty a peece of flesh as any in\nMessina, and one that knowes the Law, goe to, & a rich\nfellow enough, goe to, and a fellow that hath had losses,\nand one that hath two gownes, and euery thing handsome\nabout him: bring him away: O that I had been writ\ndowne an asse!\nEnter.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The scene continues. The rebel leaders meet up with Prince John, who lectures the Archbishop about taking up arms against the king when he should be back at home with his bible, preaching about peace and obedience. Prince John says that the Archbishop is seriously abusing his religious authority by using his power to get the people all riled up against the king. The Archbishop, he says, should know better than anyone that the king is God's \"substitute.\" History Snack: Prince John is referring to a political theory known as the doctrine of \"divine right,\" which says that kings are appointed by God to be his representatives on earth. Rebelling against the king is tantamount to sinning against God. Queen Elizabeth, who ruled England at the time the play was written, even made the churches in England read a sermon called \"Homily Against Disobedience and Willful Rebellion.\" Rebellion, according to the Elizabethan worldview, was a \"great a sin against God.\" York responds that he has no choice because King Henry has refused to address the rebels' grievances. Mowbray and Hastings chime in that they're prepared to fight. Prince John says he's had a chance to look over the rebel's list of grievances and he's prepared to put things to rights. If the rebels send their troops home, Prince John will do the same and they can all sit down and have a drink together, toasting their love for one another. York accepts and Prince John raises his glass in a toast and assures the rebels that they have his word on it - their grievances will be addressed. Hastings gives orders to Coleville to send the rebel troops home and the rebel leaders drink a toast to peace. Mowbray says that he's suddenly feeling sick and the others tell him to cheer up. The rebel troops can be heard in the distance, shouting in celebration of the peace compact. The Archbishop of York says it's great that both sides have come out winners today. Prince John sends Westmoreland to send the king's troops home and makes small talk with the rebel leaders, even suggesting that they all lodge together that night. Westmoreland returns with news that the king's forces refuse to disband until Prince John delivers a speech. Just then, Hastings announces that the rebel army has disbanded - the troops have run home like schoolboys on the last day of classes. Then Westmoreland turns to Hastings, York, and Mowbray and says, \"Surprise! You're all under arrest for treason.\" Mowbray says something like \"No fair! You promised to redress our grievances and now you've betrayed our trust.\" Prince John replies that he's going to address their grievances but first he's also going to sentence the rebels to death."}, {"": "426", "document": "\n\nThe time arrived for killing the pig which Jude and his wife had\nfattened in their sty during the autumn months, and the butchering\nwas timed to take place as soon as it was light in the morning, so\nthat Jude might get to Alfredston without losing more than a quarter\nof a day.\n\nThe night had seemed strangely silent.  Jude looked out of the window\nlong before dawn, and perceived that the ground was covered with\nsnow--snow rather deep for the season, it seemed, a few flakes still\nfalling.\n\n\"I'm afraid the pig-killer won't be able to come,\" he said to\nArabella.\n\n\"Oh, he'll come.  You must get up and make the water hot, if you want\nChallow to scald him.  Though I like singeing best.\"\n\n\"I'll get up,\" said Jude.  \"I like the way of my own county.\"\n\nHe went downstairs, lit the fire under the copper, and began feeding\nit with bean-stalks, all the time without a candle, the blaze\nflinging a cheerful shine into the room; though for him the sense of\ncheerfulness was lessened by thoughts on the reason of that blaze--to\nheat water to scald the bristles from the body of an animal that as\nyet lived, and whose voice could be continually heard from a corner\nof the garden.  At half-past six, the time of appointment with the\nbutcher, the water boiled, and Jude's wife came downstairs.\n\n\"Is Challow come?\" she asked.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThey waited, and it grew lighter, with the dreary light of a snowy\ndawn.  She went out, gazed along the road, and returning said, \"He's\nnot coming.  Drunk last night, I expect.  The snow is not enough to\nhinder him, surely!\"\n\n\"Then we must put it off.  It is only the water boiled for nothing.\nThe snow may be deep in the valley.\"\n\n\"Can't be put off.  There's no more victuals for the pig.  He ate the\nlast mixing o' barleymeal yesterday morning.\"\n\n\"Yesterday morning?  What has he lived on since?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"What--he has been starving?\"\n\n\"Yes.  We always do it the last day or two, to save bother with the\ninnerds.  What ignorance, not to know that!\"\n\n\"That accounts for his crying so.  Poor creature!\"\n\n\"Well--you must do the sticking--there's no help for it.  I'll show\nyou how.  Or I'll do it myself--I think I could.  Though as it is\nsuch a big pig I had rather Challow had done it.  However, his basket\no' knives and things have been already sent on here, and we can use\n'em.\"\n\n\"Of course you shan't do it,\" said Jude.  \"I'll do it, since it must\nbe done.\"\n\nHe went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow for the space of a\ncouple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, with the\nknives and ropes at hand.  A robin peered down at the preparations\nfrom the nearest tree, and, not liking the sinister look of the\nscene, flew away, though hungry.  By this time Arabella had joined\nher husband, and Jude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed the\naffrighted animal, who, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose to\nrepeated cries of rage.  Arabella opened the sty-door, and together\nthey hoisted the victim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Jude\nheld him Arabella bound him down, looping the cord over his legs to\nkeep him from struggling.\n\nThe animal's note changed its quality.  It was not now rage, but the\ncry of despair; long-drawn, slow and hopeless.\n\n\"Upon my soul I would sooner have gone without the pig than have had\nthis to do!\" said Jude.  \"A creature I have fed with my own hands.\"\n\n\"Don't be such a tender-hearted fool!  There's the sticking-knife--\nthe one with the point.  Now whatever you do, don't stick un too\ndeep.\"\n\n\"I'll stick him effectually, so as to make short work of it.  That's\nthe chief thing.\"\n\n\"You must not!\" she cried.  \"The meat must be well bled, and to do\nthat he must die slow.  We shall lose a shilling a score if the meat\nis red and bloody!  Just touch the vein, that's all.  I was brought\nup to it, and I know.  Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long.\nHe ought to be eight or ten minutes dying, at least.\"\n\n\"He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, however the meat may\nlook,\" said Jude determinedly.  Scraping the bristles from the pig's\nupturned throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat;\nthen plunged in the knife with all his might.\n\n\"'Od damn it all!\" she cried, \"that ever I should say it!  You've\nover-stuck un!  And I telling you all the time--\"\n\n\"Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little pity on the creature!\"\n\n\"Hold up the pail to catch the blood, and don't talk!\"\n\nHowever unworkmanlike the deed, it had been mercifully done.  The\nblood flowed out in a torrent instead of in the trickling stream she\nhad desired.  The dying animal's cry assumed its third and final\ntone, the shriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves on\nArabella with the eloquently keen reproach of a creature recognizing\nat last the treachery of those who had seemed his only friends.\n\n\"Make un stop that!\" said Arabella.  \"Such a noise will bring\nsomebody or other up here, and I don't want people to know we are\ndoing it ourselves.\"  Picking up the knife from the ground whereon\nJude had flung it, she slipped it into the gash, and slit the\nwindpipe.  The pig was instantly silent, his dying breath coming\nthrough the hole.\n\n\"That's better,\" she said.\n\n\"It is a hateful business!\" said he.\n\n\"Pigs must be killed.\"\n\nThe animal heaved in a final convulsion, and, despite the rope,\nkicked out with all his last strength.  A tablespoonful of black\nclot came forth, the trickling of red blood having ceased for some\nseconds.\n\n\"That's it; now he'll go,\" said she.  \"Artful creatures--they always\nkeep back a drop like that as long as they can!\"\n\nThe last plunge had come so unexpectedly as to make Jude stagger, and\nin recovering himself he kicked over the vessel in which the blood\nhad been caught.\n\n\"There!\" she cried, thoroughly in a passion.  \"Now I can't make any\nblackpot.  There's a waste, all through you!\"\n\nJude put the pail upright, but only about a third of the whole\nsteaming liquid was left in it, the main part being splashed over\nthe snow, and forming a dismal, sordid, ugly spectacle--to those who\nsaw it as other than an ordinary obtaining of meat.  The lips and\nnostrils of the animal turned livid, then white, and the muscles of\nhis limbs relaxed.\n\n\"Thank God!\" Jude said.  \"He's dead.\"\n\n\"What's God got to do with such a messy job as a pig-killing, I\nshould like to know!\" she said scornfully.  \"Poor folks must live.\"\n\n\"I know, I know,\" said he.  \"I don't scold you.\"\n\nSuddenly they became aware of a voice at hand.\n\n\"Well done, young married volk!  I couldn't have carried it out much\nbetter myself, cuss me if I could!\"  The voice, which was husky,\ncame from the garden-gate, and looking up from the scene of slaughter\nthey saw the burly form of Mr. Challow leaning over the gate,\ncritically surveying their performance.\n\n\"'Tis well for 'ee to stand there and glane!\" said Arabella.  \"Owing\nto your being late the meat is blooded and half spoiled! 'Twon't\nfetch so much by a shilling a score!\"\n\nChallow expressed his contrition.  \"You should have waited a bit\"\nhe said, shaking his head, \"and not have done this--in the delicate\nstate, too, that you be in at present, ma'am.  'Tis risking yourself\ntoo much.\"\n\n\"You needn't be concerned about that,\" said Arabella, laughing.\nJude too laughed, but there was a strong flavour of bitterness in\nhis amusement.\n\nChallow made up for his neglect of the killing by zeal in the\nscalding and scraping.  Jude felt dissatisfied with himself as a man\nat what he had done, though aware of his lack of common sense, and\nthat the deed would have amounted to the same thing if carried out by\ndeputy.  The white snow, stained with the blood of his fellow-mortal,\nwore an illogical look to him as a lover of justice, not to say a\nChristian; but he could not see how the matter was to be mended.  No\ndoubt he was, as his wife had called him, a tender-hearted fool.\n\nHe did not like the road to Alfredston now.  It stared him cynically\nin the face.  The wayside objects reminded him so much of his\ncourtship of his wife that, to keep them out of his eyes, he\nread whenever he could as he walked to and from his work.  Yet\nhe sometimes felt that by caring for books he was not escaping\ncommon-place nor gaining rare ideas, every working-man being of that\ntaste now.  When passing near the spot by the stream on which he had\nfirst made her acquaintance he one day heard voices just as he had\ndone at that earlier time.  One of the girls who had been Arabella's\ncompanions was talking to a friend in a shed, himself being the\nsubject of discourse, possibly because they had seen him in the\ndistance.  They were quite unaware that the shed-walls were so thin\nthat he could hear their words as he passed.\n\n\"Howsomever, 'twas I put her up to it!  'Nothing venture nothing\nhave,' I said.  If I hadn't she'd no more have been his mis'ess than\nI.\"\n\n\"'Tis my belief she knew there was nothing the matter when she told\nhim she was...\"\n\nWhat had Arabella been put up to by this woman, so that he should\nmake her his \"mis'ess,\" otherwise wife?  The suggestion was horridly\nunpleasant, and it rankled in his mind so much that instead of\nentering his own cottage when he reached it he flung his basket\ninside the garden-gate and passed on, determined to go and see his\nold aunt and get some supper there.\n\nThis made his arrival home rather late.  Arabella however, was busy\nmelting down lard from fat of the deceased pig, for she had been out\non a jaunt all day, and so delayed her work.  Dreading lest what he\nhad heard should lead him to say something regrettable to her he\nspoke little.  But Arabella was very talkative, and said among other\nthings that she wanted some money.  Seeing the book sticking out of\nhis pocket she added that he ought to earn more.\n\n\"An apprentice's wages are not meant to be enough to keep a wife on,\nas a rule, my dear.\"\n\n\"Then you shouldn't have had one.\"\n\n\"Come, Arabella!  That's too bad, when you know how it came about.\"\n\n\"I'll declare afore Heaven that I thought what I told you was true.\nDoctor Vilbert thought so.  It was a good job for you that it wasn't\nso!\"\n\n\"I don't mean that,\" he said hastily.  \"I mean before that time.\nI know it was not your fault; but those women friends of yours gave\nyou bad advice.  If they hadn't, or you hadn't taken it, we should at\nthis moment have been free from a bond which, not to mince matters,\ngalls both of us devilishly.  It may be very sad, but it is true.\"\n\n\"Who's been telling you about my friends?  What advice?  I insist\nupon you telling me.\"\n\n\"Pooh--I'd rather not.\"\n\n\"But you shall--you ought to.  It is mean of 'ee not to!\"\n\n\"Very well.\"  And he hinted gently what had been revealed to him.\n\"But I don't wish to dwell upon it.  Let us say no more about it.\"\n\nHer defensive manner collapsed.  \"That was nothing,\" she said,\nlaughing coldly.  \"Every woman has a right to do such as that.  The\nrisk is hers.\"\n\n\"I quite deny it, Bella.  She might if no lifelong penalty attached\nto it for the man, or, in his default, for herself; if the weakness\nof the moment could end with the moment, or even with the year.\nBut when effects stretch so far she should not go and do that which\nentraps a man if he is honest, or herself if he is otherwise.\"\n\n\"What ought I to have done?\"\n\n\"Given me time...  Why do you fuss yourself about melting down that\npig's fat to-night?  Please put it away!\"\n\n\"Then I must do it to-morrow morning.  It won't keep.\"\n\n\"Very well--do.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Jude and Arabella have been fattening a pig all autumn, and it is now time for the killing. When Challow, the professional pig killer, is late, Jude is forced to kill the pig himself although he finds the job distasteful. Ignoring Arabella's instructions to let it bleed slowly, he kill the animal quickly and mercifully. The butcher arrives just as the pig is killed. That evening, returning home, Jude overhears Arabella's friends discussing how Arabella had tricked Jude with the pretended pregnancy and how they put her up to it. When Jude confronts Arabella, she is defiant and claims it is a woman's right to get her man by any means. Jude disagrees with her, arguing that to trap a man into such a marriage can have serious consequences, especially when it is unsuitable to both of them."}, {"": "427", "document": "ACT V   SCENE I\n\n  ORGON, CLEANTE\n\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Whither away so fast?\n\n  ORGON\n  How should I know?\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Methinks we should begin by taking counsel\n  To see what can be done to meet the case.\n\n  ORGON\n  I'm all worked up about that wretched box.\n  More than all else it drives me to despair.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  That box must hide some mighty mystery?\n\n  ORGON\n  Argas, my friend who is in trouble, brought it\n  Himself, most secretly, and left it with me.\n  He chose me, in his exile, for this trust;\n  And on these documents, from what he said,\n  I judge his life and property depend.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  How could you trust them to another's hands?\n\n  ORGON\n  By reason of a conscientious scruple.\n  I went straight to my traitor, to confide\n  In him; his sophistry made me believe\n  That I must give the box to him to keep,\n  So that, in case of search, I might deny\n  My having it at all, and still, by favour\n  Of this evasion, keep my conscience clear\n  Even in taking oath against the truth.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  Your case is bad, so far as I can see;\n  This deed of gift, this trusting of the secret\n  To him, were both--to state my frank opinion--\n  Steps that you took too lightly; he can lead you\n  To any length, with these for hostages;\n  And since he holds you at such disadvantage,\n  You'd be still more imprudent, to provoke him;\n  So you must go some gentler way about.\n\n  ORGON\n  What! Can a soul so base, a heart so false,\n  Hide neath the semblance of such touching fervour?\n  I took him in, a vagabond, a beggar! ...\n  'Tis too much! No more pious folk for me!\n  I shall abhor them utterly forever,\n  And henceforth treat them worse than any devil.\n\n  CLEANTE\n  So! There you go again, quite off the handle!\n  In nothing do you keep an even temper.\n  You never know what reason is, but always\n  Jump first to one extreme, and then the other.\n  You see your error, and you recognise\n  That you've been cozened by a feigned zeal;\n  But to make up for't, in the name of reason,\n  Why should you plunge into a worse mistake,\n  And find no difference in character\n  Between a worthless scamp, and all good people?\n  What! Just because a rascal boldly duped you\n  With pompous show of false austerity,\n  Must you needs have it everybody's like him,\n  And no one's truly pious nowadays?\n  Leave such conclusions to mere infidels;\n  Distinguish virtue from its counterfeit,\n  Don't give esteem too quickly, at a venture,\n  But try to keep, in this, the golden mean.\n  If you can help it, don't uphold imposture;\n  But do not rail at true devoutness, either;\n  And if you must fall into one extreme,\n  Then rather err again the other way.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At this point, Orgon is running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Cleante tries to calm him down. He asks him what's the matter. As it turns out, Orgon's fears were confirmed. Tartuffe has made off with the contents of the \"strongbox,\" also known as a safe. It seems that, long ago, Orgon's friend Argas brought him the box just before he, that is, Argas, fled the country. As far as Orgon knows, the papers contained within would ruin Argas's reputation if they were ever released. They're what you might call prime blackmail material...sort of like those nude photos of celebrities you hear about every once in a while. We don't know exactly what they are, but they were bad enough to send Argas fleeing from the government...and that's pretty bad. Cleante doesn't understand why Tartuffe would even know about such things. Orgon, it seems, saw fit to let Tartuffe hold onto the box; he felt guilty about keeping such a secret. Cleante, usually quick with advice, has nothing to say. Orgon has really messed things up this time. Orgon curses Tartuffe and swears that he'll never associate with \"pious men\" and that he'll \"persecute them worse than Satan could\" . Cleante tells Orgon to stop talking such drivel and wise up. One bad apple doesn't spoil the barrel, as far as Cleante is concerned, and if Orgon wants to prevent another debacle he has to stop taking things to the extreme. Cleante reminds him - and the audience - that there are truly righteous men out there and that, as long as he/they is/are cautious, he/they will be able to avoid frauds like Tartuffe."}, {"": "428", "document": "The SAME.  Cyrano.\n\nCYRANO (appearing from the tent, very calm, with a pen stuck behind his ear\nand a book in his hand):\n  What is wrong?\n(Silence.  To the first cadet):\n  Why drag you your legs so sorrowfully?\n\nTHE CADET:\n  I have something in my heels which weighs them down.\n\nCYRANO:\n  And what may that be?\n\nTHE CADET:\n  My stomach!\n\nCYRANO:\n  So have I, 'faith!\n\nTHE CADET:\n  It must be in your way?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Nay, I am all the taller.\n\nA THIRD:\n  My stomach's hollow.\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Faith, 'twill make a fine drum to sound the assault.\n\nANOTHER:\n  I have a ringing in my ears.\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, no, 'tis false; a hungry stomach has no ears.\n\nANOTHER:\n  Oh, to eat something--something oily!\n\nCYRANO (pulling off the cadet's helmet and holding it out to him):\n  Behold your salad!\n\nANOTHER:\n  What, in God's name, can we devour?\n\nCYRANO (throwing him the book which he is carrying):\n  The 'Iliad'.\n\nANOTHER:\n  The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day!\n\nCYRANO:\n  'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges!\n\nTHE SAME:\n  And why not? with wine, too!\n\nCYRANO:\n  A little Burgundy.  Richelieu, s'il vous plait!\n\nTHE SAME:\n  He could send it by one of his friars.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself.\n\nANOTHER:\n  I am as ravenous as an ogre!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Eat your patience, then.\n\nTHE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders):\n  Always your pointed word!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, pointed words!\n  I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve,\n  Making a pointed word for a good cause.\n  --To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword,\n  Wielded by some brave adversary--die\n  On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed,\n  A point upon my lips, a point within my heart.\n\nCRIES FROM ALL:\n  I'm hungry!\n\nCYRANO (crossing his arms):\n  All your thoughts of meat and drink!\n  Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,--\n  Draw from its double leathern case your fife,\n  Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers.  Play\n  Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring,\n  Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices,\n  Each note of which calls like a little sister,\n  Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths\n  Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets,\n  Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . .\n(The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready):\n  Your flute was now a warrior in durance;\n  But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing\n  A bird-like minuet!  O flute!  Remember\n  That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum;\n  Make us a music pastoral days recalling--\n  The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . .\n(The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc):\n  Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer\n  The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers\n  The flute of the woods!  No more the call to combat,\n  'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . .\n  Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest,\n  The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret,\n  The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,--\n  'Tis Gascony!  Hark, Gascons, to the music!\n\n(The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if\ndreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and\nthe corner of their cloaks.)\n\nCARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper):\n  But you make them weep!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, for homesickness.  A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of\nthe body!  I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera.  Heart-ache\nis better than stomach-ache.\n\nCARBON:\n  But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings!\n\nCYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach):\n  Not I.  The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them.\n'Twould suffice. . .\n\n(He makes a signal; the drum beats.)\n\nALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms):\n  What?  What is it?\n\nCYRANO (smiling):\n  You see!  One roll of the drum is enough!  Good-by dreams, regrets, native\nland, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away!\n\nA CADET (looking toward the back of the stage):\n  Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche.\n\nALL THE CADETS (muttering):\n  Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . .\n\nCYRANO (smiling):\n  A flattering welcome!\n\nA CADET:\n  We are sick to death of him!\n\nANOTHER CADET:\n  --With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman!\n\nANOTHER:\n  As if one wore linen over steel!\n\nTHE FIRST:\n  It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck.\n\nTHE SECOND:\n  Another plotting courtier!\n\nANOTHER CADET:\n  His uncle's own nephew!\n\nCARBON:\n  For all that--a Gascon.\n\nTHE FIRST:\n  Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . .\n  Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . .\n  Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon.\n\nLE BRET:\n  How pale he is!\n\nANOTHER:\n  Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its\nfine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun.\n\nCYRANO (hurriedly):\n  Let us not seem to suffer either!  Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . .\n(All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and\non their cloaks, and light long pipes):\n  And I shall read Descartes.\n\n(He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his\npocket.  Tableau.  Enter De Guiche.  All appear absorbed and happy.  He is\nvery pale.  He goes up to Carbon.)\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cyrano comes out of the tent and restores the men's morale with his witty banter. He gets a piper to play an old Gascon song, which reminds the men of their homeland. There is a murmur of disapproval as de Guiche is seen approaching. Cyrano asks the men to start a game of cards, so that de Guiche will not see them suffer"}, {"": "429", "document": "\n\nAFTER dinner the next day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to\ntake the train for Black Hawk. Antonia and her children gathered round my\nbuggy before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with\nfriendly faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When I\nreached the bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still there\nby the windmill. Antonia was waving her apron.\n\nAt the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy, resting his arm on the\nwheel-rim. Leo slipped through the fence and ran off into the pasture.\n\n\"That's like him,\" his brother said with a shrug. \"He's a crazy kid. Maybe\nhe's sorry to have you go, and maybe he's jealous. He's jealous of anybody\nmother makes a fuss over, even the priest.\"\n\nI found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant voice and his fine\nhead and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood there without a hat, the\nwind rippling his shirt about his brown neck and shoulders.\n\n\"Don't forget that you and Rudolph are going hunting with me up on the\nNiobrara next summer,\" I said. \"Your father's agreed to let you off after\nharvest.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I won't likely forget. I've never had such a nice thing\noffered to me before. I don't know what makes you so nice to us boys,\" he\nadded, blushing.\n\n\"Oh, yes you do!\" I said, gathering up my reins.\n\nHe made no answer to this, except to smile at me with unabashed pleasure\nand affection as I drove away.\n\n\n\nMy day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my old friends were dead\nor had moved away. Strange children, who meant nothing to me, were playing\nin the Harlings' big yard when I passed; the mountain ash had been cut\ndown, and only a sprouting stump was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that\nused to guard the gate. I hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with\nAnton Jelinek, under a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his\nsaloon. While I was having my mid-day dinner at the hotel, I met one of\nthe old lawyers who was still in practice, and he took me up to his office\nand talked over the Cutter case with me. After that, I scarcely knew how\nto put in the time until the night express was due.\n\nI took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land\nwas so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of\nearly times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I\nfelt at home again. Overhead the sky was that indescribable blue of\nautumn; bright and shadowless, hard as enamel. To the south I could see\nthe dun-shaded river bluffs that used to look so big to me, and all about\nstretched drying cornfields, of the pale-gold color I remembered so well.\nRussian thistles were blowing across the uplands and piling against the\nwire fences like barricades. Along the cattle paths the plumes of\ngolden-rod were already fading into sun-warmed velvet, gray with gold\nthreads in it. I had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over\nlittle towns, and my mind was full of pleasant things; trips I meant to\ntake with the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water.\nThere were enough Cuzaks to play with for a long while yet. Even after the\nboys grew up, there would always be Cuzak himself! I meant to tramp along\na few miles of lighted streets with Cuzak.\n\nAs I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble\nupon a bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north\ncountry; to my grandfather's farm, then on to the Shimerdas' and to the\nNorwegian settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the\nhighways were surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was\nall that was left of that old road which used to run like a wild thing\nacross the open prairie, clinging to the high places and circling and\ndoubling like a rabbit before the hounds. On the level land the tracks had\nalmost disappeared--were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would\nnot have noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was\neasy to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed\nthem so deep that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like\ngashes torn by a grizzly's claws, on the slopes where the farm wagons used\nto lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling muscles on\nthe smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks turn\nrosy in the slanting sunlight.\n\nThis was the road over which Antonia and I came on that night when we got\noff the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down in the straw, wondering\nchildren, being taken we knew not whither. I had only to close my eyes to\nhear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by\nthat obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near\nthat I could reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of\ncoming home to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man's\nexperience is. For Antonia and for me, this had been the road of Destiny;\nhad taken us to those early accidents of fortune which predetermined for\nus all that we can ever be. Now I understood that the same road was to\nbring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the\nprecious, the incommunicable past.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jim finally says good-bye and leaves for Black Hawk. Jim is sad to leave Ambrosch, whom he likes so much. He tells him and Rudolph that they'll go hunting together next summer. Jim doesn't enjoy his day in Black Hawk because he doesn't recognize most of the people there. He hangs out with Anton Jelinek and an old lawyer who fills him in on the details of the Cutter case. He walks outside of the town to look at the landscape. He feels at home again. He stumbles on the old road that leads out to his grandfather's old farm. It's mostly been ploughed under. Jim sits down and looks out at the sun. He remembers the night he arrived on the train from Virginia. He feels as though he and Antonia walked on the road of destiny to get where they are today, and that they possess the past together."}, {"": "430", "document": "CHAPTER III. OF THE CONSEQUENCE OR TRAYNE OF IMAGINATIONS\n\n\n\nBy Consequence, or Trayne of Thoughts, I understand that succession\nof one Thought to another, which is called (to distinguish it from\nDiscourse in words) Mentall Discourse.\n\nWhen a man thinketh on any thing whatsoever, His next Thought after, is\nnot altogether so casuall as it seems to be. Not every Thought to every\nThought succeeds indifferently. But as wee have no Imagination, whereof\nwe have not formerly had Sense, in whole, or in parts; so we have no\nTransition from one Imagination to another, whereof we never had the\nlike before in our Senses. The reason whereof is this. All Fancies\nare Motions within us, reliques of those made in the Sense: And those\nmotions that immediately succeeded one another in the sense, continue\nalso together after Sense: In so much as the former comming again to\ntake place, and be praedominant, the later followeth, by coherence of\nthe matter moved, is such manner, as water upon a plain Table is drawn\nwhich way any one part of it is guided by the finger. But because\nin sense, to one and the same thing perceived, sometimes one thing,\nsometimes another succeedeth, it comes to passe in time, that in the\nImagining of any thing, there is no certainty what we shall Imagine\nnext; Onely this is certain, it shall be something that succeeded the\nsame before, at one time or another.\n\n\n\n\nTrayne Of Thoughts Unguided\n\nThis Trayne of Thoughts, or Mentall Discourse, is of two sorts. The\nfirst is Unguided, Without Designee, and inconstant; Wherein there is no\nPassionate Thought, to govern and direct those that follow, to it self,\nas the end and scope of some desire, or other passion: In which case the\nthoughts are said to wander, and seem impertinent one to another, as\nin a Dream. Such are Commonly the thoughts of men, that are not onely\nwithout company, but also without care of any thing; though even then\ntheir Thoughts are as busie as at other times, but without harmony; as\nthe sound which a Lute out of tune would yeeld to any man; or in tune,\nto one that could not play. And yet in this wild ranging of the mind,\na man may oft-times perceive the way of it, and the dependance of one\nthought upon another. For in a Discourse of our present civill warre,\nwhat could seem more impertinent, than to ask (as one did) what was the\nvalue of a Roman Penny? Yet the Cohaerence to me was manifest enough.\nFor the Thought of the warre, introduced the Thought of the delivering\nup the King to his Enemies; The Thought of that, brought in the Thought\nof the delivering up of Christ; and that again the Thought of the 30\npence, which was the price of that treason: and thence easily followed\nthat malicious question; and all this in a moment of time; for Thought\nis quick.\n\n\n\n\nTrayne Of Thoughts Regulated\n\nThe second is more constant; as being Regulated by some desire, and\ndesignee. For the impression made by such things as wee desire, or\nfeare, is strong, and permanent, or, (if it cease for a time,) of quick\nreturn: so strong it is sometimes, as to hinder and break our sleep.\nFrom Desire, ariseth the Thought of some means we have seen produce the\nlike of that which we ayme at; and from the thought of that, the\nthought of means to that mean; and so continually, till we come to some\nbeginning within our own power. And because the End, by the greatnesse\nof the impression, comes often to mind, in case our thoughts begin to\nwander, they are quickly again reduced into the way: which observed by\none of the seven wise men, made him give men this praecept, which is\nnow worne out, Respice Finem; that is to say, in all your actions,\nlook often upon what you would have, as the thing that directs all your\nthoughts in the way to attain it.\n\n\n\n\nRemembrance\n\nThe Trayn of regulated Thoughts is of two kinds; One, when of an effect\nimagined, wee seek the causes, or means that produce it: and this\nis common to Man and Beast. The other is, when imagining any thing\nwhatsoever, wee seek all the possible effects, that can by it be\nproduced; that is to say, we imagine what we can do with it, when wee\nhave it. Of which I have not at any time seen any signe, but in man\nonely; for this is a curiosity hardly incident to the nature of any\nliving creature that has no other Passion but sensuall, such as are\nhunger, thirst, lust, and anger. In summe, the Discourse of the Mind,\nwhen it is governed by designee, is nothing but Seeking, or the faculty\nof Invention, which the Latines call Sagacitas, and Solertia; a hunting\nout of the causes, of some effect, present or past; or of the effects,\nof some present or past cause, sometimes a man seeks what he hath lost;\nand from that place, and time, wherein hee misses it, his mind runs\nback, from place to place, and time to time, to find where, and when\nhe had it; that is to say, to find some certain, and limited time and\nplace, in which to begin a method of seeking. Again, from thence, his\nthoughts run over the same places and times, to find what action, or\nother occasion might make him lose it. This we call Remembrance,\nor Calling to mind: the Latines call it Reminiscentia, as it were a\nRe-Conning of our former actions.\n\nSometimes a man knows a place determinate, within the compasse whereof\nhis is to seek; and then his thoughts run over all the parts thereof,\nin the same manner, as one would sweep a room, to find a jewell; or as\na Spaniel ranges the field, till he find a sent; or as a man should run\nover the alphabet, to start a rime.\n\n\n\n\nPrudence\n\nSometime a man desires to know the event of an action; and then he\nthinketh of some like action past, and the events thereof one after\nanother; supposing like events will follow like actions. As he that\nforesees what wil become of a Criminal, re-cons what he has seen follow\non the like Crime before; having this order of thoughts, The Crime,\nthe Officer, the Prison, the Judge, and the Gallowes. Which kind\nof thoughts, is called Foresight, and Prudence, or Providence; and\nsometimes Wisdome; though such conjecture, through the difficulty of\nobserving all circumstances, be very fallacious. But this is certain; by\nhow much one man has more experience of things past, than another; by\nso much also he is more Prudent, and his expectations the seldomer faile\nhim. The Present onely has a being in Nature; things Past have a being\nin the Memory onely, but things To Come have no being at all; the Future\nbeing but a fiction of the mind, applying the sequels of actions Past,\nto the actions that are Present; which with most certainty is done by\nhim that has most Experience; but not with certainty enough. And though\nit be called Prudence, when the Event answereth our Expectation; yet in\nits own nature, it is but Presumption. For the foresight of things to\ncome, which is Providence, belongs onely to him by whose will they are\nto come. From him onely, and supernaturally, proceeds Prophecy. The best\nProphet naturally is the best guesser; and the best guesser, he that is\nmost versed and studied in the matters he guesses at: for he hath most\nSignes to guesse by.\n\n\n\n\nSignes\n\nA Signe, is the Event Antecedent, of the Consequent; and contrarily,\nthe Consequent of the Antecedent, when the like Consequences have been\nobserved, before: And the oftner they have been observed, the lesse\nuncertain is the Signe. And therefore he that has most experience in\nany kind of businesse, has most Signes, whereby to guesse at the Future\ntime, and consequently is the most prudent: And so much more prudent\nthan he that is new in that kind of business, as not to be equalled by\nany advantage of naturall and extemporary wit: though perhaps many young\nmen think the contrary.\n\nNeverthelesse it is not Prudence that distinguisheth man from beast.\nThere be beasts, that at a year old observe more, and pursue that which\nis for their good, more prudently, than a child can do at ten.\n\n\n\n\nConjecture Of The Time Past\n\nAs Prudence is a Praesumtion of the Future, contracted from the\nExperience of time Past; So there is a Praesumtion of things Past taken\nfrom other things (not future but) past also. For he that hath seen\nby what courses and degrees, a flourishing State hath first come into\ncivill warre, and then to ruine; upon the sights of the ruines of any\nother State, will guesse, the like warre, and the like courses have been\nthere also. But his conjecture, has the same incertainty almost with the\nconjecture of the Future; both being grounded onely upon Experience.\n\nThere is no other act of mans mind, that I can remember, naturally\nplanted in him, so, as to need no other thing, to the exercise of it,\nbut to be born a man, and live with the use of his five Senses. Those\nother Faculties, of which I shall speak by and by, and which seem proper\nto man onely, are acquired, and encreased by study and industry; and of\nmost men learned by instruction, and discipline; and proceed all from\nthe invention of Words, and Speech. For besides Sense, and Thoughts, and\nthe Trayne of thoughts, the mind of man has no other motion; though by\nthe help of Speech, and Method, the same Facultyes may be improved to\nsuch a height, as to distinguish men from all other living Creatures.\n\nWhatsoever we imagine, is Finite. Therefore there is no Idea, or\nconception of anything we call Infinite. No man can have in his mind an\nImage of infinite magnitude; nor conceive the ends, and bounds of\nthe thing named; having no Conception of the thing, but of our own\ninability. And therefore the Name of GOD is used, not to make us\nconceive him; (for he is Incomprehensible; and his greatnesse, and power\nare unconceivable;) but that we may honour him. Also because whatsoever\n(as I said before,) we conceive, has been perceived first by sense,\neither all at once, or by parts; a man can have no thought, representing\nany thing, not subject to sense. No man therefore can conceive any\nthing, but he must conceive it in some place; and indued with some\ndeterminate magnitude; and which may be divided into parts; nor that any\nthing is all in this place, and all in another place at the same time;\nnor that two, or more things can be in one, and the same place at once:\nfor none of these things ever have, or can be incident to Sense; but are\nabsurd speeches, taken upon credit (without any signification at all,)\nfrom deceived Philosophers, and deceived, or deceiving Schoolemen.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "It's time to switch gears, in a manner of speaking. This chapter opens in England, where Deryn Sharp has fallen asleep on her aeronautics manual. Falling asleep on textbooks: we can relate. Her elder brother, Jaspert, wakes her up, and they bicker about the airman middy's test she'll be taking that day. Deryn tries on the clothes she'll be wearing for the test--and if all goes well, for a long time afterward. They're boy's clothes because Deryn is planning to pass as Dylan and get into the British Air Service. Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Deryn and Jaspert take an omnibus drawn by a hippoesque to the Wormwood Scrubs airship field. Deryn reflects on how unfair it is that she was born a girl and has to lie to fly, when she's so much better at it than so many boys. Ugh--for real. The new recruits line up on the ascension field, where officers try to intimidate them. Hey, some things never change, even in alternate universes. Jaspert gets her past Lieutenant Cook, who tells her to get in another line--he also notes that she's really skinny, but he doesn't seem to suspect anything."}, {"": "431", "document": "Cyrano, Christian, Roxane, the friar, Ragueneau.\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  'Tis here,--I'm sure of it--Madame Madeleine Robin.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Why, you said Ro-LIN.\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  No, not I.\n  B,I,N,BIN!\n\nROXANE (appearing on the threshold, followed by Ragueneau, who carries a\nlantern, and Christian):\n  What is't?\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  A letter.\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  What?\n\nTHE FRIAR (to Roxane):\n  Oh, it can boot but a holy business!\n  'Tis from a worthy lord. . .\n\nROXANE (to Christian):\n  De Guiche!\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  He dares. . .\n\nROXANE:\n  Oh, he will not importune me forever!\n(Unsealing the letter):\n  I love you,--therefore--\n(She reads in a low voice by the aid of Ragueneau's lantern):\n  'Lady,\n  The drums beat;\n  My regiment buckles its harness on\n  And starts; but I,--they deem me gone before--\n  But I stay.  I have dared to disobey\n  Your mandate.  I am here in convent walls.\n  I come to you to-night.  By this poor monk--\n  A simple fool who knows not what he bears--\n  I send this missive to apprise your ear.\n  Your lips erewhile have smiled on me, too sweet:\n  I go not ere I've seen them once again!\n  I would be private; send each soul away,\n  Receive alone him,--whose great boldness you\n  Have deigned, I hope, to pardon, ere he asks,--\n  He who is ever your--et cetera.'\n(To the monk):\n  Father, this is the matter of the letter:--\n(All come near her, and she reads aloud):\n  'Lady,\n  The Cardinal's wish is law; albeit\n  It be to you unwelcome.  For this cause\n  I send these lines--to your fair ear addressed--\n  By a holy man, discreet, intelligent:\n  It is our will that you receive from him,\n  In your own house, the marriage\n(She turns the page):\n      benediction\n  Straightway, this night.  Unknown to all the world\n  Christian becomes your husband.  Him we send.\n  He is abhorrent to your choice.  Let be.\n  Resign yourself, and this obedience\n  Will be by Heaven well recompensed.  Receive,\n  Fair lady, all assurance of respect,\n  From him who ever was, and still remains,\n  Your humble and obliged--et cetera.'\n\nTHE FRIAR (with great delight):\n  O worthy lord!  I knew naught was to fear;\n  It could be but holy business!\n\nROXANE (to Christian, in a low voice):\n  Am I not apt at reading letters?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  Hum!\n\nROXANE (aloud, with despair):\n  But this is horrible!\n\nTHE FRIAR (who has turned his lantern on Cyrano):\n  'Tis you?\n\nCHRISTIAN:\n  'Tis I!\n\nTHE FRIAR (turning the light on to him, and as if a doubt struck him on seeing\nhis beauty):\n  But. . .\n\nROXANE (quickly):\n  I have overlooked the postscript--see:--\n  'Give twenty pistoles for the Convent.'\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  . . .Oh!\n  Most worthy lord!\n(To Roxane):\n  Submit you?\n\nROXANE (with a martyr's look):\n  I submit!\n(While Ragueneau opens the door, and Christian invites the friar to enter, she\nwhispers to Cyrano):\n  Oh, keep De Guiche at bay!  He will be here!\n  Let him not enter till. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  I understand!\n(To the friar):\n  What time need you to tie the marriage-knot?\n\nTHE FRIAR:\n  A quarter of an hour.\n\nCYRANO (pushing them all toward the house):\n  Go!  I stay.\n\nROXANE (to Christian):\n  Come!. . .\n\n(They enter.)\n\nCYRANO:\n  Now, how to detain De Guiche so long?\n(He jumps on the bench, climbs to the balcony by the wall):\n  Come!. . .up I go!. . .I have my plan!. . .\n(The lutes begin to play a very sad air):\n  What, ho!\n(The tremolo grows more and more weird):\n  It is a man! ay! 'tis a man this time!\n(He is on the balcony, pulls his hat over his eyes, takes off his sword, wraps\nhimself in his cloak, then leans over):\n  'Tis not too high!\n(He strides across the balcony, and drawing to him a long branch of one of the\ntrees that are by the garden wall, he hangs on to it with both hands, ready to\nlet himself fall):\n  I'll shake this atmosphere!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "When Roxane opens the window again, Cyrano resumes talking in Christian's voice, giving a charming dissertation on a kiss. Roxane is so stirred by the words that she wants Christian to immediately come up and give her that \"matchless flower... of communion.\" Cyrano pushes Christian up towards the balcony so Christian can kiss the true love of them both. Cyrano interrupts Roxane and Christian, for the monk is returning, as signaled by the pages. Roxane offers to come down and see the monk, who is angry for being misled by Cyrano. The monk has been trying to find Roxane, for he has a letter for her, written and sent by De Guiche. Roxane reads the letter. De Guiche explains that he has not gone to Arras; instead, he has stayed behind in order to visit with Roxane, who is horrified at the news. She decides to do something rash. She will take advantage of the moment and the monk's presence. She tells the monk that the letter instructs him to marry her to Christian at once, for Cardinal Richelieu has ordered it. She pretends to oppose the idea and seems to be reluctant to go into the house to be married. Of course, she has really masterminded the whole thing. As she enters the house for the wedding, Roxane turns to Cyrano and asks him to delay De Guiche's arrival."}, {"": "432", "document": "\nThe office of the American consulate in the Adlergasse ran from the\nfront to the rear of the building. Carmichael's desk overlooked the\nstreet. But whenever a flying dream came to him he was wont to take his\npipe to the chair by the rear window, whence he could view the lofty\ncrests of the Jugendheit mountains. Directly below this window and\nrunning parallel with it was the _Biergarten_ of the Black Eagle.\n\nIt is a quiet tonic to the mind to look off, to gaze at sunlit,\ncloud-embraced mountain peaks, Walter Pater to the contrary.\nCarmichael's mind that morning needed quiet, and so he came to this\nwindow; and with a smoldering pipe let himself to dreams. He was still\nin the uniform of the royal hunt, a meet having taken place that\nmorning. He saw darling faces in the rugged outlines of the mountains,\nin the white clouds billowing across, in the patches of dazzling blue\nin between. Such is the fancy of a man in love!\n\nHis letter of resignation was on its way, but it would be in November\nbefore he heard definitely from the department. By that time the great\nsnows would have blanketed the earth, and the nadir of his discontent\nwould be reached. But what to do till that time? He could ride for some\nweeks, but riding without companionship was rather a lonesome affair.\nHis own defiance of the chancellor had erected an impassable barrier\nbetween her highness and himself. They would watch him now, evade him,\nput small obstacles in his path, obstacles against which he could enter\nno reasonable complaint. A withered leaf, a glove, and a fan; these\nrepresented the sum of his romance.\n\nTwo figures moved in the garden beneath. At first he gave no attention\nto them. But when the two heads came together swiftly, and then\nseparated, both smiling, he realized that he had witnessed a kiss. Ah,\nhere was the opportunity; and, by the Lord Harry, he would not let it\nslip. If this fellow meant wrongly toward Gretchen--and how could he\nmean else?--he, Carmichael, would take the matter boldly in his hands\nto do some caning. He laughed. Here would be another souvenir; to have\ncaned--\n\nHe jumped to his feet, dropped his pipe on the sill of the window, and\nmade for his hat and sword-cane. The clerk went on with his writing.\nNothing the consul did these days either alarmed or distracted him.\n\nTo gain the garden Carmichael would have to pass through the tavern. The\nfirst person he encountered was Colonel von Wallenstein. The sight of\nthis gentleman changed his plans for the moment. He had a presentiment\nthat this would became rather a complicated affair. He waited.\nWallenstein spoke to Fraeu Bauer, who answered him with cold civility.\nShe heartily despised this fine officer. Wallenstein twirled his\nmustache, laughed and went into the garden. Carmichael was in a\nquandary. What should he do?\n\nNeither Gretchen nor the vintner saw Wallenstein, who remained quietly\nby the door. He watched them with an evil smile. He would teach this\npretty fellow a lesson. After some deliberation he walked lightly toward\nthe lovers. They did not hear him till he was almost upon them.\n\n\"A pretty picture!\"\n\nGretchen colored and the vintner flushed, the one with dismay and the\nother with anger.\n\n\"A charming idyl!\"\n\n\"Leave us, Gretchen,\" said the vintner, with a deceiving gentleness.\n\nGretchen started reluctantly down the path, her glance bravely before\nher. She knew that Wallenstein would not move; so she determined to go\nround him. She was not afraid to leave her vintner alone with this\nofficer. But she miscalculated the colonel's reckless audacity. As she\nstepped off the path to go round him he grasped her rudely and kissed\nher on the cheek. She screamed as much in surprise as in anger.\n\nAnd this scream brought Carmichael upon the scene. He was witness to the\nsecond kiss. He saw the vintner run forward and dash his fist into the\nsoldier's face. Wallenstein, to whom such an assault was unexpected,\nfell back, hurt and blinded. The vintner, active as a cat, saw\nCarmichael coming on a run. He darted toward him, and before Carmichael\ncould prevent him, dragged the sword-cane away. The blade, thin and\npliant, flashed. And none too soon. The colonel had already drawn his\nsaber.\n\n\"Save him!\" Gretchen wrung her hands.\n\nThe two blades met spitefully, and there were method and science on both\nsides. But the sword-cane was no match for the broad, heavy saber. Half\na dozen thrusts and parries convinced the colonel that the raging youth\nknew what he was doing. Down swooped the saber cuttingly. The blade of\nthe sword-cane snapped like a pipe-stem. The vintner flung the broken\npart at the colonel's head. The latter dodged it and came on, and there\nwas death's intent.\n\nMeantime Carmichael had found a short hop-pole, and with this he took a\nhand in the contest. The pole was clumsy, but the tough wood was\nstronger than steel. He hit the saber with good-will. Back came the\nsteel. The colonel did not care whom or what he struck at now. When\nCarmichael returned the compliment he swung his hop-pole as the old\ncrusaders did their broadswords. And this made short work of the duel.\nThe saber dropped uninjured, but the colonel's arm dangled at his side.\nHe leaned back against the arbor, his teeth set in his lip, for he was\nin agony. Carmichael flung aside his primitive weapon, his anger abated\nnone.\n\n\"You're a fine example of a soldier! Are you mad to attack a man this\nway? They will break you for this, or my name's not Carmichael. You\ncouldn't leave her in peace, could you? Well, those two kisses will\nprove expensive.\"\n\n\"I shall kill you for this!\"\n\n\"Bah! I have fought more times than you have years to your counting,\"\nwith good Yankee spirit. \"But if you think I'll waste my time in\nfighting a duel with you, you're up the wrong tree.\"\n\n\"Go to the devil!\"\n\n\"Not just at present; there's too much for me to do. But this is my\nadvice to you: apply for a leave of absence and take the waters of\nWiesbaden. They are good for choleric dispositions. Now, I return the\ncompliment: go to the devil yourself, only choose a route that will not\ncross mine. That's all!\"\n\nGretchen and the vintner had vanished. Carmichael agreed that it was the\nbest thing for them to do. The vintner was no coward, but he was\ndiscreet. Somebody might ask questions. So Carmichael returned to the\nconsulate, equally indifferent what the colonel did or where he went. Of\nthe vintner he thought: \"The hot-headed young fool, to risk his life\nlike that!\" He would see later what he meant in regard to Gretchen. Poor\nlittle goose-girl! They would find that there was one man interested\nenough in her welfare to stand by her. His hands yet stung from the\ncontact of wood against steel, and his hair was damp at the edges. This\nwas a bit of old war-times.\n\n\"Are you hurt, Excellency?\" asked the clerk solicitously.\n\n\"Hurt?\"\n\n\"Yes. I heard a woman scream and ran to the window. It was a good fight.\nBut that fellow-_ach!_ To run away and leave you, an outsider, to fight\nhis battle!\"\n\n\"He would have been sliced in two if I hadn't come to the front. A\nhop-pole isn't half bad. I'll bet that lady's man has a bad arm for some\ntime to come. As for the vintner, he had good reasons for taking to his\nheels.\"\n\n\"Good reasons?\" But there was a sly look in the clerk's eyes.\n\n\"No questions, if you please. And tell no one, mind, what has taken\nplace.\"\n\n\"Very well, Excellency.\" And quietly the clerk returned to his table of\nfigures. But later he intended to write a letter, unsigned, to his\nserene highness.\n\nCarmichael, scowling, undertook to answer his mail, but not with any\nremarkable brilliancy or coherency.\n\nAnd in this condition of mind Grumbach found him; Grumbach, accompanied\nby the old clock-mender from across the way, and a Gipsy Carmichael had\nnever seen before.\n\n\"What's up, Hans?\"\n\n\"Tell your clerk to leave us,\" said Grumbach, his face as barren of\nexpression as a rock.\n\n\"Something serious, eh?\" Carmichael dismissed the clerk, telling him to\nreturn after the noon hour. \"Now, then,\" he said, \"what is the trouble?\"\n\n\"I have already spoken to you about it,\" Grumbach returned. \"The matter\nhas gone badly. But I am here to ask a favor, a great favor, one that\nwill need all your diplomacy to gain for me.\"\n\n\"Ah\"\n\n\"For myself I ask nothing. A horrible blunder has been made. You will go\nto the grand duke and ask immunity for this Gipsy and this clock-mender,\nas witnesses to the disclosure which I shall make to his highness.\nWithout this immunity my lips will be sealed for ever. As I said, I ask\nnothing for myself, nothing. There has been a great blunder and a great\nwrong, too; but God sent me here to right it. Will you do this?\"\n\n\"But I must know--,\" began Carmichael.\n\n\"You will know everything, once you obtain this concession from the\nduke.\"\n\n\"But why don't you want immunity for yourself?\"\n\n\"There must be some one for the duke to punish,\" heroically; \"otherwise\nhe will refuse.\"\n\n\"Still, suppose I bargain for you, too?\"\n\n\"When you tell him my name is Breunner there will be no bargaining.\"\n\n\"What has this clock-mender to do with the case?\"\n\n\"He is Count von Arnsberg.\"\n\n\"By George! And this Gipsy?\"\n\n\"The man who bribed me. Arnsberg is an innocent man; but this has to be\nproved, and you are going to help us prove it.\"\n\nAll this was in English; the Gipsy and the former chancellor understood\nlittle or nothing.\n\n\"I will do what I can, Hans, and I will let you know the result after\ndinner to-night.\"\n\n\"That will be enough. But unless he concedes, do not tell him our names.\nThat would be ruin and nothing gained.\"\n\n\"You have me a bit dazed,\" Carmichael admitted. \"I ought to know what\nthis blunder is, to have something to stand on.\"\n\nGrumbach shook his head. \"Later every question will be answered. And\nremember, at this interview Herbeck must not be present. It will have to\nbe broken to him gently.\"\n\n\"Very well; I promise to see his highness this afternoon.\"\n\nGrumbach translated the substance of this dialogue to his companions.\nThey approved. The three of them solemnly trooped out, leaving\nCarmichael bewildered. Alone, his mind searched a thousand channels, but\nthese were blind and led nowhere. Blunder, wrong? What did Grumbach mean\nby that? What kind of a blunder, and who was innocently wronged? No\nuse! And while he was thus racking his mind he heard steps on the\nstairs. These steps were hurried. The door above shut noisily.\n\n\"By George! I'll attend to that this minute. We'll see what stuff this\nyellow-haired boy is made of.\"\n\nHe mounted the stairs without sound. He grasped the handle of the door,\nboldly pushed it open, and entered, closing the door and placing his\nback against it.\n\nThe instant he saw the intruder the vintner snatched a pistol from the\ndrawer in the table and leveled it at Carmichael.\n\n\"Surely your majesty will not shoot an old friend?\"\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Surely your Majesty will not shoot an old friend?\"]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Next stop? The stables. Talone and Ani persuade the stable-master to give them some horses to ride on their journey. As luck would have it, many of the horses are already gone with the king and his men, so Ani gets stuck with the bay that Geric had trouble with on the first day. The stable-master doesn't think it's a good idea, but Ani insists. And they're off--with horses, clothes, and the location, the group all head to the king's other estate. As they ride, Talone reassures Ani that she's got the truth on her side, but Ani's worried about Selia's people-speaking gift. They talk over the impending war, and everyone realizes that Bayern will crush Kildenree like a bug if it goes forward. Enna asks Ani to tell them a story about war, so Ani recites one about women going to battle and men crying \"vanquished!\" Finn feels a little uneasy with the story, but Enna comforts him. Ani tells everyone to be careful--she doesn't want anyone to take risks because of her. Hey, Ani--it's a little late for that, don't you think? The next morning, Ani bathes in the river to get the layer of dirt off her body, and then she gets dressed in the green dress she took from Selia's room. Everyone recognizes that she is a princess when they see her; she's no longer a goose girl telling a story, but real-life, bona fide royalty. And it's time to ride and get her kingdom back."}, {"": "433", "document": "SCENE IV\n          PHAEDRA, OENONE, PANOPE\n\n\n          PANOPE\n          Fain would I hide from you tidings so sad,\n          But 'tis my duty, Madam, to reveal them.\n          The hand of death has seized your peerless husband,\n          And you are last to hear of this disaster.\n\n          OENONE\n          What say you, Panope?\n\n          PANOPE\n          The queen, deceived\n          By a vain trust in Heav'n, begs safe return\n          For Theseus, while Hippolytus his son\n          Learns of his death from vessels that are now\n          In port.\n\n          PHAEDRA\n          Ye gods!\n\n          PANOPE\n          Divided counsels sway\n          The choice of Athens; some would have the prince,\n          Your child, for master; others, disregarding\n          The laws, dare to support the stranger's son.\n          'Tis even said that a presumptuous faction\n          Would crown Aricia and the house of Pallas.\n          I deem'd it right to warn you of this danger.\n          Hippolytus already is prepared\n          To start, and should he show himself at Athens,\n          'Tis to be fear'd the fickle crowd will all\n          Follow his lead.\n\n          OENONE\n          Enough. The queen, who hears you,\n          By no means will neglect this timely warning.\n\n\n\n\nSCENE V\n          PHAEDRA, OENONE\n\n\n          OENONE\n          Dear lady, I had almost ceased to urge\n          The wish that you should live, thinking to follow\n          My mistress to the tomb, from which my voice\n          Had fail'd to turn you; but this new misfortune\n          Alters the aspect of affairs, and prompts\n          Fresh measures. Madam, Theseus is no more,\n          You must supply his place. He leaves a son,\n          A slave, if you should die, but, if you live,\n          A King. On whom has he to lean but you?\n          No hand but yours will dry his tears. Then live\n          For him, or else the tears of innocence\n          Will move the gods, his ancestors, to wrath\n          Against his mother. Live, your guilt is gone,\n          No blame attaches to your passion now.\n          The King's decease has freed you from the bonds\n          That made the crime and horror of your love.\n          Hippolytus no longer need be dreaded,\n          Him you may see henceforth without reproach.\n          It may be, that, convinced of your aversion,\n          He means to head the rebels. Undeceive him,\n          Soften his callous heart, and bend his pride.\n          King of this fertile land, in Troezen here\n          His portion lies; but as he knows, the laws\n          Give to your son the ramparts that Minerva\n          Built and protects. A common enemy\n          Threatens you both, unite them to oppose\n          Aricia.\n\n          PHAEDRA\n          To your counsel I consent.\n          Yes, I will live, if life can be restored,\n          If my affection for a son has pow'r\n          To rouse my sinking heart at such a dangerous hour.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "A servant arrives with startling news: Theseus is dead. Hippolytus has learned of his father's death from a ship just arrived in port, and Athens is in an uproar. A new ruler must be chosen: Some support the legitimate claim of Phaedra's oldest son, others favor Hippolytus, some even want to put Aricia on the throne. In the face of this new development, Oenone's view of Phaedra's problem changes. Almost ready to agree that Phaedra must die, she now points out that her queen must live to protect her son. Moreover, Theseus' death puts her in a new position in relation to Hippolytus. Her love for him may be indiscreet, but it is no longer incestuous. Hippolytus has a right to inherit Troezen, but Athens properly belongs to Phaedra's son. Phaedra must see her stepson and persuade him to support her just claim; indeed, it may be desirable for the two to unite to combat Aricia. Reluctantly, Phaedra consents."}, {"": "434", "document": "It was already late at night, and as dark as it ever would be at that\nseason of the year (and that is to say, it was still pretty bright),\nwhen Hoseason clapped his head into the round-house door.\n\n\"Here,\" said he, \"come out and see if ye can pilot.\"\n\n\"Is this one of your tricks?\" asked Alan.\n\n\"Do I look like tricks?\" cries the captain. \"I have other things to\nthink of--my brig's in danger!\"\n\nBy the concerned look of his face, and, above all, by the sharp tones in\nwhich he spoke of his brig, it was plain to both of us he was in deadly\nearnest; and so Alan and I, with no great fear of treachery, stepped on\ndeck.\n\nThe sky was clear; it blew hard, and was bitter cold; a great deal of\ndaylight lingered; and the moon, which was nearly full, shone brightly.\nThe brig was close hauled, so as to round the southwest corner of the\nIsland of Mull, the hills of which (and Ben More above them all, with a\nwisp of mist upon the top of it) lay full upon the lar-board bow. Though\nit was no good point of sailing for the Covenant, she tore through\nthe seas at a great rate, pitching and straining, and pursued by the\nwesterly swell.\n\nAltogether it was no such ill night to keep the seas in; and I had begun\nto wonder what it was that sat so heavily upon the captain, when the\nbrig rising suddenly on the top of a high swell, he pointed and cried to\nus to look. Away on the lee bow, a thing like a fountain rose out of the\nmoonlit sea, and immediately after we heard a low sound of roaring.\n\n\"What do ye call that?\" asked the captain, gloomily.\n\n\"The sea breaking on a reef,\" said Alan. \"And now ye ken where it is;\nand what better would ye have?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Hoseason, \"if it was the only one.\"\n\nAnd sure enough, just as he spoke there came a second fountain farther\nto the south.\n\n\"There!\" said Hoseason. \"Ye see for yourself. If I had kent of these\nreefs, if I had had a chart, or if Shuan had been spared, it's not sixty\nguineas, no, nor six hundred, would have made me risk my brig in sic a\nstoneyard! But you, sir, that was to pilot us, have ye never a word?\"\n\n\"I'm thinking,\" said Alan, \"these'll be what they call the Torran\nRocks.\"\n\n\"Are there many of them?\" says the captain.\n\n\"Truly, sir, I am nae pilot,\" said Alan; \"but it sticks in my mind there\nare ten miles of them.\"\n\nMr. Riach and the captain looked at each other.\n\n\"There's a way through them, I suppose?\" said the captain.\n\n\"Doubtless,\" said Alan, \"but where? But it somehow runs in my mind once\nmore that it is clearer under the land.\"\n\n\"So?\" said Hoseason. \"We'll have to haul our wind then, Mr. Riach; we'll\nhave to come as near in about the end of Mull as we can take her, sir;\nand even then we'll have the land to kep the wind off us, and that\nstoneyard on our lee. Well, we're in for it now, and may as well crack\non.\"\n\nWith that he gave an order to the steersman, and sent Riach to the\nforetop. There were only five men on deck, counting the officers; these\nbeing all that were fit (or, at least, both fit and willing) for their\nwork. So, as I say, it fell to Mr. Riach to go aloft, and he sat there\nlooking out and hailing the deck with news of all he saw.\n\n\"The sea to the south is thick,\" he cried; and then, after a while, \"it\ndoes seem clearer in by the land.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Hoseason to Alan, \"we'll try your way of it. But I\nthink I might as well trust to a blind fiddler. Pray God you're right.\"\n\n\"Pray God I am!\" says Alan to me. \"But where did I hear it? Well, well,\nit will be as it must.\"\n\nAs we got nearer to the turn of the land the reefs began to be sown here\nand there on our very path; and Mr. Riach sometimes cried down to us to\nchange the course. Sometimes, indeed, none too soon; for one reef was\nso close on the brig's weather board that when a sea burst upon it the\nlighter sprays fell upon her deck and wetted us like rain.\n\nThe brightness of the night showed us these perils as clearly as by day,\nwhich was, perhaps, the more alarming. It showed me, too, the face of\nthe captain as he stood by the steersman, now on one foot, now on the\nother, and sometimes blowing in his hands, but still listening and\nlooking and as steady as steel. Neither he nor Mr. Riach had shown\nwell in the fighting; but I saw they were brave in their own trade, and\nadmired them all the more because I found Alan very white.\n\n\"Ochone, David,\" says he, \"this is no the kind of death I fancy!\"\n\n\"What, Alan!\" I cried, \"you're not afraid?\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, wetting his lips, \"but you'll allow, yourself, it's a\ncold ending.\"\n\nBy this time, now and then sheering to one side or the other to avoid a\nreef, but still hugging the wind and the land, we had got round Iona and\nbegun to come alongside Mull. The tide at the tail of the land ran very\nstrong, and threw the brig about. Two hands were put to the helm, and\nHoseason himself would sometimes lend a help; and it was strange to\nsee three strong men throw their weight upon the tiller, and it (like a\nliving thing) struggle against and drive them back. This would have\nbeen the greater danger had not the sea been for some while free of\nobstacles. Mr. Riach, besides, announced from the top that he saw clear\nwater ahead.\n\n\"Ye were right,\" said Hoseason to Alan. \"Ye have saved the brig, sir.\nI'll mind that when we come to clear accounts.\" And I believe he not\nonly meant what he said, but would have done it; so high a place did the\nCovenant hold in his affections.\n\nBut this is matter only for conjecture, things having gone otherwise\nthan he forecast.\n\n\"Keep her away a point,\" sings out Mr. Riach. \"Reef to windward!\"\n\nAnd just at the same time the tide caught the brig, and threw the wind\nout of her sails. She came round into the wind like a top, and the next\nmoment struck the reef with such a dunch as threw us all flat upon the\ndeck, and came near to shake Mr. Riach from his place upon the mast.\n\nI was on my feet in a minute. The reef on which we had struck was close\nin under the southwest end of Mull, off a little isle they call Earraid,\nwhich lay low and black upon the larboard. Sometimes the swell broke\nclean over us; sometimes it only ground the poor brig upon the reef, so\nthat we could hear her beat herself to pieces; and what with the great\nnoise of the sails, and the singing of the wind, and the flying of the\nspray in the moonlight, and the sense of danger, I think my head must\nhave been partly turned, for I could scarcely understand the things I\nsaw.\n\nPresently I observed Mr. Riach and the seamen busy round the skiff, and,\nstill in the same blank, ran over to assist them; and as soon as I set\nmy hand to work, my mind came clear again. It was no very easy task, for\nthe skiff lay amidships and was full of hamper, and the breaking of the\nheavier seas continually forced us to give over and hold on; but we all\nwrought like horses while we could.\n\nMeanwhile such of the wounded as could move came clambering out of the\nfore-scuttle and began to help; while the rest that lay helpless in\ntheir bunks harrowed me with screaming and begging to be saved.\n\nThe captain took no part. It seemed he was struck stupid. He stood\nholding by the shrouds, talking to himself and groaning out aloud\nwhenever the ship hammered on the rock. His brig was like wife and\nchild to him; he had looked on, day by day, at the mishandling of poor\nRansome; but when it came to the brig, he seemed to suffer along with\nher.\n\nAll the time of our working at the boat, I remember only one other\nthing: that I asked Alan, looking across at the shore, what country it\nwas; and he answered, it was the worst possible for him, for it was a\nland of the Campbells.\n\nWe had one of the wounded men told off to keep a watch upon the seas and\ncry us warning. Well, we had the boat about ready to be launched, when\nthis man sang out pretty shrill: \"For God's sake, hold on!\" We knew\nby his tone that it was something more than ordinary; and sure enough,\nthere followed a sea so huge that it lifted the brig right up and canted\nher over on her beam. Whether the cry came too late, or my hold was too\nweak, I know not; but at the sudden tilting of the ship I was cast clean\nover the bulwarks into the sea.\n\nI went down, and drank my fill, and then came up, and got a blink of the\nmoon, and then down again. They say a man sinks a third time for good. I\ncannot be made like other folk, then; for I would not like to write how\noften I went down, or how often I came up again. All the while, I was\nbeing hurled along, and beaten upon and choked, and then swallowed\nwhole; and the thing was so distracting to my wits, that I was neither\nsorry nor afraid.\n\nPresently, I found I was holding to a spar, which helped me somewhat.\nAnd then all of a sudden I was in quiet water, and began to come to\nmyself.\n\nIt was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was amazed to see how far\nI had travelled from the brig. I hailed her, indeed; but it was plain\nshe was already out of cry. She was still holding together; but whether\nor not they had yet launched the boat, I was too far off and too low\ndown to see.\n\nWhile I was hailing the brig, I spied a tract of water lying between\nus where no great waves came, but which yet boiled white all over and\nbristled in the moon with rings and bubbles. Sometimes the whole tract\nswung to one side, like the tail of a live serpent; sometimes, for a\nglimpse, it would all disappear and then boil up again. What it was I\nhad no guess, which for the time increased my fear of it; but I now know\nit must have been the roost or tide race, which had carried me away so\nfast and tumbled me about so cruelly, and at last, as if tired of that\nplay, had flung out me and the spare yard upon its landward margin.\n\nI now lay quite becalmed, and began to feel that a man can die of cold\nas well as of drowning. The shores of Earraid were close in; I could see\nin the moonlight the dots of heather and the sparkling of the mica in\nthe rocks.\n\n\"Well,\" thought I to myself, \"if I cannot get as far as that, it's\nstrange!\"\n\nI had no skill of swimming, Essen Water being small in our\nneighbourhood; but when I laid hold upon the yard with both arms, and\nkicked out with both feet, I soon begun to find that I was moving. Hard\nwork it was, and mortally slow; but in about an hour of kicking\nand splashing, I had got well in between the points of a sandy bay\nsurrounded by low hills.\n\nThe sea was here quite quiet; there was no sound of any surf; the moon\nshone clear; and I thought in my heart I had never seen a place so\ndesert and desolate. But it was dry land; and when at last it grew so\nshallow that I could leave the yard and wade ashore upon my feet, I\ncannot tell if I was more tired or more grateful. Both, at least, I was:\ntired as I never was before that night; and grateful to God as I trust I\nhave been often, though never with more cause.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Loss of the Brig Hoseason comes to the Round-House and informs Alan and David that something is wrong. He asks them to come up, and points to several large rocks in the distance. Alan identifies them as the Torran Rocks, a series of large boulders that just out of the sea and pose a danger to ships. Alan is not sure, but he thinks there are fewer rocks closer to shore. Hoseason swings the ship closer to the shore, off the islet of Earraid, and just as the Covenant seems like it will make it through, the ship strikes a reef. The men scramble to try and prepare a lifeboat, but David gets washed overboard. He grabs a piece of wood and hangs on until he is thrown up on the shore, thanking God that he is alive"}, {"": "435", "document": "\n\"So this is it, this is it at last--contact with real life,\" I muttered\nas I ran headlong downstairs.  \"This is very different from the Pope's\nleaving Rome and going to Brazil, very different from the ball on Lake\nComo!\"\n\n\"You are a scoundrel,\" a thought flashed through my mind, \"if you laugh\nat this now.\"\n\n\"No matter!\" I cried, answering myself.  \"Now everything is lost!\"\n\nThere was no trace to be seen of them, but that made no difference--I\nknew where they had gone.\n\nAt the steps was standing a solitary night sledge-driver in a rough\npeasant coat, powdered over with the still falling, wet, and as it were\nwarm, snow.  It was hot and steamy.  The little shaggy piebald horse\nwas also covered with snow and coughing, I remember that very well.  I\nmade a rush for the roughly made sledge; but as soon as I raised my\nfoot to get into it, the recollection of how Simonov had just given me\nsix roubles seemed to double me up and I tumbled into the sledge like a\nsack.\n\n\"No, I must do a great deal to make up for all that,\" I cried.  \"But I\nwill make up for it or perish on the spot this very night.  Start!\"\n\nWe set off.  There was a perfect whirl in my head.\n\n\"They won't go down on their knees to beg for my friendship.  That is a\nmirage, cheap mirage, revolting, romantic and fantastical--that's\nanother ball on Lake Como.  And so I am bound to slap Zverkov's face!\nIt is my duty to.  And so it is settled; I am flying to give him a slap\nin the face. Hurry up!\"\n\nThe driver tugged at the reins.\n\n\"As soon as I go in I'll give it him.  Ought I before giving him the\nslap to say a few words by way of preface?  No. I'll simply go in and\ngive it him. They will all be sitting in the drawing-room, and he with\nOlympia on the sofa.  That damned Olympia!  She laughed at my looks on\none occasion and refused me.  I'll pull Olympia's hair, pull Zverkov's\nears!  No, better one ear, and pull him by it round the room.  Maybe\nthey will all begin beating me and will kick me out.  That's most\nlikely, indeed.  No matter! Anyway, I shall first slap him; the\ninitiative will be mine; and by the laws of honour that is everything:\nhe will be branded and cannot wipe off the slap by any blows, by\nnothing but a duel.  He will be forced to fight.  And let them beat me\nnow.  Let them, the ungrateful wretches!  Trudolyubov will beat me\nhardest, he is so strong; Ferfitchkin will be sure to catch hold\nsideways and tug at my hair.  But no matter, no matter!  That's what I\nam going for.  The blockheads will be forced at last to see the tragedy\nof it all! When they drag me to the door I shall call out to them that\nin reality they are not worth my little finger.  Get on, driver, get\non!\" I cried to the driver. He started and flicked his whip, I shouted\nso savagely.\n\n\"We shall fight at daybreak, that's a settled thing.  I've done with\nthe office.  Ferfitchkin made a joke about it just now.  But where can\nI get pistols?  Nonsense!  I'll get my salary in advance and buy them.\nAnd powder, and bullets?  That's the second's business.  And how can it\nall be done by daybreak?  and where am I to get a second?  I have no\nfriends. Nonsense!\" I cried, lashing myself up more and more.  \"It's of\nno consequence! The first person I meet in the street is bound to be my\nsecond, just as he would be bound to pull a drowning man out of water.\nThe most eccentric things may happen.  Even if I were to ask the\ndirector himself to be my second tomorrow, he would be bound to\nconsent, if only from a feeling of chivalry, and to keep the secret!\nAnton Antonitch....\"\n\nThe fact is, that at that very minute the disgusting absurdity of my\nplan and the other side of the question was clearer and more vivid to\nmy imagination than it could be to anyone on earth.  But ....\n\n\"Get on, driver, get on, you rascal, get on!\"\n\n\"Ugh, sir!\" said the son of toil.\n\nCold shivers suddenly ran down me.  Wouldn't it be better ... to go\nstraight home?  My God, my God!  Why did I invite myself to this dinner\nyesterday?  But no, it's impossible.  And my walking up and down for\nthree hours from the table to the stove?  No, they, they and no one\nelse must pay for my walking up and down!  They must wipe out this\ndishonour! Drive on!\n\nAnd what if they give me into custody?  They won't dare!  They'll be\nafraid of the scandal.  And what if Zverkov is so contemptuous that he\nrefuses to fight a duel?  He is sure to; but in that case I'll show\nthem ... I will turn up at the posting station when he's setting off\ntomorrow, I'll catch him by the leg, I'll pull off his coat when he\ngets into the carriage. I'll get my teeth into his hand, I'll bite him.\n\"See what lengths you can drive a desperate man to!\" He may hit me on\nthe head and they may belabour me from behind.  I will shout to the\nassembled multitude: \"Look at this young puppy who is driving off to\ncaptivate the Circassian girls after letting me spit in his face!\"\n\nOf course, after that everything will be over!  The office will have\nvanished off the face of the earth.  I shall be arrested, I shall be\ntried, I shall be dismissed from the service, thrown in prison, sent to\nSiberia. Never mind!  In fifteen years when they let me out of prison I\nwill trudge off to him, a beggar, in rags.  I shall find him in some\nprovincial town.  He will be married and happy.  He will have a\ngrown-up daughter.... I shall say to him: \"Look, monster, at my hollow\ncheeks and my rags!  I've lost everything--my career, my happiness,\nart, science, THE WOMAN I LOVED, and all through you.  Here are\npistols.  I have come to discharge my pistol and ... and I ... forgive\nyou.  Then I shall fire into the air and he will hear nothing more of\nme....\"\n\nI was actually on the point of tears, though I knew perfectly well at\nthat moment that all this was out of Pushkin's SILVIO and Lermontov's\nMASQUERADE. And all at once I felt horribly ashamed, so ashamed that I\nstopped the horse, got out of the sledge, and stood still in the snow\nin the middle of the street.  The driver gazed at me, sighing and\nastonished.\n\nWhat was I to do?  I could not go on there--it was evidently stupid,\nand I could not leave things as they were, because that would seem as\nthough ... Heavens, how could I leave things!  And after such insults!\n\"No!\" I cried, throwing myself into the sledge again.  \"It is ordained!\nIt is fate!  Drive on, drive on!\"\n\nAnd in my impatience I punched the sledge-driver on the back of the\nneck.\n\n\"What are you up to?  What are you hitting me for?\" the peasant\nshouted, but he whipped up his nag so that it began kicking.\n\nThe wet snow was falling in big flakes; I unbuttoned myself, regardless\nof it.  I forgot everything else, for I had finally decided on the\nslap, and felt with horror that it was going to happen NOW, AT ONCE,\nand that NO FORCE COULD STOP IT.  The deserted street lamps gleamed\nsullenly in the snowy darkness like torches at a funeral.  The snow\ndrifted under my great-coat, under my coat, under my cravat, and melted\nthere.  I did not wrap myself up--all was lost, anyway.\n\nAt last we arrived.  I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps\nand began knocking and kicking at the door.  I felt fearfully weak,\nparticularly in my legs and knees.  The door was opened quickly as\nthough they knew I was coming.  As a fact, Simonov had warned them that\nperhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which\none had to give notice and to observe certain precautions.  It was one\nof those \"millinery establishments\" which were abolished by the police\na good time ago.  By day it really was a shop; but at night, if one had\nan introduction, one might visit it for other purposes.\n\nI walked rapidly through the dark shop into the familiar drawing-room,\nwhere there was only one candle burning, and stood still in amazement:\nthere was no one there.  \"Where are they?\" I asked somebody. But by\nnow, of course, they had separated.  Before me was standing a person\nwith a stupid smile, the \"madam\" herself, who had seen me before.  A\nminute later a door opened and another person came in.\n\nTaking no notice of anything I strode about the room, and, I believe, I\ntalked to myself.  I felt as though I had been saved from death and was\nconscious of this, joyfully, all over: I should have given that slap, I\nshould certainly, certainly have given it!  But now they were not here\nand ... everything had vanished and changed!  I looked round.  I could\nnot realise my condition yet.  I looked mechanically at the girl who\nhad come in: and had a glimpse of a fresh, young, rather pale face,\nwith straight, dark eyebrows, and with grave, as it were wondering,\neyes that attracted me at once; I should have hated her if she had been\nsmiling.  I began looking at her more intently and, as it were, with\neffort.  I had not fully collected my thoughts.  There was something\nsimple and good-natured in her face, but something strangely grave.  I\nam sure that this stood in her way here, and no one of those fools had\nnoticed her.  She could not, however, have been called a beauty, though\nshe was tall, strong-looking, and well built.  She was very simply\ndressed.  Something loathsome stirred within me.  I went straight up to\nher.\n\nI chanced to look into the glass.  My harassed face struck me as\nrevolting in the extreme, pale, angry, abject, with dishevelled hair.\n\"No matter, I am glad of it,\" I thought; \"I am glad that I shall seem\nrepulsive to her; I like that.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Entering the establishment, the Underground Man prepares to start another fight, which can only find resolution in a duel. Inside he doesn't rendezvous with his acquaintances, however, but notices a certain woman instead"}, {"": "436", "document": "NOTHING can be more uniform and undiversified than the life of the\nTypees; one tranquil day of ease and happiness follows another in quiet\nsuccession; and with these unsophisicated savages the history of a\nday is the history of a life. I will, therefore, as briefly as I can,\ndescribe one of our days in the valley.\n\nTo begin with the morning. We were not very early risers--the sun would\nbe shooting his golden spikes above the Happar mountain, ere I threw\naside my tappa robe, and girding my long tunic about my waist, sallied\nout with Fayaway and Kory-Kory, and the rest of the household, and bent\nmy steps towards the stream. Here we found congregated all those who\ndwelt in our section of the valley; and here we bathed with them. The\nfresh morning air and the cool flowing waters put both soul and body in\na glow, and after a half-hour employed in this recreation, we sauntered\nback to the house--Tinor and Marheyo gathering dry sticks by the way\nfor fire-wood; some of the young men laying the cocoanut trees under\ncontribution as they passed beneath them; while Kory-Kory played his\noutlandish pranks for my particular diversion, and Fayaway and I, not\narm in arm to be sure, but sometimes hand in hand, strolled along, with\nfeelings of perfect charity for all the world, and especial good-will\ntowards each other.\n\nOur morning meal was soon prepared. The islanders are somewhat\nabstemious at this repast; reserving the more powerful efforts of\ntheir appetite to a later period of the day. For my own part, with the\nassistance of my valet, who, as I have before stated, always officiated\nas spoon on these occasions, I ate sparingly from one of Tinor's\ntrenchers, of poee-poee; which was devoted exclusively for my own use,\nbeing mixed with the milky meat of ripe cocoanut. A section of a roasted\nbread-fruit, a small cake of 'Amar', or a mess of 'Cokoo,' two or three\nbananas, or a mammee-apple; an annuee, or some other agreeable and\nnutritious fruit served from day to day to diversify the meal, which was\nfinished by tossing off the liquid contents of a young cocoanut or two.\n\nWhile partaking of this simple repast, the inmates of Marheyo's house,\nafter the style of the ancient Romans, reclined in sociable groups upon\nthe divan of mats, and digestion was promoted by cheerful conversation.\n\nAfter the morning meal was concluded, pipes were lighted; and among them\nmy own especial pipe, a present from the noble Mehevi.\n\nThe islanders, who only smoke a whiff or two at a time, and at long\nintervals, and who keep their pipes going from hand to hand continually,\nregarded my systematic smoking of four or five pipefuls of tobacco in\nsuccession, as something quite wonderful. When two or three pipes had\ncirculated freely, the company gradually broke up. Marheyo went to the\nlittle hut he was forever building. Tinor began to inspect her rolls of\ntappa, or employed her busy fingers in plaiting grass-mats. The girls\nanointed themselves with their fragrant oils, dressed their hair, or\nlooked over their curious finery, and compared together their ivory\ntrinkets, fashioned out of boar's tusks or whale's teeth. The young men\nand warriors produced their spears, paddles, canoe-gear, battle-clubs,\nand war-conchs, and occupied themselves in carving, all sorts of figures\nupon them with pointed bits of shell or flint, and adorning them,\nespecially the war-conchs, with tassels of braided bark and tufts of\nhuman hair. Some, immediately after eating, threw themselves once more\nupon the inviting mats, and resumed the employment of the previous\nnight, sleeping as soundly as if they had not closed their eyes for a\nweek. Others sallied out into the groves, for the purpose of gathering\nfruit or fibres of bark and leaves; the last two being in constant\nrequisition, and applied to a hundred uses. A few, perhaps, among the\ngirls, would slip into the woods after flowers, or repair to the stream\nwill; small calabashes and cocoanut shells, in order to polish them\nby friction with a smooth stone in the water. In truth these innocent\npeople seemed to be at no loss for something to occupy their time; and\nit would be no light task to enumerate all their employments, or rather\npleasures.\n\nMy own mornings I spent in a variety of ways. Sometimes I rambled about\nfrom house to house, sure of receiving a cordial welcome wherever I\nwent; or from grove to grove, and from one shady place to another, in\ncompany with Kory-Kory and Fayaway, and a rabble rout of merry young\nidlers. Sometimes I was too indolent for exercise, and accepting one of\nthe many invitations I was continually receiving, stretched myself out\non the mats of some hospitable dwelling, and occupied myself pleasantly\neither in watching the proceedings of those around me or taking part\nin them myself. Whenever I chose to do the latter, the delight of the\nislanders was boundless; and there was always a throng of competitors\nfor the honour of instructing me in any particular craft. I soon became\nquite an accomplished hand at making tappa--could braid a grass sling as\nwell as the best of them--and once, with my knife, carved the handle of\na javelin so exquisitely, that I have no doubt, to this day, Karnoonoo,\nits owner, preserves it as a surprising specimen of my skill. As noon\napproached, all those who had wandered forth from our habitation, began\nto return; and when midday was fairly come scarcely a sound was to be\nheard in the valley: a deep sleep fell upon all. The luxurious siesta\nwas hardly ever omitted, except by old Marheyo, who was so eccentric\na character, that he seemed to be governed by no fixed principles\nwhatever; but acting just according to the humour of the moment,\nslept, ate, or tinkered away at his little hut, without regard to the\nproprieties of time or place. Frequently he might have been seen taking\na nap in the sun at noon-day, or a bath in the stream of mid-night.\nOnce I beheld him perched eighty feet from the ground, in the tuft of a\ncocoanut tree, smoking; and often I saw him standing up to the waist\nin water, engaged in plucking out the stray hairs of his beard, using a\npiece of muscle-shell for tweezers.\n\nThe noon-tide slumber lasted generally an hour and a half: very often\nlonger; and after the sleepers had arisen from their mats they again\nhad recourse to their pipes, and then made preparations for the most\nimportant meal of the day.\n\nI, however, like those gentlemen of leisure who breakfast at home and\ndine at their club, almost invariably, during my intervals of health,\nenjoyed the afternoon repast with the bachelor chiefs of the Ti, who\nwere always rejoiced to see me, and lavishly spread before me all the\ngood things which their larder afforded. Mehevi generally introduced\namong other dainties a baked pig, an article which I have every reason\nto suppose was provided for my sole gratification.\n\nThe Ti was a right jovial place. It did my heart, as well as my body,\ngood to visit it. Secure from female intrusion, there was no restraint\nupon the hilarity of the warriors, who, like the gentlemen of Europe\nafter the cloth is drawn and the ladies retire, freely indulged their\nmirth.\n\nAfter spending a considerable portion of the afternoon at the Ti, I\nusually found myself, as the cool of the evening came on, either sailing\non the little lake with Fayaway, or bathing in the waters of the\nstream with a number of the savages, who, at this hour, always repaired\nthither. As the shadows of night approached Marheyo's household were\nonce more assembled under his roof: tapers were lit, long curious chants\nwere raised, interminable stories were told (for which one present was\nlittle the wiser), and all sorts of social festivities served to while\naway the time.\n\nThe young girls very often danced by moonlight in front of their\ndwellings. There are a great variety of these dances, in which, however,\nI never saw the men take part. They all consist of active, romping,\nmischievous evolutions, in which every limb is brought into requisition.\nIndeed, the Marquesan girls dance all over, as it were; not only do\ntheir feet dance, but their arms, hands, fingers, ay, their very eyes,\nseem to dance in their heads.\n\nThe damsels wear nothing but flowers and their compendious gala tunics;\nand when they plume themselves for the dance, they look like a band of\nolive-coloured Sylphides on the point of taking wing. In good sooth,\nthey so sway their floating forms, arch their necks, toss aloft their\nnaked arms, and glide, and swim, and whirl, that it was almost too much\nfor a quiet, sober-minded, modest young man like myself.\n\nUnless some particular festivity was going forward, the inmates of\nMarheyo's house retired to their mats rather early in the evening; but\nnot for the night, since, after slumbering lightly for a while, they\nrose again, relit their tapers, partook of the third and last meal of\nthe day, at which poee-poee alone was eaten, and then, after inhaling a\nnarcotic whiff from a pipe of tobacco, disposed themselves for the great\nbusiness of night, sleep. With the Marquesans it might almost most be\nstyled the great business of life, for they pass a large portion\nof their time in the arms of Somnus. The native strength of their\nconstitution is no way shown more emphatically than in the quantity of\nsleep they can endure. To many of them, indeed, life is little else than\nan often interrupted and luxurious nap.\n\n\n", "summary": "In order to best describe Typee life, the narrator profiles a typical day. Usually, they wake late, after the sun is up. Then they rise and bathe in a nearby refreshing stream. A light breakfast is enjoyed and then pipes are smoked. After breakfast, people tend to whatever they like. Tinor inspects her cloth and food supplies; Marheyo works on his hut; the girls adorn their hair and skin with oils. The narrator usually wanders with Kory-Kory or else sits inside. Then they enjoy a midday nap. Usually in the afternoon, the narrator goes to the Ti, where Mehevi and the other chiefs gather. Since women are not allowed in the Ti, it resembles a happy bachelor pad where the best food can be found and where the men sit around smoking and talking. After night falls, a light evening meal of \"poee-poee,\" cooked breadfruit, is eaten. Native girls often dance around their huts under the moonlight. Everyone then sleeps. In general, life with the Typees resembles a continual gentle slumber, with activities in between"}, {"": "437", "document": "\nA very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of Rum\nAlley.  He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's Row who\nwere circling madly about the heap and pelting at him.\n\nHis infantile countenance was livid with fury.  His small body was\nwrithing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths.\n\n\"Run, Jimmie, run!  Dey'll get yehs,\" screamed a retreating Rum Alley\nchild.\n\n\"Naw,\" responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, \"dese micks can't make me\nrun.\"\n\nHowls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats.  Tattered\ngamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel heap.  On\ntheir small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of true assassins.\nAs they charged, they threw stones and cursed in shrill chorus.\n\nThe little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down the other\nside.  His coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and his hat was\ngone.  He had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and blood was\ndripping from a cut in his head.  His wan features wore a look of a\ntiny, insane demon.\n\nOn the ground, children from Devil's Row closed in on their antagonist.\nHe crooked his left arm defensively about his head and fought with\ncursing fury.  The little boys ran to and fro, dodging, hurling stones\nand swearing in barbaric trebles.\n\nFrom a window of an apartment house that upreared its form from amid\nsquat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman.  Some laborers,\nunloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for a moment and\nregarded the fight.  The engineer of a passive tugboat hung lazily to a\nrailing and watched.  Over on the Island, a worm of yellow convicts\ncame from the shadow of a building and crawled slowly along the river's\nbank.\n\nA stone had smashed into Jimmie's mouth.  Blood was bubbling over his\nchin and down upon his ragged shirt.  Tears made furrows on his\ndirt-stained cheeks.  His thin legs had begun to tremble and turn weak,\ncausing his small body to reel.  His roaring curses of the first part\nof the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter.\n\nIn the yells of the whirling mob of Devil's Row children there were\nnotes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery.  The little boys seemed\nto leer gloatingly at the blood upon the other child's face.\n\nDown the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen years,\nalthough the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat upon his\nlips.  His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over his eye.\nBetween his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle of defiance.\nHe walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which appalled the\ntimid.  He glanced over into the vacant lot in which the little raving\nboys from Devil's Row seethed about the shrieking and tearful child\nfrom Rum Alley.\n\n\"Gee!\" he murmured with interest.  \"A scrap.  Gee!\"\n\nHe strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders in a\nmanner which denoted that he held victory in his fists.  He approached\nat the back of one of the most deeply engaged of the Devil's Row\nchildren.\n\n\"Ah, what deh hell,\" he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one on the\nback of the head.  The little boy fell to the ground and gave a hoarse,\ntremendous howl.  He scrambled to his feet, and perceiving, evidently,\nthe size of his assailant, ran quickly off, shouting alarms.  The\nentire Devil's Row party followed him.  They came to a stand a short\ndistance away and yelled taunting oaths at the boy with the chronic\nsneer.  The latter, momentarily, paid no attention to them.\n\n\"What deh hell, Jimmie?\" he asked of the small champion.\n\nJimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve.\n\n\"Well, it was dis way, Pete, see!  I was goin' teh lick dat Riley kid\nand dey all pitched on me.\"\n\nSome Rum Alley children now came forward.  The party stood for a moment\nexchanging vainglorious remarks with Devil's Row.  A few stones were\nthrown at long distances, and words of challenge passed between small\nwarriors.  Then the Rum Alley contingent turned slowly in the direction\nof their home street.  They began to give, each to each, distorted\nversions of the fight.  Causes of retreat in particular cases were\nmagnified.  Blows dealt in the fight were enlarged to catapultian\npower, and stones thrown were alleged to have hurtled with infinite\naccuracy.  Valor grew strong again, and the little boys began to swear\nwith great spirit.\n\n\"Ah, we blokies kin lick deh hull damn Row,\" said a child, swaggering.\n\nLittle Jimmie was striving to stanch the flow of blood from his cut\nlips.  Scowling, he turned upon the speaker.\n\n\"Ah, where deh hell was yeh when I was doin' all deh fightin?\" he\ndemanded.  \"Youse kids makes me tired.\"\n\n\"Ah, go ahn,\" replied the other argumentatively.\n\nJimmie replied with heavy contempt.  \"Ah, youse can't fight, Blue\nBillie!  I kin lick yeh wid one han'.\"\n\n\"Ah, go ahn,\" replied Billie again.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Jimmie threateningly.\n\n\"Ah,\" said the other in the same tone.\n\nThey struck at each other, clinched, and rolled over on the cobble\nstones.\n\n\"Smash 'im, Jimmie, kick deh damn guts out of 'im,\" yelled Pete, the\nlad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight.\n\nThe small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore.  They\nbegan to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs.\nThe other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their legs in\nexcitement.  They formed a bobbing circle about the pair.\n\nA tiny spectator was suddenly agitated.\n\n\"Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it!  Here comes yer fader,\" he yelled.\n\nThe circle of little boys instantly parted.  They drew away and waited\nin ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen.  The two little\nboys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago, did not hear the\nwarning.\n\nUp the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes.  He was\ncarrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe.\n\nAs he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he regarded them\nlistlessly.  But suddenly he roared an oath and advanced upon the\nrolling fighters.\n\n\"Here, you Jim, git up, now, while I belt yer life out, you damned\ndisorderly brat.\"\n\nHe began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground.  The boy Billie\nfelt a heavy boot strike his head.  He made a furious effort and\ndisentangled himself from Jimmie.  He tottered away, damning.\n\nJimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his father,\nbegan to curse him.  His parent kicked him.  \"Come home, now,\" he\ncried, \"an' stop yer jawin', er I'll lam the everlasting head off yehs.\"\n\nThey departed.  The man paced placidly along with the apple-wood emblem\nof serenity between his teeth.  The boy followed a dozen feet in the\nrear.  He swore luridly, for he felt that it was degradation for one\nwho aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of blood with a sort of\nsublime license, to be taken home by a father.\n\n\n", "summary": "Spoiler alert: This book starts at the bottom of the heap and ends at the, er, bottomer of the heap. The book opens with violence . A ragamuffin named Jimmie is fighting with other Bowery neighborhood urchins to represent Rum Alley--a seriously down-and-out area--against the thugs from Devil's Row. These kids don't pull any punches, and Jimmie is good to go, though he's outnumbered. Luckily, a bigger kid named Pete come to the rescue... sort of. At least he provides some cheerleading. Pete's too cool for school, with a sneer and a cigar stump, but he helps Jimmie, so how bad can he be? Another fight flares up with some more kicking and pounding, but this time Jimmie's dad arrives on the scene and gives his son a swift kick to the head. With that, it's time to go home."}, {"": "438", "document": "\n    \"One of us two must bowen douteless,\n     And, sith a man is more reasonable\n     Than woman is, ye [men] moste be suffrable.\n                             --CHAUCER: Canterbury Tales.\n\n\nThe bias of human nature to be slow in correspondence triumphs even\nover the present quickening in the general pace of things: what wonder\nthen that in 1832 old Sir Godwin Lydgate was slow to write a letter\nwhich was of consequence to others rather than to himself?  Nearly\nthree weeks of the new year were gone, and Rosamond, awaiting an answer\nto her winning appeal, was every day disappointed.  Lydgate, in total\nignorance of her expectations, was seeing the bills come in, and\nfeeling that Dover's use of his advantage over other creditors was\nimminent.  He had never mentioned to Rosamond his brooding purpose of\ngoing to Quallingham: he did not want to admit what would appear to her\na concession to her wishes after indignant refusal, until the last\nmoment; but he was really expecting to set off soon.  A slice of the\nrailway would enable him to manage the whole journey and back in four\ndays.\n\nBut one morning after Lydgate had gone out, a letter came addressed to\nhim, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from Sir Godwin.  She was full of\nhope.  Perhaps there might be a particular note to her enclosed; but\nLydgate was naturally addressed on the question of money or other aid,\nand the fact that he was written to, nay, the very delay in writing at\nall, seemed to certify that the answer was thoroughly compliant.  She\nwas too much excited by these thoughts to do anything but light\nstitching in a warm corner of the dining-room, with the outside of this\nmomentous letter lying on the table before her.  About twelve she heard\nher husband's step in the passage, and tripping to open the door, she\nsaid in her lightest tones, \"Tertius, come in here--here is a letter\nfor you.\"\n\n\"Ah?\" he said, not taking off his hat, but just turning her round\nwithin his arm to walk towards the spot where the letter lay.  \"My\nuncle Godwin!\" he exclaimed, while Rosamond reseated herself, and\nwatched him as he opened the letter.  She had expected him to be\nsurprised.\n\nWhile Lydgate's eyes glanced rapidly over the brief letter, she saw his\nface, usually of a pale brown, taking on a dry whiteness; with nostrils\nand lips quivering he tossed down the letter before her, and said\nviolently--\n\n\"It will be impossible to endure life with you, if you will always be\nacting secretly--acting in opposition to me and hiding your actions.\"\n\nHe checked his speech and turned his back on her--then wheeled round\nand walked about, sat down, and got up again restlessly, grasping hard\nthe objects deep down in his pockets.  He was afraid of saying\nsomething irremediably cruel.\n\nRosamond too had changed color as she read.  The letter ran in this\nway:--\n\n\"DEAR TERTIUS,--Don't set your wife to write to me when you have\nanything to ask.  It is a roundabout wheedling sort of thing which I\nshould not have credited you with.  I never choose to write to a woman\non matters of business.  As to my supplying you with a thousand pounds,\nor only half that sum, I can do nothing of the sort.  My own family\ndrains me to the last penny.  With two younger sons and three\ndaughters, I am not likely to have cash to spare.  You seem to have got\nthrough your own money pretty quickly, and to have made a mess where\nyou are; the sooner you go somewhere else the better.  But I have\nnothing to do with men of your profession, and can't help you there.  I\ndid the best I could for you as guardian, and let you have your own way\nin taking to medicine.  You might have gone into the army or the\nChurch.  Your money would have held out for that, and there would have\nbeen a surer ladder before you.  Your uncle Charles has had a grudge\nagainst you for not going into his profession, but not I. I have always\nwished you well, but you must consider yourself on your own legs\nentirely now.\n\n                Your affectionate uncle,\n                        GODWIN LYDGATE.\"\n\nWhen Rosamond had finished reading the letter she sat quite still, with\nher hands folded before her, restraining any show of her keen\ndisappointment, and intrenching herself in quiet passivity under her\nhusband's wrath.  Lydgate paused in his movements, looked at her again,\nand said, with biting severity--\n\n\"Will this be enough to convince you of the harm you may do by secret\nmeddling?  Have you sense enough to recognize now your incompetence to\njudge and act for me--to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which\nit belongs to me to decide on?\"\n\nThe words were hard; but this was not the first time that Lydgate had\nbeen frustrated by her.  She did not look at him, and made no reply.\n\n\"I had nearly resolved on going to Quallingham.  It would have cost me\npain enough to do it, yet it might have been of some use.  But it has\nbeen of no use for me to think of anything.  You have always been\ncounteracting me secretly.  You delude me with a false assent, and then\nI am at the mercy of your devices.  If you mean to resist every wish I\nexpress, say so and defy me.  I shall at least know what I am doing\nthen.\"\n\nIt is a terrible moment in young lives when the closeness of love's\nbond has turned to this power of galling.  In spite of Rosamond's\nself-control a tear fell silently and rolled over her lips.  She still\nsaid nothing; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she\nwas in such entire disgust with her husband that she wished she had\nnever seen him.  Sir Godwin's rudeness towards her and utter want of\nfeeling ranged him with Dover and all other creditors--disagreeable\npeople who only thought of themselves, and did not mind how annoying\nthey were to her.  Even her father was unkind, and might have done more\nfor them.  In fact there was but one person in Rosamond's world whom\nshe did not regard as blameworthy, and that was the graceful creature\nwith blond plaits and with little hands crossed before her, who had\nnever expressed herself unbecomingly, and had always acted for the\nbest--the best naturally being what she best liked.\n\nLydgate pausing and looking at her began to feel that half-maddening\nsense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their\npassion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air\nseems to put them in the wrong, and at last infects even the justest\nindignation with a doubt of its justice.  He needed to recover the full\nsense that he was in the right by moderating his words.\n\n\"Can you not see, Rosamond,\" he began again, trying to be simply grave\nand not bitter, \"that nothing can be so fatal as a want of openness and\nconfidence between us?  It has happened again and again that I have\nexpressed a decided wish, and you have seemed to assent, yet after that\nyou have secretly disobeyed my wish.  In that way I can never know what\nI have to trust to.  There would be some hope for us if you would admit\nthis.  Am I such an unreasonable, furious brute?  Why should you not be\nopen with me?\"  Still silence.\n\n\"Will you only say that you have been mistaken, and that I may depend\non your not acting secretly in future?\" said Lydgate, urgently, but\nwith something of request in his tone which Rosamond was quick to\nperceive.  She spoke with coolness.\n\n\"I cannot possibly make admissions or promises in answer to such words\nas you have used towards me.  I have not been accustomed to language of\nthat kind.  You have spoken of my 'secret meddling,' and my\n'interfering ignorance,' and my 'false assent.'  I have never expressed\nmyself in that way to you, and I think that you ought to apologize.\nYou spoke of its being impossible to live with me.  Certainly you have\nnot made my life pleasant to me of late.  I think it was to be expected\nthat I should try to avert some of the hardships which our marriage has\nbrought on me.\"  Another tear fell as Rosamond ceased speaking, and she\npressed it away as quietly as the first.\n\nLydgate flung himself into a chair, feeling checkmated.  What place was\nthere in her mind for a remonstrance to lodge in?  He laid down his\nhat, flung an arm over the back of his chair, and looked down for some\nmoments without speaking.  Rosamond had the double purchase over him of\ninsensibility to the point of justice in his reproach, and of\nsensibility to the undeniable hardships now present in her married\nlife.  Although her duplicity in the affair of the house had exceeded\nwhat he knew, and had really hindered the Plymdales from knowing of it,\nshe had no consciousness that her action could rightly be called false.\nWe are not obliged to identify our own acts according to a strict\nclassification, any more than the materials of our grocery and clothes.\nRosamond felt that she was aggrieved, and that this was what Lydgate\nhad to recognize.\n\nAs for him, the need of accommodating himself to her nature, which was\ninflexible in proportion to its negations, held him as with pincers.\nHe had begun to have an alarmed foresight of her irrevocable loss of\nlove for him, and the consequent dreariness of their life.  The ready\nfulness of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the\nfirst violent movements of his anger.  It would assuredly have been a\nvain boast in him to say that he was her master.\n\n\"You have not made my life pleasant to me of late\"--\"the hardships\nwhich our marriage has brought on me\"--these words were stinging his\nimagination as a pain makes an exaggerated dream.  If he were not only\nto sink from his highest resolve, but to sink into the hideous\nfettering of domestic hate?\n\n\"Rosamond,\" he said, turning his eyes on her with a melancholy look,\n\"you should allow for a man's words when he is disappointed and\nprovoked.  You and I cannot have opposite interests.  I cannot part my\nhappiness from yours.  If I am angry with you, it is that you seem not\nto see how any concealment divides us.  How could I wish to make\nanything hard to you either by my words or conduct?  When I hurt you, I\nhurt part of my own life.  I should never be angry with you if you\nwould be quite open with me.\"\n\n\"I have only wished to prevent you from hurrying us into wretchedness\nwithout any necessity,\" said Rosamond, the tears coming again from a\nsoftened feeling now that her husband had softened.  \"It is so very\nhard to be disgraced here among all the people we know, and to live in\nsuch a miserable way.  I wish I had died with the baby.\"\n\nShe spoke and wept with that gentleness which makes such words and\ntears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man.  Lydgate drew his chair\nnear to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his\npowerful tender hand.  He only caressed her; he did not say anything;\nfor what was there to say?  He could not promise to shield her from the\ndreaded wretchedness, for he could see no sure means of doing so.  When\nhe left her to go out again, he told himself that it was ten times\nharder for her than for him: he had a life away from home, and constant\nappeals to his activity on behalf of others.  He wished to excuse\neverything in her if he could--but it was inevitable that in that\nexcusing mood he should think of her as if she were an animal of\nanother and feebler species.  Nevertheless she had mastered him.\n\n\n", "summary": "Lydgate has decided to go to his uncle in person to ask for assistance, and is about to tell Rosamond when a letter arrives for him from his uncle. He doesn't realize that Rosamond has already written to him, of course. Sir Godwin's letter tells Lydgate that he shouldn't ask his wife to write for him on business matters, because it looks like wheedling. He also says that he can't afford to help them out financially. Lydgate is furious that Rosamond wrote to his uncle without telling him, and points out to her that she did more harm than good. Rosamond just sits there and takes it passively and politely, but secretly thinks that the whole world is \"disagreeable\" and that she is the only person in it who has acted blamelessly. Finally her tears and gentle accusations win him over and make him blame himself entirely."}, {"": "439", "document": "\nA LITTLE FINGER\n\n\nThe king of Jugendheit, Prince Ludwig, and the chancellor sat in the\nform of a triangle. Herbeck was making a pyramid of his finger-tips,\nsometimes touching his chin with his thumbs. His face was cheerful. His\nroyal highness, still in the guise of a mountaineer, sat stiffly in his\nchair, the expression on his face hardly translatable; that on the\nking's not at all. He was dressed in the brilliant uniform of a colonel\nin the Prussian Uhlans, an honor conferred upon him recently by King\nWilliam. Prior to his advent into the Grand Duchy of Ehrenstein he had\nbeen to Berlin. A whim, for which he was now grateful, had cozened him\ninto carrying this uniform along with him on his adventures. It was only\nafter he met Gretchen that there came moments when he forgot he was a\nking. He was pale. From hour to hour his heart seemed to grow colder and\nsmaller and harder, till it now rested in his breast with the heaviness\nof a stone, out of which life and the care of living had been squeezed.\nHe rarely spoke, leaving the burden of the conversation to rest upon his\nuncle's tongue.\n\n\"So your royal highness will understand,\" said Herbeck, \"that it was the\nsimplest move I could make, and the safest. Were it known, or had it\nbeen known this morning, that the king of Jugendheit and the prince\nregent had entered Dreiberg in disguise and had been lodged in the\nStein-schloss, there would have been a serious riot in the city. So I\nhad you arrested as spies. Presently a closed carriage will convey you\nto the frontier, and the unfortunate incident will be ended.\"\n\n\"Thanks!\" said Prince Ludwig.\n\n\"And when you cross the frontier, it would be wise to disperse the\ntroops waiting there for you.\"\n\nPrince Ludwig smiled. \"It was only an army of defense. The duke had\nnearly twenty thousand men at the maneuvers. I have no desire for war;\nbut, on the other hand, I am always ready for it.\"\n\n\"There will never be any war between us,\" prophetically. \"The duke\ngrows impatient at times, but I can always rouse his sense of justice.\nYou will, of course, pardon the move I made. There will be no publicity.\nThere will be no newspaper notoriety, for the journalists will know\nnothing of what has really happened.\"\n\n\"For that consideration your excellency has my deepest thanks,\" replied\nPrince Ludwig.\n\n\"I thought it best to let you go without seeing the duke. The meeting\nbetween you two might be painful.\"\n\n\"That also is thoughtful of your excellency,\" said the king. \"I have no\ndesire to see or speak to his highness.\"\n\n\"There is, however, one favor I should like to ask,\" said the prince.\n\n\"Can I grant it?\"\n\n\"Easily. I wish to leave a sum of money in trust, to be paid to one\nGretchen Schwarz, who lives in the Krumerweg. She is ambitious to become\na singer. Let nothing stand between her and her desires.\"\n\n\"Granted.\"\n\nThe heart of the king, at the sound of that dear name, suddenly\nexpanded and stifled him. The stiffness went out of his shoulders.\n\n\"Ah, this little world of ours, the mistakes and futile schemes we make\nupon it!\" The chancellor dallied with his quill pen. \"It was a cynical\nmove of fate that your majesty should see the goose-girl first.\"\n\n\"Enough!\" cried the king vehemently. \"Let us have no more retrospection,\nif you please. Moreover, I shall be obliged to you if you will summon at\nonce the carriage which is to take us to the frontier. The situation has\nbeen amicably and satisfactorily explained. I see no reason why we\nshould be detained any longer.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" added Prince Ludwig. \"I am rather weary of these tatters. I\nshould even like a bath.\"\n\nThe three of them were immediately attracted by a singular noise outside\nin the corridor. The door swung in violently, crashing against the wall\nand shivering into atoms the Venetian mirror. The king, the prince, and\nthe chancellor were instantly upon their feet. The king clutched the\nback of his chair with a grip of iron: Gretchen? Her highness? What was\nGretchen doing here? Ah, could he have flown! He muttered a curse at the\nchancellor for the delay. But happily Gretchen did not see him.\n\nThe duke came in first, and he waited till the others were inside; then\nhe shut the door with lesser violence and rushed over to the chancellor.\n\n\"Herbeck, you villain!\"\n\nThe chancellor stared at the Gipsy, at Von Arnsberg, at Grumbach.\n\n\"Herbeck, you black scoundrel!\" cried the duke. \"Can you realize how\ndifficult it is not to take you by the throat and strangle you here and\nnow?\"\n\n\"He is mad!\" said Herbeck, bracing himself against the desk.\n\n\"Yes. I _am_ mad, but it is the sane madness of a terribly wronged man.\nCome here, you Gipsy!\" The duke seized Herbeck's hand and pressed it\ndown fiercely on the desk. \"Look at that and tell me if it is not the\nhand of a Judas!\"\n\n\"That is the hand, Highness,\" said the Gipsy, without hesitation.\n\nThe duke flung the hand aside. As he did so something snapped in\nHerbeck's brain, though at that instant he was not conscious of it.\n\n\"It was you, you! It was your hand that wrecked my life, yours! Ah, is\nthere such villainy? Are such men born and do they live? My wife dead,\nmy own heart broken, Arnsberg ruined and disgraced! And these two\nchildren: which is mine?\"\n\nTo the king of Jugendheit the ceiling reeled and the floor revolved\nunder his feet.\n\n\"Villain, what have you to say? What was your purpose?\"\n\nHow many years, thought Herbeck, had he been preparing for this moment?\nHow long had he been steeling his heart against this very scene? Futile\ndream! He drew himself together with a supreme effort. He would face\nthis hour as he had always planned to face it. Found out! He looked at\nhis finger, touched it with an impersonal curiosity. He had forgotten\nall about such a possibility. Where had he read that there is no crime\nbut leaves some evidence, infinitesimally small though it be, which\nshall lead to the truth? After all, he was glad. The strain, borne so\nlong, was gradually killing him. A little finger, to have stopped the\nwheel of so great a scheme! Irony!\n\n\"Your Highness,\" he said, his voice soft and strangely clear, \"I have\nbeen waiting for this hour. So I am found out! How little we know what\nGod intends!\"\n\n\"You speak of God? You blaspheme!\"\n\n\"Bear with me for a space. I shall not hold you long.\"\n\n\"But why? What have I done to you that you should wreck all I hold\ndear?\"\n\n\"For you I have always had a strong affection, strange as it may sound.\"\nHerbeck fumbled with his collar, which was tightening round his throat\nlike a band of hot iron. \"I have practically governed this country for\nsixteen years. In that time I have made it prosperous and happy; I have\ngiven you a substantial treasury; I have made you an army; I have\nbrought peace where you would have brought war. To my people God will\nwitness that I have done my duty as I saw it. One day I fell the victim\nof a mad dream. And to think that I almost won!\"\n\n\"And I?\" said Hildegarde, her hands clenched and pressed against her\nbosom. \"What have you done to me, who am innocent of any wrong? What\nhave you done to me?\"\n\n\"You, my child? I have wronged you greatest of all. The wrong I have\ndone to you is irreparable. Ah, have not my arms hungered for the touch\nof you, my heart ached for the longing of you? To see you day after day,\nalways humble before you, always glad to kiss the back of your hand!\nHave I not lived in hell, your Highness?\" turning to the duke.\n\n\"What am I, and who am I?\" whispered Hildegarde, her heart almost\nceasing to beat.\n\n\"I am your father!\" simply.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The fight is over, and the king tells Geric to stand up. He has just had his first kill, and this means he gets his javelin--he's now a man. In all the commotion, Selia slipped away through the secret door. The king orders: find the girl; secure the perimeter; and toss the girl in the barrel of nails and parade her around the city--just as she tried to do to Ani. Ani asks the king if he can also allow the boys who rode with her to get their shields and javelins, since they risked their lives for a princess and they deserve a chance. Just then, Conrad enters with Selia in tow--he captured her and brought her in, kicking and screaming. Everything seems to be settling down, and Ani is glad to get to sleep on a real mattress with pillows and everything. We get a little recap of where everyone is: Selia is captured; Talone is safe and resting with the doc; and the king and his men are all planning their attack on Kildenree. Wait, that's still on? Fuming, Ani heads over to where the men are gathered. She can't believe they are still planning this war--it's all Selia's concoction. The men show her letters detailing troops and military plans that Selia gave them, but Ani sees right through it. Selia's mom is the key-mistress in the palace, so she would have access to all this stuff--Selia just did it to lock herself and her little story in. Still the men persist, though. They don't want to give in so easily. Ani gives them a little history lesson. In the last three hundred years, Kildenree hasn't attacked any country because it's too small to deal with the fallout. Plus, why would her mom send her here if she was going to attack? What's more is the king doesn't even know his own country. There are peace-keepers in the city because his soldiers won't keep the streets safe. And how about the fact that forest workers can't even go in some taverns because they aren't allowed to get their javelin? It's not fair. They should be focusing on those things more, not this war dreamed up by a lady in waiting to wipe out anyone who might tell the truth about her. And with that, Ani leaves. An hour later, Geric comes to find her. She's right--everyone knows it. The war with Kildenree is ridiculous, and his dad has called it off. Ani thanks Geric for this, and for saving Talone's life. That brings Geric to his next question: Is there something going on between Talone and Ani? Ani assures him there isn't--Talone's just one of the only people who's actually been there for her that she can trust. Phew. This is great news for Geric, since he has already fallen for her, and hopes she feels the same way. Bingo. She was head over heels for him when she first stole his horse, way back when she was a goose girl. Geric couldn't be happier. Not only does he get to marry a princess, he loves her and she's so smart and knowledgeable about their country. How lucky is he? Ani's never realized that she's a catch before, and for the first time, she lets herself be told how great she is--not because of her status or birth, but because of who she is--and she believes it. Oh and by the way, the king has agreed to her request: the forest peeps can go for their javelin, just like the boys from Bayern. Enna comes over and tells Ani they're gonna call themselves the \"Forest-band\" or maybe the \"yellow-band.\" Ani's vote is for the yellow one, since she's the yellow girl and all. She's finally excited for the power she can have as princess, and realizes she can use it to help people, instead of just to pretend being all fancy-pants. She looks forward to her wedding and ruling this country with her new friends all around her. And who knows? Maybe she'll get a new horse as a gift, and she'll hear its name."}, {"": "440", "document": "\nEventually they entered into a dark region where, from a careening\nbuilding, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of babies to the\nstreet and the gutter.  A wind of early autumn raised yellow dust from\ncobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows.  Long streamers of\ngarments fluttered from fire-escapes.  In all unhandy places there were\nbuckets, brooms, rags and bottles.  In the street infants played or\nfought with other infants or sat stupidly in the way of vehicles.\nFormidable women, with uncombed hair and disordered dress, gossiped\nwhile leaning on railings, or screamed in frantic quarrels.  Withered\npersons, in curious postures of submission to something, sat smoking\npipes in obscure corners.  A thousand odors of cooking food came forth\nto the street.  The building quivered and creaked from the weight of\nhumanity stamping about in its bowels.\n\nA small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the crowded\nways.  He was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his wrinkled, bare legs.\n\nThe little girl cried out: \"Ah, Tommie, come ahn.  Dere's Jimmie and\nfader.  Don't be a-pullin' me back.\"\n\nShe jerked the baby's arm impatiently.  He fell on his face, roaring.\nWith a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they went on.  With\nthe obstinacy of his order, he protested against being dragged in a\nchosen direction.  He made heroic endeavors to keep on his legs,\ndenounce his sister and consume a bit of orange peeling which he chewed\nbetween the times of his infantile orations.\n\nAs the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy, drew near,\nthe little girl burst into reproachful cries.  \"Ah, Jimmie, youse bin\nfightin' agin.\"\n\nThe urchin swelled disdainfully.\n\n\"Ah, what deh hell, Mag.  See?\"\n\nThe little girl upbraided him,  \"Youse allus fightin', Jimmie, an' yeh\nknows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead, an' it's like\nwe'll all get a poundin'.\"\n\nShe began to weep.  The babe threw back his head and roared at his\nprospects.\n\n\"Ah, what deh hell!\" cried Jimmie.  \"Shut up er I'll smack yer mout'.\nSee?\"\n\nAs his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore and struck\nher.  The little girl reeled and, recovering herself, burst into tears\nand quaveringly cursed him.  As she slowly retreated her brother\nadvanced dealing her cuffs.  The father heard and turned about.\n\n\"Stop that, Jim, d'yeh hear?  Leave yer sister alone on the street.\nIt's like I can never beat any sense into yer damned wooden head.\"\n\nThe urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and continued his\nattacks.  The babe bawled tremendously, protesting with great violence.\nDuring his sister's hasty manoeuvres, he was dragged by the arm.\n\nFinally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways.  They\ncrawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls.  At last the\nfather pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room in which a\nlarge woman was rampant.\n\nShe stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table.\nAs the father and children filed in she peered at them.\n\n\"Eh, what?  Been fightin' agin, by Gawd!\"  She threw herself upon\nJimmie.  The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the scuffle\nthe babe, Tommie, was knocked down.  He protested with his usual\nvehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against a table\nleg.\n\nThe mother's massive shoulders heaved with anger.  Grasping the urchin\nby the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled.  She dragged\nhim to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water, began to scrub his\nlacerated face with it.  Jimmie screamed in pain and tried to twist his\nshoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms.\n\nThe babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions\nlike that of a woman at a tragedy.  The father, with a newly-ladened\npipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove.\nJimmie's cries annoyed him.  He turned about and bellowed at his wife:\n\n\"Let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, Mary?  Yer allus\npoundin' 'im.  When I come nights I can't git no rest 'cause yer allus\npoundin' a kid.  Let up, d'yeh hear?  Don't be allus poundin' a kid.\"\n\nThe woman's operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence.\nAt last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and\nweeping.\n\nThe wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a chieftain-like\nstride approached her husband.\n\n\"Ho,\" she said, with a great grunt of contempt.  \"An' what in the devil\nare you stickin' your nose for?\"\n\nThe babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out cautiously.\nThe ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner drew his legs\ncarefully beneath him.\n\nThe man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots on the\nback part of the stove.\n\n\"Go teh hell,\" he murmured, tranquilly.\n\nThe woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband's eyes.  The\nrough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly crimson.  She began\nto howl.\n\nHe puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and\nbegan to look out at the window into the darkening chaos of back yards.\n\n\"You've been drinkin', Mary,\" he said.  \"You'd better let up on the\nbot', ol' woman, or you'll git done.\"\n\n\"You're a liar.  I ain't had a drop,\" she roared in reply.\n\nThey had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each other's souls\nwith frequence.\n\nThe babe was staring out from under the table, his small face working\nin his excitement.\n\nThe ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the urchin lay.\n\n\"Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?\" she whispered timidly.\n\n\"Not a damn bit!  See?\" growled the little boy.\n\n\"Will I wash deh blood?\"\n\n\"Naw!\"\n\n\"Will I--\"\n\n\"When I catch dat Riley kid I'll break 'is face!  Dat's right!  See?\"\n\nHe turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide his time.\n\nIn the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor.  The man\ngrabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently determined upon a\nvengeful drunk.  She followed to the door and thundered at him as he\nmade his way down stairs.\n\nShe returned and stirred up the room until her children were bobbing\nabout like bubbles.\n\n\"Git outa deh way,\" she persistently bawled, waving feet with their\ndishevelled shoes near the heads of her children.  She shrouded\nherself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam at the stove, and\neventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes that hissed.\n\nShe flourished it.  \"Come teh yer suppers, now,\" she cried with sudden\nexasperation.  \"Hurry up, now, er I'll help yeh!\"\n\nThe children scrambled hastily.  With prodigious clatter they arranged\nthemselves at table.  The babe sat with his feet dangling high from a\nprecarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach.  Jimmie forced,\nwith feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded\nlips.  Maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a\nsmall pursued tigress.\n\nThe mother sat blinking at them.  She delivered reproaches, swallowed\npotatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle.  After a time her mood\nchanged and she wept as she carried little Tommie into another room and\nlaid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red\nand green grandeur.  Then she came and moaned by the stove.  She rocked\nto and fro upon a chair, shedding tears and crooning miserably to the\ntwo children about their \"poor mother\" and \"yer fader, damn 'is soul.\"\n\nThe little girl plodded between the table and the chair with a dish-pan\non it.  She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes.\n\nJimmie sat nursing his various wounds.  He cast furtive glances at his\nmother.  His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge from a\nmuddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in drunken heat.  He\nsat breathless.\n\nMaggie broke a plate.\n\nThe mother started to her feet as if propelled.\n\n\"Good Gawd,\" she howled.  Her eyes glittered on her child with sudden\nhatred.  The fervent red of her face turned almost to purple.  The\nlittle boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake.\n\nHe floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs.  He\nstumbled, panic-stricken, to the next floor.  An old woman opened a\ndoor.  A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face.\n\n\"Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time?  Is yer fader beatin' yer\nmudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Home life in the dark and dreary tenement is no treat either. \"mall and ragged\" Maggie--the big sister--and \"bawling\" Tommie --the baby brother--are there to greet father and Jimmie in the family's chaotic, filthy apartment. In terms of human wrath, no one compares to Mother Mary. She's Jimmie, Maggie, and Tommie's mom, as well as a raging alcoholic abuser who careens around the apartment and busts up furniture just to make a point. Nothing makes her more abusive than her son's relentless habit of getting into fights, though, and today she comes out swinging. Oh, and Dad's an alcoholic, too, but he likes to seek respite by doing his drinking at a local bar. Jimmie receives some sympathy from a neighbor."}, {"": "441", "document": "\n\nThat night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the Palmer\nHouse for a bed after his work was through. He was in a fevered state of\nmind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to cast upon\nhis entire future. While he was not sure how much significance might be\nattached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if\nlong continued, would cause him no end of trouble. She was determined,\nand had worsted him in a very important contest. How would it be from\nnow on? He walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his\nroom, putting one thing and another together to no avail.\n\nMrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her advantage\nby inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow up\nher work with demands, the acknowledgment of which would make her word\nLAW in the future. He would have to pay her the money which she would\nnow regularly demand or there would be trouble. It did not matter what\nhe did. She really did not care whether he came home any more or not.\nThe household would move along much more pleasantly without him, and she\ncould do as she wished without consulting any one. Now she proposed to\nconsult a lawyer and hire a detective. She would find out at once just\nwhat advantages she could gain.\n\nHurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of\nhis situation. \"She has that property in her name,\" he kept saying to\nhimself. \"What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What a fool move that\nwas.\"\n\nHe also thought of his managerial position. \"If she raises a row now\nI'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name gets in the\npapers. My friends, too!\" He grew more angry as he thought of the talk\nany action on her part would create. How would the papers talk about it?\nEvery man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain and deny\nand make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer with\nhim and there would be the devil to pay.\n\nMany little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this,\nand his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything--not a loophole\nleft.\n\nThrough all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the\napproaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he did\nnot worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout of\ntrouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad\nto wait, if necessary. He would see how things turned out to-morrow, and\nthen he would talk to her. They were going to meet as usual. He saw only\nher pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not arranged\nso that such joy as he found with her could be steadily maintained. How\nmuch more pleasant it would be. Then he would take up his wife's threat\nagain, and the wrinkles and moisture would return.\n\nIn the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but\nthere was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he\nfelt as if something might come that way, and was relieved when all the\nenvelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began\nto feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the\noffice, and decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop\nin at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While\nthe danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with\nhim no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time to think,\nperhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely, this thing would not\ndrift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out.\n\nHis spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and\nwaited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for an hour\nor more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. Could something\nhave happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached\nby his wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Drouet that it never\nonce occurred to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless as\nhe ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had not\nbeen able to get away this morning. That was why no letter notifying him\nhad come. He would get one to-day. It would probably be on his desk when\nhe got back. He would look for it at once.\n\nAfter a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison car.\nTo add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little\nfleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the east, and\nby the time he reached his office it was threatening to drizzle all\nafternoon.\n\nHe went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie.\nFortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his\nstars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he\nneeded to think so much. He walked the floor again, pretending to be in\nan ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words.\n\nAt one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned a\nmessenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a\nfeeling of doubt.\n\n\"I'm to bring an answer,\" said the boy.\n\nHurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and read\nwithout a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was\nsharply and coldly worded throughout.\n\n\"I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry\nout my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn't matter in the\nleast. But I must have some money. So don't delay, but send it by the\nboy.\"\n\nWhen he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity\nof the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also--the deepest\nelement of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words\nin reply--\"Go to the devil!\"--but he compromised by telling the boy that\nthere would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without\nseeing, contemplating the result of his work. What would she do about\nthat? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him into\nsubmission? He would go up there and have it out with her, that's what\nhe would do. She was carrying things with too high a hand. These were\nhis first thoughts.\n\nLater, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to\nbe done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well\nenough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it\nup. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once.\n\n\"Damn her!\" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, \"I'll make it\nhot for her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone if I\nhave to use force to do it!\"\n\nHe arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The\nlong drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers\nat the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless;\numbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth\nroofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a\nnoisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they\ncould. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was forever confronting\nhis wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he\nworked her bodily harm.\n\nAt four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the\nmoney was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before\nFitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get\nit.\n\nHurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.\nYes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her--he would go up\nthere and have a talk with her, and that at once.\n\nHe put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have some\narrangement of this thing.\n\nHe called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North\nSide. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the\ncase. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'd got hold of\nCarrie, who knows--or--or Drouet. Perhaps she really had evidence, and\nwas prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush.\nShe was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good\ngrounds?\n\nHe began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other--that he\nhad sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and\nsee, anyhow. He would have no row. By the time he reached his own street\nhe was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and wished over\nand over that some solution would offer itself, that he could see his\nway out. He alighted and went up the steps to the front door, but it was\nwith a nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and tried\nto insert it, but another key was on the inside. He shook at the knob,\nbut the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No answer. He rang\nagain--this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it fiercely several\ntimes in succession, but without avail. Then he went below.\n\nThere was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,\nprotected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars.\nWhen he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the\nkitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and then\nwaited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went back\nto his cab.\n\n\"I guess they've gone out,\" he said apologetically to the individual who\nwas hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin raincoat.\n\n\"I saw a young girl up in that winder,\" returned the cabby.\n\nHurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily\ninto the cab, relieved and distressed.\n\nSo this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well, by\nthe Lord, that did beat all!\n\n\n", "summary": "Hurstwood is staying in a hotel. He's all worried about what his wife is going to do and fears that he might lose his job and his friends if news of his indiscretions gets around. Plus he's worried about losing his money and property since a lot of it is in Mrs. Hurstwood's name. His only comfort is thinking of how great things are going with Carrie . Hurstwood checks his mail, eats breakfast, and goes to meet Carrie at the park. He waits for an hour but she still doesn't show. His mind races--he's worried that Mrs. H has somehow found her and told her that he's married. He leaves the park to go back to work and it starts to rain, adding to his gloom. Back at work, Hurstwood can barely concentrate. He goes to lunch and when he returns, a messenger delivers him a letter from Mrs. H. It says to give money to the messenger to give to her. Nice try--he refuses and the messenger leaves. A few hours later, he gets another note from Mrs. H telling him that if he doesn't give her the money by tonight, she's going to tell his employers about the affair tomorrow. He takes a cab to his house, but discovers that his key won't work. He rings the doorbell and gets no answer. Fuming, he gets back in the cab."}, {"": "442", "document": "\nI got hold of Mrs. Grose as soon after this as I could; and I can give\nno intelligible account of how I fought out the interval. Yet I still\nhear myself cry as I fairly threw myself into her arms: \"They KNOW--it's\ntoo monstrous: they know, they know!\"\n\n\"And what on earth--?\" I felt her incredulity as she held me.\n\n\"Why, all that WE know--and heaven knows what else besides!\" Then, as\nshe released me, I made it out to her, made it out perhaps only now with\nfull coherency even to myself. \"Two hours ago, in the garden\"--I could\nscarce articulate--\"Flora SAW!\"\n\nMrs. Grose took it as she might have taken a blow in the stomach. \"She\nhas told you?\" she panted.\n\n\"Not a word--that's the horror. She kept it to herself! The child of\neight, THAT child!\" Unutterable still, for me, was the stupefaction of\nit.\n\nMrs. Grose, of course, could only gape the wider. \"Then how do you\nknow?\"\n\n\"I was there--I saw with my eyes: saw that she was perfectly aware.\"\n\n\"Do you mean aware of HIM?\"\n\n\"No--of HER.\" I was conscious as I spoke that I looked prodigious\nthings, for I got the slow reflection of them in my companion's face.\n\"Another person--this time; but a figure of quite as unmistakable horror\nand evil: a woman in black, pale and dreadful--with such an air also,\nand such a face!--on the other side of the lake. I was there with the\nchild--quiet for the hour; and in the midst of it she came.\"\n\n\"Came how--from where?\"\n\n\"From where they come from! She just appeared and stood there--but not\nso near.\"\n\n\"And without coming nearer?\"\n\n\"Oh, for the effect and the feeling, she might have been as close as\nyou!\"\n\nMy friend, with an odd impulse, fell back a step. \"Was she someone\nyou've never seen?\"\n\n\"Yes. But someone the child has. Someone YOU have.\" Then, to show how I\nhad thought it all out: \"My predecessor--the one who died.\"\n\n\"Miss Jessel?\"\n\n\"Miss Jessel. You don't believe me?\" I pressed.\n\nShe turned right and left in her distress. \"How can you be sure?\"\n\nThis drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a flash of impatience.\n\"Then ask Flora--SHE'S sure!\" But I had no sooner spoken than I caught\nmyself up. \"No, for God's sake, DON'T! She'll say she isn't--she'll\nlie!\"\n\nMrs. Grose was not too bewildered instinctively to protest. \"Ah, how CAN\nyou?\"\n\n\"Because I'm clear. Flora doesn't want me to know.\"\n\n\"It's only then to spare you.\"\n\n\"No, no--there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see\nin it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don't know what I\nDON'T see--what I DON'T fear!\"\n\nMrs. Grose tried to keep up with me. \"You mean you're afraid of seeing\nher again?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; that's nothing--now!\" Then I explained. \"It's of NOT seeing\nher.\"\n\nBut my companion only looked wan. \"I don't understand you.\"\n\n\"Why, it's that the child may keep it up--and that the child assuredly\nWILL--without my knowing it.\"\n\nAt the image of this possibility Mrs. Grose for a moment collapsed, yet\npresently to pull herself together again, as if from the positive force\nof the sense of what, should we yield an inch, there would really be to\ngive way to. \"Dear, dear--we must keep our heads! And after all, if she\ndoesn't mind it--!\" She even tried a grim joke. \"Perhaps she likes it!\"\n\n\"Likes SUCH things--a scrap of an infant!\"\n\n\"Isn't it just a proof of her blessed innocence?\" my friend bravely\ninquired.\n\nShe brought me, for the instant, almost round. \"Oh, we must clutch at\nTHAT--we must cling to it! If it isn't a proof of what you say, it's a\nproof of--God knows what! For the woman's a horror of horrors.\"\n\nMrs. Grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on the ground; then at last\nraising them, \"Tell me how you know,\" she said.\n\n\"Then you admit it's what she was?\" I cried.\n\n\"Tell me how you know,\" my friend simply repeated.\n\n\"Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked.\"\n\n\"At you, do you mean--so wickedly?\"\n\n\"Dear me, no--I could have borne that. She gave me never a glance. She\nonly fixed the child.\"\n\nMrs. Grose tried to see it. \"Fixed her?\"\n\n\"Ah, with such awful eyes!\"\n\nShe stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. \"Do you\nmean of dislike?\"\n\n\"God help us, no. Of something much worse.\"\n\n\"Worse than dislike?--this left her indeed at a loss.\n\n\"With a determination--indescribable. With a kind of fury of intention.\"\n\nI made her turn pale. \"Intention?\"\n\n\"To get hold of her.\" Mrs. Grose--her eyes just lingering on mine--gave\na shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking\nout I completed my statement. \"THAT'S what Flora knows.\"\n\nAfter a little she turned round. \"The person was in black, you say?\"\n\n\"In mourning--rather poor, almost shabby. But--yes--with extraordinary\nbeauty.\" I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke,\nbrought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed\nthis. \"Oh, handsome--very, very,\" I insisted; \"wonderfully handsome. But\ninfamous.\"\n\nShe slowly came back to me. \"Miss Jessel--WAS infamous.\" She once more\ntook my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me\nagainst the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. \"They\nwere both infamous,\" she finally said.\n\nSo, for a little, we faced it once more together; and I found absolutely\na degree of help in seeing it now so straight. \"I appreciate,\" I said,\n\"the great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has\ncertainly come to give me the whole thing.\" She appeared to assent to\nthis, but still only in silence; seeing which I went on: \"I must have it\nnow. Of what did she die? Come, there was something between them.\"\n\n\"There was everything.\"\n\n\"In spite of the difference--?\"\n\n\"Oh, of their rank, their condition\"--she brought it woefully out. \"SHE\nwas a lady.\"\n\nI turned it over; I again saw. \"Yes--she was a lady.\"\n\n\"And he so dreadfully below,\" said Mrs. Grose.\n\nI felt that I doubtless needn't press too hard, in such company, on the\nplace of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent an\nacceptance of my companion's own measure of my predecessor's abasement.\nThere was a way to deal with that, and I dealt; the more readily for\nmy full vision--on the evidence--of our employer's late clever,\ngood-looking \"own\" man; impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. \"The\nfellow was a hound.\"\n\nMrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense\nof shades. \"I've never seen one like him. He did what he wished.\"\n\n\"With HER?\"\n\n\"With them all.\"\n\nIt was as if now in my friend's own eyes Miss Jessel had again appeared.\nI seemed at any rate, for an instant, to see their evocation of her\nas distinctly as I had seen her by the pond; and I brought out with\ndecision: \"It must have been also what SHE wished!\"\n\nMrs. Grose's face signified that it had been indeed, but she said at the\nsame time: \"Poor woman--she paid for it!\"\n\n\"Then you do know what she died of?\" I asked.\n\n\"No--I know nothing. I wanted not to know; I was glad enough I didn't;\nand I thanked heaven she was well out of this!\"\n\n\"Yet you had, then, your idea--\"\n\n\"Of her real reason for leaving? Oh, yes--as to that. She couldn't have\nstayed. Fancy it here--for a governess! And afterward I imagined--and I\nstill imagine. And what I imagine is dreadful.\"\n\n\"Not so dreadful as what _I_ do,\" I replied; on which I must have shown\nher--as I was indeed but too conscious--a front of miserable defeat. It\nbrought out again all her compassion for me, and at the renewed touch of\nher kindness my power to resist broke down. I burst, as I had, the other\ntime, made her burst, into tears; she took me to her motherly breast,\nand my lamentation overflowed. \"I don't do it!\" I sobbed in despair; \"I\ndon't save or shield them! It's far worse than I dreamed--they're lost!\"\n", "summary": "The narrative moves forward to later that afternoon, when the governess informs Mrs. Grose of the encounter. She claims that the children \"know\" and are keeping things to themselves, explaining that Flora saw a woman at the lake but said nothing. The governess describes the vision as dressed in black, with a dreadful face, and says the woman appeared out of nowhere. Responding to Mrs. Grose's questions, the governess claims the woman is Miss Jessel, her predecessor, and that she is certain Flora will lie about it. Mrs. Grose defends Flora as innocent, then inquires further. The governess says Miss Jessel \"fixed\" Flora with determined eyes and remarks on Miss Jessel's beauty. At this, Mrs. Grose speaks of Miss Jessel as \"infamous\" and reveals that Miss Jessel had an inappropriate relationship with Quint. Clinging to Mrs. Grose in distress, the governess laments that the children are lost beyond her control"}, {"": "443", "document": "\nWhen the youth awoke it seemed to him that he had been asleep for a\nthousand years, and he felt sure that he opened his eyes upon an\nunexpected world.  Gray mists were slowly shifting before the first\nefforts of the sun rays.  An impending splendor could be seen in the\neastern sky.  An icy dew had chilled his face, and immediately upon\narousing he curled farther down into his blanket.  He stared for a\nwhile at the leaves overhead, moving in a heraldic wind of the day.\n\nThe distance was splintering and blaring with the noise of fighting.\nThere was in the sound an expression of a deadly persistency, as if it\nhad not begun and was not to cease.\n\nAbout him were the rows and groups of men that he had dimly seen the\nprevious night.  They were getting a last draught of sleep before the\nawakening.  The gaunt, careworn features and dusty figures were made\nplain by this quaint light at the dawning, but it dressed the skin of\nthe men in corpselike hues and made the tangled limbs appear pulseless\nand dead.  The youth started up with a little cry when his eyes first\nswept over this motionless mass of men, thick-spread upon the ground,\npallid, and in strange postures.  His disordered mind interpreted the\nhall of the forest as a charnel place.  He believed for an instant that\nhe was in the house of the dead, and he did not dare to move lest these\ncorpses start up, squalling and squawking.  In a second, however, he\nachieved his proper mind. He swore a complicated oath at himself.  He\nsaw that this somber picture was not a fact of the present, but a mere\nprophecy.\n\nHe heard then the noise of a fire crackling briskly in the cold air,\nand, turning his head, he saw his friend pottering busily about a small\nblaze.  A few other figures moved in the fog, and he heard the hard\ncracking of axe blows.\n\nSuddenly there was a hollow rumble of drums.  A distant bugle sang\nfaintly.  Similar sounds, varying in strength, came from near and far\nover the forest.  The bugles called to each other like brazen\ngamecocks.  The near thunder of the regimental drums rolled.\n\nThe body of men in the woods rustled.  There was a general uplifting of\nheads.  A murmuring of voices broke upon the air.  In it there was much\nbass of grumbling oaths.  Strange gods were addressed in condemnation\nof the early hours necessary to correct war.  An officer's peremptory\ntenor rang out and quickened the stiffened movement of the men.  The\ntangled limbs unraveled.  The corpse-hued faces were hidden behind\nfists that twisted slowly in the eye sockets.\n\nThe youth sat up and gave vent to an enormous yawn.  \"Thunder!\" he\nremarked petulantly. He rubbed his eyes, and then putting up his hand\nfelt carefully of the bandage over his wound. His friend, perceiving\nhim to be awake, came from the fire.  \"Well, Henry, ol' man, how do yeh\nfeel this mornin'?\" he demanded.\n\nThe youth yawned again.  Then he puckered his mouth to a little pucker.\nHis head, in truth, felt precisely like a melon, and there was an\nunpleasant sensation at his stomach.\n\n\"Oh, Lord, I feel pretty bad,\" he said.\n\n\"Thunder!\" exclaimed the other.  \"I hoped ye'd feel all right this\nmornin'.  Let's see th' bandage--I guess it's slipped.\"  He began to\ntinker at the wound in rather a clumsy way until the youth exploded.\n\n\"Gosh-dern it!\" he said in sharp irritation; \"you're the hangdest man I\never saw!  You wear muffs on your hands.  Why in good thunderation\ncan't you be more easy?  I'd rather you'd stand off an' throw guns at\nit.  Now, go slow, an' don't act as if you was nailing down carpet.\"\n\nHe glared with insolent command at his friend, but the latter answered\nsoothingly. \"Well, well, come now, an' git some grub,\" he said.  \"Then,\nmaybe, yeh'll feel better.\"\n\nAt the fireside the loud young soldier watched over his comrade's wants\nwith tenderness and care.  He was very busy marshaling the little black\nvagabonds of tin cups and pouring into them the streaming, iron colored\nmixture from a small and sooty tin pail.  He had some fresh meat, which\nhe roasted hurriedly upon a stick.  He sat down then and contemplated\nthe youth's appetite with glee.\n\nThe youth took note of a remarkable change in his comrade since those\ndays of camp life upon the river bank.  He seemed no more to be\ncontinually regarding the proportions of his personal prowess.  He was\nnot furious at small words that pricked his conceits.  He was no more a\nloud young soldier.  There was about him now a fine reliance.  He\nshowed a quiet belief in his purposes and his abilities.  And this\ninward confidence evidently enabled him to be indifferent to little\nwords of other men aimed at him.\n\nThe youth reflected.  He had been used to regarding his comrade as a\nblatant child with an audacity grown from his inexperience,\nthoughtless, headstrong, jealous, and filled with a tinsel courage.  A\nswaggering babe accustomed to strut in his own dooryard.  The youth\nwondered where had been born these new eyes; when his comrade had made\nthe great discovery that there were many men who would refuse to be\nsubjected by him.  Apparently, the other had now climbed a peak of\nwisdom from which he could perceive himself as a very wee thing.  And\nthe youth saw that ever after it would be easier to live in his\nfriend's neighborhood.\n\nHis comrade balanced his ebony coffee-cup on his knee.  \"Well, Henry,\"\nhe said, \"what d'yeh think th' chances are?  D'yeh think we'll wallop\n'em?\"\n\nThe youth considered for a moment.  \"Day-b'fore-yesterday,\" he finally\nreplied, with boldness, \"you would 'a' bet you'd lick the hull\nkit-an'-boodle all by yourself.\"\n\nHis friend looked a trifle amazed.  \"Would I?\" he asked.  He pondered.\n\"Well, perhaps I would,\" he decided at last.  He stared humbly at the\nfire.\n\nThe youth was quite disconcerted at this surprising reception of his\nremarks.  \"Oh, no, you wouldn't either,\" he said, hastily trying to\nretrace.\n\nBut the other made a deprecating gesture. \"Oh, yeh needn't mind,\nHenry,\" he said.  \"I believe I was a pretty big fool in those days.\" He\nspoke as after a lapse of years.\n\nThere was a little pause.\n\n\"All th' officers say we've got th' rebs in a pretty tight box,\" said\nthe friend, clearing his throat in a commonplace way.  \"They all seem\nt' think we've got 'em jest where we want 'em.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" the youth replied. \"What I seen over on th'\nright makes me think it was th' other way about.  From where I was, it\nlooked as if we was gettin' a good poundin' yestirday.\"\n\n\"D'yeh think so?\" inquired the friend.  \"I thought we handled 'em\npretty rough yestirday.\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" said the youth.  \"Why, lord, man, you didn't see nothing\nof the fight.  Why!\" Then a sudden thought came to him.  \"Oh! Jim\nConklin's dead.\"\n\nHis friend started.  \"What?  Is he?  Jim Conklin?\"\n\nThe youth spoke slowly.  \"Yes.  He's dead. Shot in th' side.\"\n\n\"Yeh don't say so.  Jim Conklin. . . . poor cuss!\"\n\nAll about them were other small fires surrounded by men with their\nlittle black utensils. From one of these near came sudden sharp voices\nin a row.  It appeared that two light-footed soldiers had been teasing\na huge, bearded man, causing him to spill coffee upon his blue knees.\nThe man had gone into a rage and had sworn comprehensively.  Stung by\nhis language, his tormentors had immediately bristled at him with a\ngreat show of resenting unjust oaths. Possibly there was going to be a\nfight.\n\nThe friend arose and went over to them, making pacific motions with his\narms.  \"Oh, here, now, boys, what's th' use?\" he said.  \"We'll be at\nth' rebs in less'n an hour.  What's th' good fightin' 'mong ourselves?\"\n\nOne of the light-footed soldiers turned upon him red-faced and violent.\n\"Yeh needn't come around here with yer preachin'.  I s'pose yeh don't\napprove 'a fightin' since Charley Morgan licked yeh; but I don't see\nwhat business this here is 'a yours or anybody else.\"\n\n\"Well, it ain't,\" said the friend mildly.  \"Still I hate t' see--\"\n\nThere was a tangled argument.\n\n\"Well, he--,\" said the two, indicating their opponent with accusative\nforefingers.\n\nThe huge soldier was quite purple with rage. He pointed at the two\nsoldiers with his great hand, extended clawlike.  \"Well, they--\"\n\nBut during this argumentative time the desire to deal blows seemed to\npass, although they said much to each other.  Finally the friend\nreturned to his old seat.  In a short while the three antagonists could\nbe seen together in an amiable bunch.\n\n\"Jimmie Rogers ses I'll have t' fight him after th' battle t'-day,\"\nannounced the friend as he again seated himself.  \"He ses he don't\nallow no interferin' in his business.  I hate t' see th' boys fightin'\n'mong themselves.\"\n\nThe youth laughed.  \"Yer changed a good bit.  Yeh ain't at all like yeh\nwas.  I remember when you an' that Irish feller--\"  He stopped and\nlaughed again.\n\n\"No, I didn't use t' be that way,\" said his friend thoughtfully.\n\"That's true 'nough.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't mean--\" began the youth.\n\nThe friend made another deprecatory gesture. \"Oh, yeh needn't mind,\nHenry.\"\n\nThere was another little pause.\n\n\"Th' reg'ment lost over half th' men yestirday,\" remarked the friend\neventually.  \"I thought a course they was all dead, but, laws, they\nkep' a-comin' back last night until it seems, after all, we didn't lose\nbut a few.  They'd been scattered all over, wanderin' around in th'\nwoods, fightin' with other reg'ments, an' everything.  Jest like you\ndone.\"\n\n\"So?\" said the youth.\n\n\n", "summary": "When Henry wakes up he hears a distant battle raging. He looks around and sees the other sleeping men whom he momentarily mistakes for dead bodies. Also, his head is the size of a basketball . Henry is helped by Wilson, a.k.a. \"the Loud Soldier,\" who is no longer the loud soldier, but rather the \"newly mature, and more like a man\" soldier. Henry explains that their friend Jim Conklin has died. Some rowdy soldiers nearby start to fight, but Wilson breaks them up. He tells Henry that their regiment was split up during battle but that the men keep trickling back, just like Henry did."}, {"": "444", "document": "Cyrano, Le Bret.\n\nCYRANO (to Le Bret):\n  Now talk--I listen.\n(He stands at the buffet, and placing before him first the macaroon):\n  Dinner!. . .\n(then the grapes):\n  Dessert!. . .\n(then the glass of water):\n  Wine!. . .\n(he seats himself):\n  So!  And now to table!\n  Ah!  I was hungry, friend, nay, ravenous!\n(eating):\n  You said--?\n\nLE BRET:\n  These fops, would-be belligerent,\n  Will, if you heed them only, turn your head!. . .\n  Ask people of good sense if you would know\n  The effect of your fine insolence--\n\nCYRANO (finishing his macaroon):\n  Enormous!\n\nLE BRET:\n  The Cardinal. . .\n\nCYRANO (radiant):\n  The Cardinal--was there?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Must have thought it. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Original, i' faith!\n\nLE BRET:\n  But. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  He's an author.  'Twill not fail to please him\n  That I should mar a brother-author's play.\n\nLE BRET:\n  You make too many enemies by far!\n\nCYRANO (eating his grapes):\n  How many think you I have made to-night?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Forty, no less, not counting ladies.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Count!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Montfleury first, the bourgeois, then De Guiche,\n  The Viscount, Baro, the Academy. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Enough!  I am o'erjoyed!\n\nLE BRET:\n  But these strange ways,\n  Where will they lead you, at the end?  Explain\n  Your system--come!\n\nCYRANO:\n  I in a labyrinth\n  Was lost--too many different paths to choose;\n  I took. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Which?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Oh! by far the simplest path. . .\n  Decided to be admirable in all!\n\nLE BRET (shrugging his shoulders):\n  So be it!  But the motive of your hate\n  To Montfleury--come, tell me!\n\nCYRANO (rising):\n  This Silenus,\n  Big-bellied, coarse, still deems himself a peril--\n  A danger to the love of lovely ladies,\n  And, while he sputters out his actor's part,\n  Makes sheep's eyes at their boxes--goggling frog!\n  I hate him since the evening he presumed\n  To raise his eyes to hers. . .Meseemed I saw\n  A slug crawl slavering o'er a flower's petals!\n\nLE BRET (stupefied):\n  How now?  What?  Can it be. . .?\n\nCYRANO (laughing bitterly):\n  That I should love?. . .\n(Changing his tone, gravely):\n  I love.\n\nLE BRET:\n  And may I know?. . .You never said. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Come now, bethink you!. . .The fond hope to be\n  Beloved, e'en by some poor graceless lady,\n  Is, by this nose of mine for aye bereft me;\n  --This lengthy nose which, go where'er I will,\n  Pokes yet a quarter-mile ahead of me;\n  But I may love--and who?  'Tis Fate's decree\n  I love the fairest--how were't otherwise?\n\nLE BRET:\n  The fairest?. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  Ay, the fairest of the world,\n  Most brilliant--most refined--most golden-haired!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Who is this lady?\n\nCYRANO:\n  She's a danger mortal,\n  All unsuspicious--full of charms unconscious,\n  Like a sweet perfumed rose--a snare of nature,\n  Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush!\n  He who has seen her smile has known perfection,\n  --Instilling into trifles grace's essence,\n  Divinity in every careless gesture;\n  Not Venus' self can mount her conch blown sea-ward,\n  As she can step into her chaise a porteurs,\n  Nor Dian fleet across the woods spring-flowered,\n  Light as my Lady o'er the stones of Paris!. . .\n\nLE BRET:\n  Sapristi! all is clear!\n\nCYRANO:\n  As spiderwebs!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Your cousin, Madeleine Robin?\n\nCYRANO:\n  Roxane!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Well, but so much the better!  Tell her so!\n  She saw your triumph here this very night!\n\nCYRANO:\n  Look well at me--then tell me, with what hope\n  This vile protuberance can inspire my heart!\n  I do not lull me with illusions--yet\n  At times I'm weak: in evening hours dim\n  I enter some fair pleasance, perfumed sweet;\n  With my poor ugly devil of a nose\n  I scent spring's essence--in the silver rays\n  I see some knight--a lady on his arm,\n  And think 'To saunter thus 'neath the moonshine,\n  I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!'\n  Thought soars to ecstasy. . .O sudden fall!\n  --The shadow of my profile on the wall!\n\nLE BRET (tenderly):\n  My friend!. . .\n\nCYRANO:\n  My friend, at times 'tis hard, 'tis bitter,\n  To feel my loneliness--my own ill-favor. . .\n\nLE BRET (taking his hand):\n  You weep?\n\nCYRANO:\n  No, never!  Think, how vilely suited\n  Adown this nose a tear its passage tracing!\n  I never will, while of myself I'm master,\n  let the divinity of tears--their beauty\n  Be wedded to such common ugly grossness.\n  Nothing more solemn than a tear--sublimer;\n  And I would not by weeping turn to laughter\n  The grave emotion that a tear engenders!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Never be sad!  What's love?--a chance of Fortune!\n\nCYRANO (shaking his head):\n  Look I a Caesar to woo Cleopatra?\n  A Tito to aspire to Berenice?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Your courage and your wit!--The little maid\n  Who offered you refreshment even now,\n  Her eyes did not abhor you--you saw well!\n\nCYRANO (impressed):\n  True!\n\nLE BRET:\n  Well, how then?. . .I saw Roxane herself\n  Was death-pale as she watched the duel.\n\nCYRANO:\n  Pale?\n\nLE BRET:\n  Her heart, her fancy, are already caught!\n  Put it to th' touch!\n\nCYRANO:\n  That she may mock my face?\n  That is the one thing on this earth I fear!\n\nTHE PORTER (introducing some one to Cyrano):\n  Sir, some one asks for you. . .\n\nCYRANO (seeing the duenna):\n  God! her duenna!\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Le Bret reminds Cyrano that his extravagant behavior is making him enemies. Cyrano says that the thought of having so many enemies makes him happy. Cyrano confides in Le Bret that he has insecurities concerning his nose and his romantic failures. He also reveals to Le Bret that he hates Montfleury because one day Montfleury glanced flirtatiously at the woman whom Cyrano loves. Le Bret asks about the woman but quickly realizes that the only woman beautiful and brilliant enough for Cyrano to love must be Roxane. Cyrano says that given his appearance, he can never reveal his love"}, {"": "445", "document": "'THE NEST', CLAPTON\n\nWhen I began to write this book, I determined to set down all things\nexactly as I saw or heard them. But, although somewhat hardened in\nsuch matters by long experience of a very ugly world, I find that\nthere are limits to what can be told of such a place as 'The Nest' in\npages which are meant for perusal by the general public. The house\nitself is charming, with a good garden adorned by beautiful trees. It\nhas every arrangement and comfort possible for the welfare of its\nchild inmates, including an open-air bedroom, cleverly contrived from\nan old greenhouse for the use of those among them whose lungs are\nweakly.\n\nBut these inmates, these sixty-two children whose ages varied from\nabout four to about sixteen! What can I say of their histories? Only\nin general language, that more than one half of them have been subject\nto outrages too terrible to repeat, often enough at the hands of their\nown fathers! If the reader wishes to learn more, he can apply\nconfidentially to Commissioner Cox, or to Mrs. Bramwell Booth.\n\n[Illustration: SOME OF THE CHILDREN AT 'THE NEST'.]\n\nHere, however, is a case that I can mention, as although it is\ndreadful enough, it belongs to a different class. Seeing a child of\nten, whose name was Betty, playing about quite happily with the\nothers, I spoke to her, and afterwards asked for the particulars of\nher story. They were brief. It appears that this poor little thing had\nactually seen her father murder her mother. I am glad to be able to\nadd that to all appearance she has recovered from the shock of this\nawful experience.\n\nIndeed, all these little girls, notwithstanding their hideous pasts,\nseemed, so far as I could judge, to be extremely happy at their\nchildish games in the garden. Except that some were of stunted growth,\nI noted nothing abnormal about any of them. I was told, however, by\nthe Officer in charge, that occasionally, when they grow older,\npropensities originally induced in them through no fault of their own\nwill assert themselves.\n\nTo lessen this danger, as in the case of the women inebriates, all\nthese children are brought up as vegetarians. Before me, as I write,\nis the bill of fare for the week, which I tore off a notice board in\nthe house. The breakfast on three days, to take examples, consists of\nporridge, with boiling milk and sugar, cocoa, brown and white bread\nand butter. On the other mornings either stewed figs, prunes, or\nmarmalade are added. A sample dinner consists of lentil savoury, baked\npotatoes, brown gravy and bread; boiled rice with milk and sugar. For\ntea, bananas, apples, oranges, nuts, jam, brown and white bread and\nbutter and cocoa are supplied, but tea itself as a beverage is only\ngiven on Sundays. A footnote to the bill of fare states that all\nchildren over twelve years of age who wish for it, can have bread and\nbutter before going to bed.\n\nCertainly the inmates of 'The Nest,' if any judgment may be formed\nfrom their personal appearance, afford a good argument to the\nadvocates of vegetarianism.\n\nIt costs L13 a year to endow a bed in this Institution. Amongst\nothers, I saw one which was labelled 'The Band of Helpers' Bed. This\nis maintained by girls who have passed through the Institution, and\nare now earning their livelihood in the world, as I thought, a\ntouching and significant testimony. I should add that the children in\nthis Home are educated under the direction of a certificated\ngoverness.\n\nMy visit to this Refuge made a deep impression on my mind. No person\nof sense and experience, remembering the nameless outrages to which\nmany of these poor children have been exposed, could witness their\npresent health and happiness without realizing the blessed nature of\nthis work.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Prior attends his board hearing. The internal tension between his ambition to prove himself on the battlefield and his desire to live nearly paralyzes Prior, and Dr. Rivers empathizes with him. Outside the hearing, Sassoon and several other soldiers wait for their own hearings, increasingly nervous as their appointments are further and further delayed. Angry that he is being made to wait after preparing himself to die for his country yet again, Sassoon leaves abruptly. When Dr. Rivers comes to find Sassoon to bring him into his hearing, he is long gone. After learning that he will be excused from further service, Prior sobs because he wanted to return to the front. Dr. Rivers explains that it was not his mental condition but his asthma that rendered him unfit for battle. Prior is ashamed, claiming he'll never know how he would have performed and fearing that his failure will haunt him. Dr. Rivers admits that if he were in Prior's position he would feel similarly because they have both been socially conditioned to do so. The psychologist tries to convince his patient that everyone who survives a war experiences guilt, trying to help him see that his reaction is perfectly normal. Prior explains that his asthma always made him want to prove himself more, but his mother was always holding him back for his own safety. He remarks that Dr. Rivers reminds him of his mother. Billy says he will write to the psychologist and the two men say goodbye amicably. Dr. Rivers eats dinner and ruminates over Sassoon's disappearance. Nobody has seen the lieutenant since he skipped his board hearing and the psychologist worries that Sassoon might have gone to London to make another anti-war statement. Dr. Rivers speculates that with the mounting death tolls, the War Office will be particularly sensitive to criticism and would likely have Sassoon declared insane if he renews his protest. Meanwhile, another doctor at the table speaks insensitively about poor women and procreation. Sassoon finally returns to Craiglockhart, acting like a school boy who has skipped class. Dr. Rivers demands an explanation for his behavior, but Sassoon cannot produce a satisfying one. He claims that he was upset for being made to wait and was late for an appointment to have tea with a friend. Eventually, Sassoon admits that he wanted to get a second opinion from another esteemed psychologist in London so that if the War Office attempted to have him declared insane, he would have the opinions of two renowned doctors to support his sanity. Despite this, Sassoon made no effort to get a second opinion after he walked out, he simply went to have tea with his friend. Sassoon speaks about the possibility of reviving his protest against the war, but he also says that he intends to return to France regardless. Dr. Rivers does not understand Sassoon's contradictory position but is grateful that the lieutenant is going to return to the front after all"}, {"": "446", "document": "\n     At eve, within yon studious nook,\n     I ope my brass-embossed book,\n     Portray'd with many a holy deed\n     Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed;\n     Then, as my taper waxes dim,\n     Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.\n     * * * * *\n     Who but would cast his pomp away,\n     To take my staff and amice grey,\n     And to the world's tumultuous stage,\n     Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?\n     --Warton\n\nNotwithstanding the prescription of the genial hermit, with which his\nguest willingly complied, he found it no easy matter to bring the harp\nto harmony.\n\n\"Methinks, holy father,\" said he, \"the instrument wants one string, and\nthe rest have been somewhat misused.\"\n\n\"Ay, mark'st thou that?\" replied the hermit; \"that shows thee a master\nof the craft. Wine and wassail,\" he added, gravely casting up his\neyes--\"all the fault of wine and wassail!--I told Allan-a-Dale, the\nnorthern minstrel, that he would damage the harp if he touched it after\nthe seventh cup, but he would not be controlled--Friend, I drink to thy\nsuccessful performance.\"\n\nSo saying, he took off his cup with much gravity, at the same time\nshaking his head at the intemperance of the Scottish harper.\n\nThe knight in the meantime, had brought the strings into some order,\nand after a short prelude, asked his host whether he would choose a\n\"sirvente\" in the language of \"oc\", or a \"lai\" in the language of \"oui\",\nor a \"virelai\", or a ballad in the vulgar English. [23]\n\n\"A ballad, a ballad,\" said the hermit, \"against all the 'ocs' and 'ouis'\nof France. Downright English am I, Sir Knight, and downright English\nwas my patron St Dunstan, and scorned 'oc' and 'oui', as he would have\nscorned the parings of the devil's hoof--downright English alone shall\nbe sung in this cell.\"\n\n\"I will assay, then,\" said the knight, \"a ballad composed by a Saxon\nglee-man, whom I knew in Holy Land.\"\n\nIt speedily appeared, that if the knight was not a complete master of\nthe minstrel art, his taste for it had at least been cultivated under\nthe best instructors. Art had taught him to soften the faults of a voice\nwhich had little compass, and was naturally rough rather than mellow,\nand, in short, had done all that culture can do in supplying natural\ndeficiencies. His performance, therefore, might have been termed very\nrespectable by abler judges than the hermit, especially as the knight\nthrew into the notes now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive\nenthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses which he sung.\n\n\n     THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.\n\n     1.\n\n     High deeds achieved of knightly fame,\n     From Palestine the champion came;\n     The cross upon his shoulders borne,\n     Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.\n     Each dint upon his batter'd shield\n     Was token of a foughten field;\n     And thus, beneath his lady's bower,\n     He sung as fell the twilight hour:--\n\n     2.\n\n     \"Joy to the fair!--thy knight behold,\n     Return'd from yonder land of gold;\n     No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,\n     Save his good arms and battle-steed\n     His spurs, to dash against a foe,\n     His lance and sword to lay him low;\n     Such all the trophies of his toil,\n     Such--and the hope of Tekla's smile!\n\n     3.\n\n     \"Joy to the fair! whose constant knight\n     Her favour fired to feats of might;\n     Unnoted shall she not remain,\n     Where meet the bright and noble train;\n     Minstrel shall sing and herald tell--\n     'Mark yonder maid of beauty well,\n     'Tis she for whose bright eyes were won\n     The listed field at Askalon!\n\n     4.\n\n     \"'Note well her smile!--it edged the blade\n     Which fifty wives to widows made,\n     When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,\n     Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.\n     Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow\n     Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?\n     Twines not of them one golden thread,\n     But for its sake a Paynim bled.'\n\n     5.\n\n     \"Joy to the fair!--my name unknown,\n     Each deed, and all its praise thine own\n     Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,\n     The night dew falls, the hour is late.\n     Inured to Syria's glowing breath,\n     I feel the north breeze chill as death;\n     Let grateful love quell maiden shame,\n     And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.\"\n\nDuring this performance, the hermit demeaned himself much like a\nfirst-rate critic of the present day at a new opera. He reclined back\nupon his seat, with his eyes half shut; now, folding his hands and\ntwisting his thumbs, he seemed absorbed in attention, and anon,\nbalancing his expanded palms, he gently flourished them in time to the\nmusic. At one or two favourite cadences, he threw in a little assistance\nof his own, where the knight's voice seemed unable to carry the air\nso high as his worshipful taste approved. When the song was ended, the\nanchorite emphatically declared it a good one, and well sung.\n\n\"And yet,\" said he, \"I think my Saxon countrymen had herded long enough\nwith the Normans, to fall into the tone of their melancholy ditties.\nWhat took the honest knight from home? or what could he expect but to\nfind his mistress agreeably engaged with a rival on his return, and his\nserenade, as they call it, as little regarded as the caterwauling of a\ncat in the gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight, I drink this cup to thee,\nto the success of all true lovers--I fear you are none,\" he added, on\nobserving that the knight (whose brain began to be heated with these\nrepeated draughts) qualified his flagon from the water pitcher.\n\n\"Why,\" said the knight, \"did you not tell me that this water was from\nthe well of your blessed patron, St Dunstan?\"\n\n\"Ay, truly,\" said the hermit, \"and many a hundred of pagans did he\nbaptize there, but I never heard that he drank any of it. Every thing\nshould be put to its proper use in this world. St Dunstan knew, as well\nas any one, the prerogatives of a jovial friar.\"\n\nAnd so saying, he reached the harp, and entertained his guest with\nthe following characteristic song, to a sort of derry-down chorus,\nappropriate to an old English ditty. [24]\n\n\n     THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.\n\n     1.\n\n     I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,\n     To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;\n     But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,\n     So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.\n\n     2.\n\n     Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,\n     And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear;\n     I confess him in haste--for his lady desires\n     No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.\n\n     3.\n\n     Your monarch?--Pshaw! many a prince has been known\n     To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,\n     But which of us e'er felt the idle desire\n     To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!\n\n     4.\n\n     The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,\n     The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;\n     He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,\n     For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.\n\n     5.\n\n     He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes\n     May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums\n     For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,\n     Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.\n\n     6.\n\n     He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,\n     They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,\n     And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,\n     Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.\n\n     7.\n\n     Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,\n     The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;\n     For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,\n     Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.\n\n\n\"By my troth,\" said the knight, \"thou hast sung well and lustily, and in\nhigh praise of thine order. And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk,\nare you not afraid that he may pay you a visit during some of your\nuncanonical pastimes?\"\n\n\"I uncanonical!\" answered the hermit; \"I scorn the charge--I scorn it\nwith my heels!--I serve the duty of my chapel duly and truly--Two masses\ndaily, morning and evening, primes, noons, and vespers, 'aves, credos,\npaters'---\"\n\n\"Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison is in season,\" said his\nguest.\n\n\"'Exceptis excipiendis'\" replied the hermit, \"as our old abbot taught me\nto say, when impertinent laymen should ask me if I kept every punctilio\nof mine order.\"\n\n\"True, holy father,\" said the knight; \"but the devil is apt to keep\nan eye on such exceptions; he goes about, thou knowest, like a roaring\nlion.\"\n\n\"Let him roar here if he dares,\" said the friar; \"a touch of my cord\nwill make him roar as loud as the tongs of St Dunstan himself did. I\nnever feared man, and I as little fear the devil and his imps. Saint\nDunstan, Saint Dubric, Saint Winibald, Saint Winifred, Saint Swibert,\nSaint Willick, not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and my own poor\nmerits to speed, I defy every devil of them, come cut and long\ntail.--But to let you into a secret, I never speak upon such subjects,\nmy friend, until after morning vespers.\"\n\nHe changed the conversation; fast and furious grew the mirth of the\nparties, and many a song was exchanged betwixt them, when their revels\nwere interrupted by a loud knocking at the door of the hermitage.\n\nThe occasion of this interruption we can only explain by resuming the\nadventures of another set of our characters; for, like old Ariosto, we\ndo not pique ourselves upon continuing uniformly to keep company with\nany one personage of our drama.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Knight sings a ballad, accompanying himself on the harp. The hermit responds by singing \"The Barefooted Friar,\" a ballad about a happy friar who roams wherever he likes and enjoys ample food, drink and hospitality. It is clear that the friar in the song resembles the hermit who sings it, although of course he denies it to the Knight, who enjoys the joke. Their revelry continues until there is a loud knock on the door"}, {"": "447", "document": "\n\nON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Antonia jumped down\nfrom the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was\nwearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a\nplayful shake by the shoulders. \"You ain't forget about me, Jim?\"\n\nGrandmother kissed her. \"God bless you, child! Now you've come, you must\ntry to do right and be a credit to us.\"\n\nAntonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything. \"Maybe I be\nthe kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,\" she suggested\nhopefully.\n\nHow good it was to have Antonia near us again; to see her every day and\nalmost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she\nso often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would\nrace about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the\nbarn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off\nNina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she\ncould speak as well as any of us.\n\nI was jealous of Tony's admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was\nalways first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or\nthe door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort\nof prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She\nloved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his\nball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of\nnut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with\nhis father. Antonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr.\nHarling's old coats, and in these she went padding about after Charley,\nfairly panting with eagerness to please him.\n\nNext to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she\nwas rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all\nsorts of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest\ndisappointment or displeasure her velvety brown eyes filled with tears,\nand she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her\nand tried to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I\nused to think that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so\nmany tears as Nina's. Mrs. Harling and Antonia invariably took her part.\nWe were never given a chance to explain. The charge was simply: \"You have\nmade Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic.\"\nI liked Nina, too; she was so quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were\nlovely; but I often wanted to shake her.\n\nWe had jolly evenings at the Harlings when the father was away. If he was\nat home, the children had to go to bed early, or they came over to my\nhouse to play. Mr. Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded\nall his wife's attention. He used to take her away to their room in the\nwest ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we did\nnot realize it then, Mrs. Harling was our audience when we played, and we\nalways looked to her for suggestions. Nothing flattered one like her quick\nlaugh.\n\nMr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the\nwindow, in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at home,\nI could see his shadow on the blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant\nshadow. Mrs. Harling paid no heed to any one else if he was there. Before\nhe went to bed she always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies\nand beer. He kept an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot,\nand his wife made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to\nwant it.\n\nMost Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic\nones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby carriage after office hours,\nmoved the sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on\nSunday. Mr. Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in\nhis ways. He walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man\nwho felt that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so\nhaughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something\ndaring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the \"nobles\" of\nwhom Antonia was always talking probably looked very much like Christian\nHarling, wore caped overcoats like his, and just such a glittering diamond\nupon the little finger.\n\nExcept when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet.\nMrs. Harling and Nina and Antonia made as much noise as a houseful of\nchildren, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only\none who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they all played.\nWhen Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When\nSally got back from school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed\nthe plantation melodies that negro minstrel troupes brought to town. Even\nNina played the Swedish Wedding March.\n\nMrs. Harling had studied the piano under a good teacher, and somehow she\nmanaged to practice every day. I soon learned that if I were sent over on\nan errand and found Mrs. Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait\nquietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment; her short,\nsquare person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands moving\nquickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music with\nintelligent concentration.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Antonia soon comes to work for the Harlings, and Jim and Grandmother are very happy to see her. Antonia likes working in town and learning English, and she plays with the children a lot. Jim is jealous because Antonia has a crush on Charley Harling and is always trying to do nice things for him. The Harling household is always very pleasant, except when Mr. Harling is at home. He likes to have everything quiet, and he makes Mrs. Harling devote all her attention to him. Later Jim realizes how important Mrs. Harling's presence in their lives was. Jim thinks that Mr. Harling is an arrogant man and walks around feeling powerful all the time. Whenever Mr. Harling is not around, the house is loud with a lot of music. Mrs. Harling is very serious about playing the piano."}, {"": "448", "document": "Chapter XLIX. An Homeric Song.\n\n\nIt is time to pass to the other camp, and to describe at once the\ncombatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to the\ngrotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding there their canoe\nready armed, as well as the three Bretons, their assistants; and they\nat first hoped to make the bark pass through the little issue of the\ncavern, concealing in that fashion both their labors and their flight.\nThe arrival of the fox and dogs obliged them to remain concealed. The\ngrotto extended the space of about a hundred _toises_, to that little\nslope dominating a creek. Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities,\nwhen Belle-Isle was still called Kalonese, this grotto had beheld more\nthan one human sacrifice accomplished in its mystic depths. The first\nentrance to the cavern was by a moderate descent, above which distorted\nrocks formed a weird arcade; the interior, very uneven and dangerous\nfrom the inequalities of the vault, was subdivided into several\ncompartments, which communicated with each other by means of rough and\njagged steps, fixed right and left, in uncouth natural pillars. At the\nthird compartment the vault was so low, the passage so narrow, that the\nbark would scarcely have passed without touching the side; nevertheless,\nin moments of despair, wood softens and stone grows flexible beneath the\nhuman will. Such was the thought of Aramis, when, after having fought\nthe fight, he decided upon flight--a flight most dangerous, since all\nthe assailants were not dead; and that, admitting the possibility of\nputting the bark to sea, they would have to fly in open day, before the\nconquered, so interested on recognizing their small number, in pursuing\ntheir conquerors. When the two discharges had killed ten men, Aramis,\nfamiliar with the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoiter them one\nby one, and counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing outside; and\nhe immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the\ngreat stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected all\nhis strength, took the canoe in his arms, and raised it up, whilst the\nBretons made it run rapidly along the rollers. They had descended into\nthe third compartment; they had arrived at the stone which walled the\noutlet. Porthos seized this gigantic stone at its base, applied his\nrobust shoulder, and gave a heave which made the wall crack. A cloud of\ndust fell from the vault, with the ashes of ten thousand generations of\nsea birds, whose nests stuck like cement to the rock. At the third shock\nthe stone gave way, and oscillated for a minute. Porthos, placing his\nback against the neighboring rock, made an arch with his foot, which\ndrove the block out of the calcareous masses which served for hinges and\ncramps. The stone fell, and daylight was visible, brilliant, radiant,\nflooding the cavern through the opening, and the blue sea appeared to\nthe delighted Bretons. They began to lift the bark over the barricade.\nTwenty more _toises_, and it would glide into the ocean. It was during\nthis time that the company arrived, was drawn up by the captain, and\ndisposed for either an escalade or an assault. Aramis watched\nover everything, to favor the labors of his friends. He saw the\nreinforcements, counted the men, and convinced himself at a single\nglance of the insurmountable peril to which fresh combat would expose\nthem. To escape by sea, at the moment the cavern was about to be\ninvaded, was impossible. In fact, the daylight which had just been\nadmitted to the last compartments had exposed to the soldiers the bark\nbeing rolled towards the sea, the two rebels within musket-shot; and\none of their discharges would riddle the boat if it did not kill the\nnavigators. Besides, allowing everything,--if the bark escaped with the\nmen on board of it, how could the alarm be suppressed--how could notice\nto the royal lighters be prevented? What could hinder the poor canoe,\nfollowed by sea and watched from the shore, from succumbing before the\nend of the day? Aramis, digging his hands into his gray hair with rage,\ninvoked the assistance of God and the assistance of the demons. Calling\nto Porthos, who was doing more work than all the rollers--whether of\nflesh or wood--\"My friend,\" said he, \"our adversaries have just received\na reinforcement.\"\n\n\"Ah, ah!\" said Porthos, quietly, \"what is to be done, then?\"\n\n\"To recommence the combat,\" said Aramis, \"is hazardous.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Porthos, \"for it is difficult to suppose that out of two,\none should not be killed; and certainly, if one of us was killed, the\nother would get himself killed also.\" Porthos spoke these words with\nthat heroic nature which, with him, grew grander with necessity.\n\nAramis felt it like a spur to his heart. \"We shall neither of us be\nkilled if you do what I tell you, friend Porthos.\"\n\n\"Tell me what?\"\n\n\"These people are coming down into the grotto.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"We could kill about fifteen of them, but no more.\"\n\n\"How many are there in all?\" asked Porthos.\n\n\"They have received a reinforcement of seventy-five men.\"\n\n\"Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah!\" sighed Porthos.\n\n\"If they fire all at once they will riddle us with balls.\"\n\n\"Certainly they will.\"\n\n\"Without reckoning,\" added Aramis, \"that the detonation might occasion a\ncollapse of the cavern.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Porthos, \"a piece of falling rock just now grazed my\nshoulder.\"\n\n\"You see, then?\"\n\n\"Oh! it is nothing.\"\n\n\"We must determine upon something quickly. Our Bretons are going to\ncontinue to roll the canoe towards the sea.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"We two will keep the powder, the balls, and the muskets here.\"\n\n\"But only two, my dear Aramis--we shall never fire three shots\ntogether,\" said Porthos, innocently, \"the defense by musketry is a bad\none.\"\n\n\"Find a better, then.\"\n\n\"I have found one,\" said the giant, eagerly; \"I will place myself\nin ambuscade behind the pillar with this iron bar, and invisible,\nunattackable, if they come in floods, I can let my bar fall upon their\nskulls, thirty times in a minute. _Hein!_ what do you think of the\nproject? You smile!\"\n\n\"Excellent, dear friend, perfect! I approve it greatly; only you will\nfrighten them, and half of them will remain outside to take us by\nfamine. What we want, my good friend, is the entire destruction of the\ntroop. A single survivor encompasses our ruin.\"\n\n\"You are right, my friend, but how can we attract them, pray?\"\n\n\"By not stirring, my good Porthos.\"\n\n\"Well! we won't stir, then; but when they are all together--\"\n\n\"Then leave it to me, I have an idea.\"\n\n\"If it is so, and your idea proves a good one--and your idea is most\nlikely to be good--I am satisfied.\"\n\n\"To your ambuscade, Porthos, and count how many enter.\"\n\n\"But you, what will you do?\"\n\n\"Don't trouble yourself about me; I have a task to perform.\"\n\n\"I think I hear shouts.\"\n\n\"It is they! To your post. Keep within reach of my voice and hand.\"\n\nPorthos took refuge in the second compartment, which was in darkness,\nabsolutely black. Aramis glided into the third; the giant held in his\nhand an iron bar of about fifty pounds weight. Porthos handled this\nlever, which had been used in rolling the bark, with marvelous facility.\nDuring this time, the Bretons had pushed the bark to the beach. In the\nfurther and lighter compartment, Aramis, stooping and concealed, was\nbusy with some mysterious maneuver. A command was given in a loud voice.\nIt was the last order of the captain commandant. Twenty-five men jumped\nfrom the upper rocks into the first compartment of the grotto, and\nhaving taken their ground, began to fire. The echoes shrieked and\nbarked, the hissing balls seemed actually to rarefy the air, and then\nopaque smoke filled the vault.\n\n\"To the left! to the left!\" cried Biscarrat, who, in his first assault,\nhad seen the passage to the second chamber, and who, animated by the\nsmell of powder, wished to guide his soldiers in that direction. The\ntroop, accordingly, precipitated themselves to the left--the passage\ngradually growing narrower. Biscarrat, with his hands stretched forward,\ndevoted to death, marched in advance of the muskets. \"Come on! come on!\"\nexclaimed he, \"I see daylight!\"\n\n\"Strike, Porthos!\" cried the sepulchral voice of Aramis.\n\nPorthos breathed a heavy sigh--but he obeyed. The iron bar fell full and\ndirect upon the head of Biscarrat, who was dead before he had ended his\ncry. Then the formidable lever rose ten times in ten seconds, and\nmade ten corpses. The soldiers could see nothing; they heard sighs and\ngroans; they stumbled over dead bodies, but as they had no conception\nof the cause of all this, they came forward jostling each other. The\nimplacable bar, still falling, annihilated the first platoon, without\na single sound to warn the second, which was quietly advancing; only,\ncommanded by the captain, the men had stripped a fir, growing on the\nshore, and, with its resinous branches twisted together, the captain had\nmade a flambeau. On arriving at the compartment where Porthos, like the\nexterminating angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first rank drew\nback in terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet\ntheir way was stopped by a heap of dead bodies--they literally walked in\nblood. Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, illumining with\ntrembling pine-torch this frightful carnage, of which he in vain\nsought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which Porthos was\nconcealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade, and fastened\non the throat of the captain, who uttered a stifle rattle; his\nstretched-out arms beating the air, the torch fell and was extinguished\nin blood. A second after, the corpse of the captain dropped close to\nthe extinguished torch, and added another body to the heap of dead which\nblocked up the passage. All this was effected as mysteriously as though\nby magic. At hearing the rattling in the throat of the captain, the\nsoldiers who accompanied him had turned round, caught a glimpse of his\nextended arms, his eyes starting from their sockets, and then the torch\nfell and they were left in darkness. From an unreflective, instinctive,\nmechanical feeling, the lieutenant cried:\n\n\"Fire!\"\n\nImmediately a volley of musketry flamed, thundered, roared in the\ncavern, bringing down enormous fragments from the vaults. The cavern was\nlighted for an instant by this discharge, and then immediately returned\nto pitchy darkness rendered thicker by the smoke. To this succeeded a\nprofound silence, broken only by the steps of the third brigade, now\nentering the cavern.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "As for the defenders, they have begun to move out their boat. They cannot escape while the attack occurs Porthos suggests that he hide behind a pillar with a iron bar that he can use to bash in their heads. Aramis says it's a great idea, but points out that they need a weapon that will take out dozens at once. Twenty-five men led by Biscarrat enter the cave. Aramis tells Porthos to wait for his signal. Biscarrat calls his friends onwards, and Aramis tells Porthos to strike. In the next instant, Biscarrat falls down dead. The bar completely annihilates the first platoon with no problems. Meanwhile, the second wave continues to advance. The second wave is led by the captain, who has a torch. The men are shocked to find dead bodies. The captain eventually spots Porthos behind a pillar. Porthos strangles the captain to death and extinguishes the light, sending the rest of the men into terror. They begin shooting blindly. They are met only with silence and the sounds of the third group entering the cavern."}, {"": "449", "document": "\n    \"He beats me and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction!\n    would it were otherwise--that I could beat him while\n    he railed at me.--\"\n                                    --Troilus and Cressida.\n\n\nBut Fred did not go to Stone Court the next day, for reasons that were\nquite peremptory.  From those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streets in\nsearch of Diamond, he had brought back not only a bad bargain in\nhorse-flesh, but the further misfortune of some ailment which for a day\nor two had deemed mere depression and headache, but which got so much\nworse when he returned from his visit to Stone Court that, going into\nthe dining-room, he threw himself on the sofa, and in answer to his\nmother's anxious question, said, \"I feel very ill: I think you must\nsend for Wrench.\"\n\nWrench came, but did not apprehend anything serious, spoke of a \"slight\nderangement,\" and did not speak of coming again on the morrow.  He had\na due value for the Vincys' house, but the wariest men are apt to be\ndulled by routine, and on worried mornings will sometimes go through\ntheir business with the zest of the daily bell-ringer.  Mr. Wrench was\na small, neat, bilious man, with a well-dressed wig: he had a laborious\npractice, an irascible temper, a lymphatic wife and seven children; and\nhe was already rather late before setting out on a four-miles drive to\nmeet Dr. Minchin on the other side of Tipton, the decease of Hicks, a\nrural practitioner, having increased Middlemarch practice in that\ndirection.  Great statesmen err, and why not small medical men?  Mr.\nWrench did not neglect sending the usual white parcels, which this time\nhad black and drastic contents.  Their effect was not alleviating to\npoor Fred, who, however, unwilling as he said to believe that he was\n\"in for an illness,\" rose at his usual easy hour the next morning and\nwent down-stairs meaning to breakfast, but succeeded in nothing but in\nsitting and shivering by the fire.  Mr. Wrench was again sent for, but\nwas gone on his rounds, and Mrs. Vincy seeing her darling's changed\nlooks and general misery, began to cry and said she would send for Dr.\nSprague.\n\n\"Oh, nonsense, mother!  It's nothing,\" said Fred, putting out his hot\ndry hand to her, \"I shall soon be all right.  I must have taken cold in\nthat nasty damp ride.\"\n\n\"Mamma!\" said Rosamond, who was seated near the window (the dining-room\nwindows looked on that highly respectable street called Lowick Gate),\n\"there is Mr. Lydgate, stopping to speak to some one.  If I were you I\nwould call him in.  He has cured Ellen Bulstrode.  They say he cures\nevery one.\"\n\nMrs. Vincy sprang to the window and opened it in an instant, thinking\nonly of Fred and not of medical etiquette.  Lydgate was only two yards\noff on the other side of some iron palisading, and turned round at the\nsudden sound of the sash, before she called to him.  In two minutes he\nwas in the room, and Rosamond went out, after waiting just long enough\nto show a pretty anxiety conflicting with her sense of what was\nbecoming.\n\nLydgate had to hear a narrative in which Mrs. Vincy's mind insisted\nwith remarkable instinct on every point of minor importance, especially\non what Mr. Wrench had said and had not said about coming again.  That\nthere might be an awkward affair with Wrench, Lydgate saw at once; but\nthe case was serious enough to make him dismiss that consideration: he\nwas convinced that Fred was in the pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever,\nand that he had taken just the wrong medicines.  He must go to bed\nimmediately, must have a regular nurse, and various appliances and\nprecautions must be used, about which Lydgate was particular.  Poor\nMrs. Vincy's terror at these indications of danger found vent in such\nwords as came most easily.  She thought it \"very ill usage on the part\nof Mr. Wrench, who had attended their house so many years in preference\nto Mr. Peacock, though Mr. Peacock was equally a friend.  Why Mr.\nWrench should neglect her children more than others, she could not for\nthe life of her understand.  He had not neglected Mrs. Larcher's when\nthey had the measles, nor indeed would Mrs. Vincy have wished that he\nshould.  And if anything should happen--\"\n\nHere poor Mrs. Vincy's spirit quite broke down, and her Niobe throat\nand good-humored face were sadly convulsed.  This was in the hall out\nof Fred's hearing, but Rosamond had opened the drawing-room door, and\nnow came forward anxiously.  Lydgate apologized for Mr. Wrench, said\nthat the symptoms yesterday might have been disguising, and that this\nform of fever was very equivocal in its beginnings: he would go\nimmediately to the druggist's and have a prescription made up in order\nto lose no time, but he would write to Mr. Wrench and tell him what had\nbeen done.\n\n\"But you must come again--you must go on attending Fred.  I can't have\nmy boy left to anybody who may come or not.  I bear nobody ill-will,\nthank God, and Mr. Wrench saved me in the pleurisy, but he'd better\nhave let me die--if--if--\"\n\n\"I will meet Mr. Wrench here, then, shall I?\" said Lydgate, really\nbelieving that Wrench was not well prepared to deal wisely with a case\nof this kind.\n\n\"Pray make that arrangement, Mr. Lydgate,\" said Rosamond, coming to her\nmother's aid, and supporting her arm to lead her away.\n\nWhen Mr. Vincy came home he was very angry with Wrench, and did not\ncare if he never came into his house again.  Lydgate should go on now,\nwhether Wrench liked it or not.  It was no joke to have fever in the\nhouse.  Everybody must be sent to now, not to come to dinner on\nThursday.  And Pritchard needn't get up any wine: brandy was the best\nthing against infection.  \"I shall drink brandy,\" added Mr. Vincy,\nemphatically--as much as to say, this was not an occasion for firing\nwith blank-cartridges. \"He's an uncommonly unfortunate lad, is Fred.\nHe'd need have--some luck by-and-by to make up for all this--else I\ndon't know who'd have an eldest son.\"\n\n\"Don't say so, Vincy,\" said the mother, with a quivering lip, \"if you\ndon't want him to be taken from me.\"\n\n\"It will worret you to death, Lucy; _that_ I can see,\" said Mr. Vincy,\nmore mildly.  \"However, Wrench shall know what I think of the matter.\"\n(What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly was, that the fever might somehow\nhave been hindered if Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about\nhis--the Mayor's--family.) \"I'm the last man to give in to the cry\nabout new doctors, or new parsons either--whether they're Bulstrode's\nmen or not.  But Wrench shall know what I think, take it as he will.\"\n\nWrench did not take it at all well.  Lydgate was as polite as he could\nbe in his offhand way, but politeness in a man who has placed you at a\ndisadvantage is only an additional exasperation, especially if he\nhappens to have been an object of dislike beforehand.  Country\npractitioners used to be an irritable species, susceptible on the point\nof honor; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most irritable among them.  He\ndid not refuse to meet Lydgate in the evening, but his temper was\nsomewhat tried on the occasion.  He had to hear Mrs. Vincy say--\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Wrench, what have I ever done that you should use me so?--  To\ngo away, and never to come again!  And my boy might have been stretched\na corpse!\"\n\nMr. Vincy, who had been keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infection,\nand was a good deal heated in consequence, started up when he heard\nWrench come in, and went into the hall to let him know what he thought.\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Wrench, this is beyond a joke,\" said the Mayor,\nwho of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official air, and how\nbroadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes.--  \"To let\nfever get unawares into a house like this.  There are some things that\nought to be actionable, and are not so-- that's my opinion.\"\n\nBut irrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of being\ninstructed, or rather the sense that a younger man, like Lydgate,\ninwardly considered him in need of instruction, for \"in point of fact,\"\nMr. Wrench afterwards said, Lydgate paraded flighty, foreign notions,\nwhich would not wear.  He swallowed his ire for the moment, but he\nafterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the case.  The house\nmight be a good one, but Mr. Wrench was not going to truckle to anybody\non a professional matter.  He reflected, with much probability on his\nside, that Lydgate would by-and-by be caught tripping too, and that his\nungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his\nprofessional brethren, would by-and-by recoil on himself.  He threw out\nbiting remarks on Lydgate's tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get\nhimself a factitious reputation with credulous people.  That cant about\ncures was never got up by sound practitioners.\n\nThis was a point on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could\ndesire.  To be puffed by ignorance was not only humiliating, but\nperilous, and not more enviable than the reputation of the\nweather-prophet.  He was impatient of the foolish expectations amidst\nwhich all work must be carried on, and likely enough to damage himself\nas much as Mr. Wrench could wish, by an unprofessional openness.\n\nHowever, Lydgate was installed as medical attendant on the Vincys, and\nthe event was a subject of general conversation in Middlemarch.  Some\nsaid, that the Vincys had behaved scandalously, that Mr. Vincy had\nthreatened Wrench, and that Mrs. Vincy had accused him of poisoning her\nson.  Others were of opinion that Mr. Lydgate's passing by was\nprovidential, that he was wonderfully clever in fevers, and that\nBulstrode was in the right to bring him forward.  Many people believed\nthat Lydgate's coming to the town at all was really due to Bulstrode;\nand Mrs. Taft, who was always counting stitches and gathered her\ninformation in misleading fragments caught between the rows of her\nknitting, had got it into her head that Mr. Lydgate was a natural son\nof Bulstrode's, a fact which seemed to justify her suspicions of\nevangelical laymen.\n\nShe one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs. Farebrother,\nwho did not fail to tell her son of it, observing--\n\n\"I should not be surprised at anything in Bulstrode, but I should be\nsorry to think it of Mr. Lydgate.\"\n\n\"Why, mother,\" said Mr. Farebrother, after an explosive laugh, \"you\nknow very well that Lydgate is of a good family in the North.  He never\nheard of Bulstrode before he came here.\"\n\n\"That is satisfactory so far as Mr. Lydgate is concerned, Camden,\" said\nthe old lady, with an air of precision.--\"But as to Bulstrode--the\nreport may be true of some other son.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Fred doesn't get to visit Mary again the next day because he develops a nasty fever overnight. His mother calls their usual surgeon, Mr. Wrench, who prescribes the wrong thing and then doesn't come back to check in on him. So Rosamond recommends that they call Mr. Lydgate , who immediately sees that it's typhoid fever . Lydgate doesn't want to step on any toes or annoy Mr. Wrench, so he tries to be nice about the fact that Wrench totally screwed up. Everyone in Middlemarch finds out about the matter, but they all hear different versions of the story. Some gossip is even getting spread that Lydgate is the illegitimate son of Mr. Bulstrode."}, {"": "450", "document": "\n\"PIECES OF EIGHT\"\n\n\nOwing to the cant of the vessel, the masts hung far out over the water,\nand from my perch on the crosstrees I had nothing below me but the\nsurface of the bay. Hands, who was not so far up, was, in consequence,\nnearer to the ship, and fell between me and the bulwarks. He rose once\nto the surface in a lather of foam and blood, and then sank again for\ngood. As the water settled, I could see him lying huddled together on\nthe clean, bright sand in the shadow of the vessel's sides. A fish or\ntwo whipped past his body. Sometimes, by the quivering of the water, he\nappeared to move a little, as if he were trying to rise. But he was dead\nenough, for all that, being both shot and drowned, and was food for fish\nin the very place where he had designed my slaughter.\n\nI was no sooner certain of this than I began to feel sick, faint, and\nterrified. The hot blood was running over my back and chest. The dirk,\nwhere it had pinned my shoulder to the mast, seemed to burn like a hot\niron; yet it was not so much these real sufferings that distressed me,\nfor these, it seemed to me, I could bear without a murmur; it was the\nhorror I had upon my mind of falling from the crosstree into that still,\ngreen water beside the body of the coxswain.\n\nI clung with both hands till my nails ached, and I shut my eyes as if to\ncover up the peril. Gradually my mind came back again, my pulses\nquieted down to a more natural time, and I was once more in possession\nof myself.\n\nIt was my first thought to pluck forth the dirk; but either it stuck too\nhard or my nerve failed me, and I desisted with a violent shudder. Oddly\nenough, that very shudder did the business. The knife, in fact, had come\nthe nearest in the world to missing me altogether; it held me by a mere\npinch of skin, and this the shudder tore away. The blood ran down the\nfaster, to be sure, but I was my own master again, and only tacked to\nthe mast by my coat and shirt.\n\nThese last I broke through with a sudden jerk, and then regained the\ndeck by the starboard shrouds. For nothing in the world would I have\nagain ventured, shaken as I was, upon the overhanging port shrouds, from\nwhich Israel had so lately fallen.\n\nI went below and did what I could for my wound; it pained me a good\ndeal, and still bled freely, but it was neither deep nor dangerous, nor\ndid it greatly gall me when I used my arm. Then I looked around me, and\nas the ship was now, in a sense, my own, I began to think of clearing it\nfrom its last passenger--the dead man, O'Brien.\n\nHe had pitched, as I have said, against the bulwarks, where he lay like\nsome horrid, ungainly sort of puppet; life-size, indeed, but how\ndifferent from life's color or life's comeliness! In that position, I\ncould easily have my way with him, and as the habit of tragical\nadventures had worn off almost all my terror for the dead, I took him by\nthe waist as if he had been a sack of bran, and, with one good heave,\ntumbled him overboard. He went in with a sounding plunge; the red cap\ncame off, and remained floating on the surface; and as soon as the\nsplash subsided, I could see him and Israel lying side by side, both\nwavering with the tremulous movement of the water. O'Brien, though still\nquite a young man, was very bald. There he lay with that bald head\nacross the knees of the man who killed him, and the quick fishes\nsteering to and fro over both.\n\nI was now alone upon the ship; the tide had just turned. The sun was\nwithin so few degrees of setting that already the shadow of the pines\nupon the western shore began to reach right across the anchorage and\nfall in patterns on the deck. The evening breeze had sprung up, and\nthough it was well warded off by the hill with the two peaks upon the\neast, the cordage had begun to sing a little softly to itself and the\nidle sails to rattle to and fro.\n\nI began to see a danger to the ship. The jibs I speedily doused and\nbrought tumbling to the deck, but the mainsail was a harder matter. Of\ncourse, when the schooner canted over, the boom had swung outboard, and\nthe cap of it and a foot or two of sail hung even under water. I thought\nthis made it still more dangerous, yet the strain was so heavy that I\nhalf feared to meddle. At last I got my knife and cut the halyards. The\npeak dropped instantly, a great belly of loose canvas floated broad upon\nthe water; and since, pull as I liked, I could not budge the downhaul,\nthat was the extent of what I could accomplish. For the rest, the\n_Hispaniola_ must trust to luck, like myself.\n\nBy this time the whole anchorage had fallen into shadow--the last rays,\nI remember, falling through a glade of the wood, and shining bright as\njewels on the flowery mantle of the wreck. It began to be chill, the\ntide was rapidly fleeting seaward, the schooner settling more and more\non her beam-ends.\n\nI scrambled forward and looked over. It seemed shallow enough, and\nholding the cut hawser in both hands for a last security, I let myself\ndrop softly overboard. The water scarcely reached my waist; the sand was\nfirm and covered with ripple-marks, and I waded ashore in great spirits,\nleaving the _Hispaniola_ on her side, with her mainsail trailing wide\nupon the surface of the bay. About the same time the sun went fairly\ndown, and the breeze whistled low in the dusk among the tossing pines.\n\nAt least, and at last, I was off the sea, nor had I returned thence\nempty-handed. There lay the schooner, clear at last from buccaneers and\nready for our own men to board and get to sea again. I had nothing\nnearer my fancy than to get home to the stockade and boast of my\nachievements. Possibly I might be blamed a bit for my truantry, but the\nrecapture of the _Hispaniola_ was a clinching answer, and I hoped that\neven Captain Smollett would confess I had not lost my time.\n\nSo thinking, and in famous spirits, I began to set my face homeward for\nthe blockhouse and my companions. I remembered that the most easterly of\nthe rivers which drain into Captain Kidd's anchorage ran from the\ntwo-peaked hill upon my left; and I bent my course in that direction\nthat I might pass the stream while it was small. The wood was pretty\nopen, and keeping along the lower spurs, I had soon turned the corner of\nthat hill, and not long after waded to the mid-calf across the\nwatercourse.\n\nThis brought me near to where I had encountered Ben Gunn, the maroon,\nand I walked more circumspectly, keeping an eye on every side. The dusk\nhad come nigh hand completely, and, as I opened out the cleft between\nthe two peaks, I became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, where,\nas I judged, the man of the island was cooking his supper before a\nroaring fire. And yet I wondered, in my heart, that he should show\nhimself so careless. For if I could see this radiance, might it not\nreach the eye of Silver himself where he camped upon the shore among the\nmarshes?\n\nGradually the night fell blacker; it was all I could do to guide myself\neven roughly toward my destination; the double hill behind me and the\nSpy-glass on my right hand loomed faint and fainter, the stars were few\nand pale, and in the low ground where I wandered I kept tripping among\nbushes and rolling into sandy pits.\n\nSuddenly a kind of brightness fell about me. I looked up; a pale glimmer\nof moonbeams had alighted on the summit of the Spy-glass, and soon after\nI saw something broad and silvery moving low down behind the trees, and\nknew the moon had risen.\n\nWith this to help me, I passed rapidly over what remained to me of my\njourney; and, sometimes walking, sometimes running, impatiently drew\nnear to the stockade. Yet, as I began to thread the grove that lies\nbefore it, I was not so thoughtless but that I slacked my pace and went\na trifle warily. It would have been a poor end of my adventures to get\nshot down by my own party in mistake.\n\nThe moon was climbing higher and higher; its light began to fall here\nand there in masses through the more open districts of the wood, and\nright in front of me a glow of a different color appeared among the\ntrees. It was red and hot, and now and again it was a little\ndarkened--as it were the embers of a bonfire smoldering.\n\nFor the life of me I could not think what it might be.\n\nAt last I came right down upon the borders of the clearing. The western\nend was already steeped in moon-shine; the rest, and the blockhouse\nitself, still lay in a black shadow, chequered with long, silvery\nstreaks of light. On the other side of the house an immense fire had\nburned itself into clear embers and shed a steady, red reverberation,\ncontrasting strongly with the mellow paleness of the moon. There was not\na soul stirring, nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze.\n\nI stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a little terror\nalso. It had not been our way to build great fires; we were, indeed, by\nthe captain's orders, somewhat niggardly of firewood, and I began to\nfear that something had gone wrong while I was absent.\n\nI stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and at a\nconvenient place, where the darkness was thickest, crossed the palisade.\n\nTo make assurance surer, I got upon my hands and knees, and crawled,\nwithout a sound, toward the corner of the house. As I drew nearer, my\nheart was suddenly and greatly lightened. It was not a pleasant noise in\nitself, and I have often complained of it at other times, but just then\nit was like music to hear my friends snoring together so loud and\npeaceful in their sleep. The sea-cry of the watch, that beautiful \"All's\nwell,\" never fell more reassuringly on my ear.\n\nIn the meantime there was no doubt of one thing; they kept an infamous\nbad watch. If it had been Silver and his lads that were now creeping in\non them, not a soul would have seen daybreak. That was what it was,\nthought I, to have the captain wounded; and again I blamed myself\nsharply for leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard.\n\nBy this time I had got to the door and stood up. All was dark within, so\nthat I could distinguish nothing by the eye. As for sounds, there was\nthe steady drone of the snorers, and a small occasional noise, a\nflickering or pecking that I could in no way account for.\n\nWith my arms before me I walked steadily in. I should lie down in my own\nplace (I thought, with a silent chuckle) and enjoy their faces when they\nfound me in the morning. My foot struck something yielding--it was a\nsleeper's leg, and he turned and groaned, but without awaking.\n\nAnd then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice broke forth out of the\ndarkness:\n\n\"Pieces of eight! pieces of eight! pieces of eight! pieces of eight!\npieces of eight!\" and so forth, without pause or change, like the\nclacking of a tiny mill.\n\nSilver's green parrot, Captain Flint! It was she whom I had heard\npecking at a piece of bark; it was she, keeping better watch than any\nhuman being, who thus announced my arrival with her wearisome refrain.\n\nI had no time left me to recover. At the sharp clipping tone of the\nparrot, the sleepers awoke and sprang up, and with a mighty oath the\nvoice of Silver cried:\n\n\"Who goes?\"\n\nI turned to run, struck violently against one person, recoiled, and ran\nfull into the arms of a second, who, for his part, closed upon and held\nme tight.\n\n\"Bring a torch, Dick,\" said Silver, when my capture was thus assured.\n\nAnd one of the men left the log-house, and presently returned with a\nlighted brand.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nPART VI\n\nCAPTAIN SILVER\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At the top of the mast, Jim has a great view of the sea below him - and of Israel Hands's body up against the side of the ship. Jim feels sick and frightened. The knife in his shoulder is making him bleed, but it's Israel Hands's dead body that's really getting to him. Jim shudders and the knife comes loose - really, it barely hit him. He climbs down to the deck and bandages his injury as best he can. Jim decides to push O'Brien's body overboard while he's at it. He sees the two bodies of the former enemies lying entwined. Jim is alone on the ship. He climbs over the side of the Hispaniola and starts making his way back to the fort. It's getting darker and darker, and Jim is starting to have trouble finding his way. The moon rises and Jim gets really turned around. He finds himself at the edge of a clearing where there are signs of a bonfire that has burned down. He starts crawling on his hands and knees toward the fort. Jim is surprised that no one has stopped him yet - shouldn't they be guarding the stockade? He walks into the fort and trips on something in the dark. It's the leg of someone sleeping. A shrill voice suddenly calls out, \"Pieces of eight!\" over and over again. It's Captain Flint, Long John Silver's parrot. Everyone wakes up and Long John Silver asks who it is. Several hands catch Jim so he can't get away. Dick, the youngest pirate, brings a light out to see what's going on."}, {"": "451", "document": "Athens. TIMON's house\n\nEnter FLAVIUS, with two or three SERVANTS\n\n  FIRST SERVANT. Hear you, Master Steward, where's our master?\n    Are we undone, cast off, nothing remaining?\n  FLAVIUS. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you?\n    Let me be recorded by the righteous gods,\n    I am as poor as you.\n  FIRST SERVANT. Such a house broke!\n    So noble a master fall'n! All gone, and not\n    One friend to take his fortune by the arm\n    And go along with him?\n  SECOND SERVANT. As we do turn our backs\n    From our companion, thrown into his grave,\n    So his familiars to his buried fortunes\n    Slink all away; leave their false vows with him,\n    Like empty purses pick'd; and his poor self,\n    A dedicated beggar to the air,\n    With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty,\n    Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows.\n\n                     Enter other SERVANTS\n\n  FLAVIUS. All broken implements of a ruin'd house.\n  THIRD SERVANT. Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery;\n    That see I by our faces. We are fellows still,\n    Serving alike in sorrow. Leak'd is our bark;\n    And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck,\n    Hearing the surges threat. We must all part\n    Into this sea of air.\n  FLAVIUS. Good fellows all,\n    The latest of my wealth I'll share amongst you.\n    Wherever we shall meet, for Timon's sake,\n    Let's yet be fellows; let's shake our heads and say,\n    As 'twere a knell unto our master's fortune,\n    'We have seen better days.' Let each take some.\n                                             [Giving them money]\n    Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more!\n    Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.\n                                [Embrace, and part several ways]\n    O the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us!\n    Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,\n    Since riches point to misery and contempt?\n    Who would be so mock'd with glory, or to live\n    But in a dream of friendship,\n    To have his pomp, and all what state compounds,\n    But only painted, like his varnish'd friends?\n    Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart,\n    Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood,\n    When man's worst sin is he does too much good!\n    Who then dares to be half so kind again?\n    For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.\n    My dearest lord- blest to be most accurst,\n    Rich only to be wretched- thy great fortunes\n    Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord!\n    He's flung in rage from this ingrateful seat\n    Of monstrous friends; nor has he with him to\n    Supply his life, or that which can command it.\n    I'll follow and enquire him out.\n    I'll ever serve his mind with my best will;\n    Whilst I have gold, I'll be his steward still.          Exit\n\n\n", "summary": "Flavius and his fellow servants grieve together. They're all really bummed over what happened to their master. Many of the servants have a lot of nasty words for Timon's fair-weather friends. There's lots of hugging goodbye before everyone but Flavius leaves. Flavius wants to serve Timon since all of his friends abandoned him. He decides he'll try to find Timon in the woods and help him in whatever way he can, even if it's just with his mind."}, {"": "452", "document": "\n\nJULY came on with that breathless, brilliant heat which makes the plains\nof Kansas and Nebraska the best corn country in the world. It seemed as if\nwe could hear the corn growing in the night; under the stars one caught a\nfaint crackling in the dewy, heavy-odored cornfields where the feathered\nstalks stood so juicy and green. If all the great plain from the Missouri\nto the Rocky Mountains had been under glass, and the heat regulated by a\nthermometer, it could not have been better for the yellow tassels that\nwere ripening and fertilizing each other day by day. The cornfields were\nfar apart in those times, with miles of wild grazing land between. It took\na clear, meditative eye like my grandfather's to foresee that they would\nenlarge and multiply until they would be, not the Shimerdas' cornfields,\nor Mr. Bushy's, but the world's cornfields; that their yield would be one\nof the great economic facts, like the wheat crop of Russia, which underlie\nall the activities of men, in peace or war.\n\nThe burning sun of those few weeks, with occasional rains at night,\nsecured the corn. After the milky ears were once formed, we had little to\nfear from dry weather. The men were working so hard in the wheatfields\nthat they did not notice the heat,--though I was kept busy carrying water\nfor them,--and grandmother and Antonia had so much to do in the kitchen\nthat they could not have told whether one day was hotter than another.\nEach morning, while the dew was still on the grass, Antonia went with me\nup to the garden to get early vegetables for dinner. Grandmother made her\nwear a sunbonnet, but as soon as we reached the garden she threw it on the\ngrass and let her hair fly in the breeze. I remember how, as we bent over\nthe pea-vines, beads of perspiration used to gather on her upper lip like\na little mustache.\n\n\"Oh, better I like to work out of doors than in a house!\" she used to sing\njoyfully. \"I not care that your grandmother say it makes me like a man. I\nlike to be like a man.\" She would toss her head and ask me to feel the\nmuscles swell in her brown arm.\n\nWe were glad to have her in the house. She was so gay and responsive that\none did not mind her heavy, running step, or her clattery way with pans.\nGrandmother was in high spirits during the weeks that Antonia worked for\nus.\n\n\nAll the nights were close and hot during that harvest season. The\nharvesters slept in the hayloft because it was cooler there than in the\nhouse. I used to lie in my bed by the open window, watching the heat\nlightning play softly along the horizon, or looking up at the gaunt frame\nof the windmill against the blue night sky. One night there was a\nbeautiful electric storm, though not enough rain fell to damage the cut\ngrain. The men went down to the barn immediately after supper, and when\nthe dishes were washed Antonia and I climbed up on the slanting roof of\nthe chicken-house to watch the clouds. The thunder was loud and metallic,\nlike the rattle of sheet iron, and the lightning broke in great zigzags\nacross the heavens, making everything stand out and come close to us for a\nmoment. Half the sky was checkered with black thunderheads, but all the\nwest was luminous and clear: in the lightning-flashes it looked like deep\nblue water, with the sheen of moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the\nsky was like marble pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast\ncity, doomed to destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our\nupturned faces. One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out\ninto the clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we\ncould hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the\nfarmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we would\nget wet out there.\n\n\"In a minute we come,\" Antonia called back to her. \"I like your\ngrandmother, and all things here,\" she sighed. \"I wish my papa live to see\nthis summer. I wish no winter ever come again.\"\n\n\"It will be summer a long while yet,\" I reassured her. \"Why are n't you\nalways nice like this, Tony?\"\n\n\"How nice?\"\n\n\"Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you all the time try to be\nlike Ambrosch?\"\n\nShe put her arms under her head and lay back, looking up at the sky. \"If I\nlive here, like you, that is different. Things will be easy for you. But\nthey will be hard for us.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "In July the heat comes, and the corn grows fabulously. Jim notes that his grandfather has already predicted that in the future the American Midwest will produce enough corn for the rest of the world. During this time Antonia is mostly working in the kitchen with Grandmother, but she also goes outside to work with Jim in the vegetable garden. She prefers to work outside like a man and is proud of her arm muscles. One day there is a big thunderstorm, and Antonia and Jim go outside to watch it. It is pleasant, and Jim asks her why she can't always be herself and why sometimes she tries to be like Ambrosch. She answers that if she lived with Jim in the Burden household, life would be easy and she would be different. However, she predicts that life will be hard for her and her family."}, {"": "453", "document": "THE WOMEN'S INDUSTRIAL HOME, HACKNEY\n\nThis Home is one of much the same class as that which I have just\ndescribed. It has accommodation for forty-eight girls, of whom over\n1,000 have passed through the Institution, where they are generally\nkept for a period of six months. Most of the young women in the Home\nwhen I visited it had been thieves. One, who was twenty-seven years of\nage, had stolen ever since she was twelve, and the lady in charge told\nme that when she came to them everything she had on her, and almost\nall the articles in her trunk were the property of former mistresses.\n\nIn answer to my questions, Commissioner Cox informed me that the\nresult of their work in this Home was so satisfactory that they\nscarcely liked to announce it. They computed, however, that taken on a\nthree years' test--for the subsequent career of each inmate is\nfollowed for that period--90 per cent of the cases prove to be\npermanent moral cures. This, when the previous history of these young\nwomen is considered, may, I think, be accounted a great triumph. No\nmoney contribution is asked or expected in this particular Home.\nIndeed, it would not be forthcoming from the class of girls who are\nsent or come here to be reformed, many of whom, on entering, are\ndestitute of underclothing and other necessaries, The needlework which\nthey do, however, is sold, and helps to pay for the upkeep of the\nplace.\n\nI asked what was done if any of them refused to work. The answer was\nthat this very rarely happened, as the women-Officers shared in their\nlabours, and the girls could not for shame's sake sit idle while their\nOfficers worked. I visited the room where this sewing was in progress,\nand observed that Commissioner Cox, who conducted me, was received\nwith hearty, and to all appearance, spontaneous clapping of hands,\nwhich seemed to indicate that these poor young women are happy and\ncontented. The hours of labour kept in the Home are those laid down in\nthe Factory Acts.\n\nWhile looking at the work produced by the inmates, I asked\nCommissioner Cox if she had anything to say as to the charges of\nsweating which are sometimes brought against the Army, and of\nunderselling in the markets. Her answer was:--\n\n'We do not compete in the markets at all, as we do not make sufficient\narticles, and never work for the trade or supply wholesale; we sell\nthe garments we make one by one by means of our pedlars. It is\nnecessary that we should do this in order to support our girls. Either\nwe must manufacture and sell the work, or they must starve.'\n\nHere we have the whole charge of sweating by the Army in a nutshell,\nand the answer to it.\n\nIn this Home a system has been devised for providing each girl with an\noutfit when she leaves. It is managed by means of a kind of deferred\npay, which is increased if she keeps up to the standard of work\nrequired. Thus, gradually, she earns her outfit, and leaves the place\nwith a box of good clothes. The first thing provided is a pair of\nboots, then a suitable box, and lastly, the materials which they make\ninto clothes.\n\nThis house, like all the others, I found to be extremely well\narranged, with properly-ventilated dormitories, and well suited to its\npurposes.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Rivers goes on his last round to say goodbye to his patients before he leaves for his new job in the morning. He is leaving in a blaze of glory, as Willard is finally walking again and both patient and staff credit Rivers with achieving a medical miracle. Rivers goes to say goodbye to Sassoon, who has spent the day with Lady Ottoline Morrell, a well-known pacifist. Sassoon has remained firm in his decision to return to the war, but Rivers is left to wonder whether it was the hospital, and not the war, that has broken Sassoon's spirit. Rivers goes to London, where he finds his lodging suitable. Unfortunately, he is unable to sleep well, as he is kept awake by the sound of guns through the night. He finds his work in the Air Force hospital extremely interesting. Although pilots do have occurrences of nervous breakdowns, they are not nearly so common as they are in the men who man observation balloons. This evidence supports Rivers's theory that it is \"prolonged strain, immobility, and helplessness\" that causes the mental damage, not sudden shocks in men who were already predisposed to mental illness. Rivers reflects that this discovery might explain the high occurrence of anxiety neuroses in women in peacetime, as their confined lives allow them fewer opportunities for control and constructive action. Rivers feels he must accept an invitation from Dr. Yealland, a well-known London psychiatrist, to visit the National Hospital. Although he is tired, Rivers goes to meet with Dr. Yealland and follow him on his rounds. He watches as Dr. Yealland assumes an arrogant, almost godlike manner, refusing to speak with or take questions from his patients. Rivers notices that many of the patients show signs of depression, and he learns that no work is done to follow up on the patients after they leave the hospital. Dr. Yealland achieves his \"miracle\" recoveries by using electro-shock therapy on the patients. In one case, a patient named Callan, Yealland has applied very strong electric currents to the patient's neck and throat and has even touched lighted cigarettes to his tongue in an attempt to get him to speak. Because this has not worked, Yealland concludes that some patients just do not want to be cured. Yealland says he will allow Rivers to witness a treatment if he promises not to be a \"sympathetic audience."}, {"": "454", "document": "VIII. Monseigneur in the Country\n\n\nA beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.\nPatches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas\nand beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On\ninanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent\ntendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected\ndisposition to give up, and wither away.\n\nMonsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been\nlighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up\na steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was\nno impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was\noccasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting\nsun.\n\nThe sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it\ngained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. \"It will\ndie out,\" said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, \"directly.\"\n\nIn effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the\nheavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down\nhill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed\nquickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow\nleft when the drag was taken off.\n\nBut, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village\nat the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a\nchurch-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a\nfortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects\nas the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was\ncoming near home.\n\nThe village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor\ntannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor\nfountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All\nits people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,\nshredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the\nfountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of\nthe earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,\nwere not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax\nfor the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be\npaid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until\nthe wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.\n\nFew children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,\ntheir choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest\nterms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;\nor captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.\n\nHeralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'\nwhips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as\nif he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in\nhis travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the\nfountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.\nHe looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow\nsure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the\nmeagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the\ntruth through the best part of a hundred years.\n\nMonsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that\ndrooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before\nMonseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces\ndrooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender\nof the roads joined the group.\n\n\"Bring me hither that fellow!\" said the Marquis to the courier.\n\nThe fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round\nto look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.\n\n\"I passed you on the road?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.\"\n\n\"Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, it is true.\"\n\n\"What did you look at, so fixedly?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, I looked at the man.\"\n\nHe stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the\ncarriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.\n\n\"What man, pig? And why look there?\"\n\n\"Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.\"\n\n\"Who?\" demanded the traveller.\n\n\"Monseigneur, the man.\"\n\n\"May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You\nknow all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?\"\n\n\"Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of\nall the days of my life, I never saw him.\"\n\n\"Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?\"\n\n\"With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.\nHis head hanging over--like this!\"\n\nHe turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his\nface thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered\nhimself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.\n\n\"What was he like?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,\nwhite as a spectre, tall as a spectre!\"\n\nThe picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all\neyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur\nthe Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his\nconscience.\n\n\"Truly, you did well,\" said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such\nvermin were not to ruffle him, \"to see a thief accompanying my carriage,\nand not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur\nGabelle!\"\n\nMonsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary\nunited; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this\nexamination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an\nofficial manner.\n\n\"Bah! Go aside!\" said Monsieur Gabelle.\n\n\"Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village\nto-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.\"\n\n\"Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?\"\n\nThe accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen\nparticular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some\nhalf-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and\npresented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.\n\n\"Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as\na person plunges into the river.\"\n\n\"See to it, Gabelle. Go on!\"\n\nThe half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the\nwheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky\nto save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or\nthey might not have been so fortunate.\n\nThe burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the\nrise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,\nit subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many\nsweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer\ngnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the\npoints to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the\ncourier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.\n\nAt the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,\nwith a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor\nfigure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had\nstudied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was\ndreadfully spare and thin.\n\nTo this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been\ngrowing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She\nturned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and\npresented herself at the carriage-door.\n\n\"It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.\"\n\nWith an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,\nMonseigneur looked out.\n\n\"How, then! What is it? Always petitions!\"\n\n\"Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.\"\n\n\"What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He\ncannot pay something?\"\n\n\"He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.\"\n\n\"Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?\"\n\n\"Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor\ngrass.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?\"\n\n\"Again, well?\"\n\nShe looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate\ngrief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together\nwith wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,\ncaressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to\nfeel the appealing touch.\n\n\"Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of\nwant; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.\"\n\n\"Again, well? Can I feed them?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,\nthat a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed\nover him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly\nforgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I\nshall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they\nare so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!\nMonseigneur!\"\n\nThe valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into\na brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far\nbehind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly\ndiminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and\nhis chateau.\n\nThe sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as\nthe rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group\nat the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid\nof the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his\nman like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they\ncould bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled\nin little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more\nstars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having\nbeen extinguished.\n\nThe shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,\nwas upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged\nfor the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door\nof his chateau was opened to him.\n\n\"Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, not yet.\"\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Marquis makes his way from Paris through the countryside towards the Evremonde family estate. The crops on the way look dried and withered, just like the peasants. When the carriage stops at a poor village, many peasants are at the fountain washing leaves or anything else that can be eaten. The Marquis gazes with contempt at the faces around the fountain. Soon a dusty road-mender joins the group. The Marquis sends for him and asks what he was staring at when the carriage passed him down the road. The man tells him that someone was hanging underneath the carriage; he says the man was tall, covered with dust, and as white as a ghost. The Marquis is satisfied and drives on. The carriage passes a graveyard where a grief stricken woman begs him for a tombstone for the grave of her dead husband. The Marquis ignores her request and pushes her away. The carriage finally arrives at the estate after dark."}, {"": "455", "document": "\n    Hath she her faults?  I would you had them too.\n    They are the fruity must of soundest wine;\n    Or say, they are regenerating fire\n    Such as hath turned the dense black element\n    Into a crystal pathway for the sun.\n\n\nIf youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that\nour elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think\nits emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind.  Each\ncrisis seems final, simply because it is new.  We are told that the\noldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the\nearthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock, and reflect that\nthere are plenty more to come.\n\nTo Dorothea, still in that time of youth when the eyes with their long\nfull lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied\nas a freshly opened passion-flower, that morning's parting with Will\nLadislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations.  He was\ngoing away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back\nhe would be another man.  The actual state of his mind--his proud\nresolve to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that he would play\nthe needy adventurer seeking a rich woman--lay quite out of her\nimagination, and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by\nher supposition that Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to him, as it did to\nher, a gross and cruel interdict on any active friendship between them.\nTheir young delight in speaking to each other, and saying what no one\nelse would care to hear, was forever ended, and become a treasure of\nthe past.  For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check.\nThat unique happiness too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber\nshe might vent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at.  For\nthe first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it\nbefore her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged\nwith the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended.  Can any\none who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it a reproach to her\nthat she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it\nthere, and leaned her cheek upon it, as if that would soothe the\ncreatures who had suffered unjust condemnation?  She did not know then\nthat it was Love who had come to her briefly, as in a dream before\nawaking, with the hues of morning on his wings--that it was Love to\nwhom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the\nblameless rigor of irresistible day.  She only felt that there was\nsomething irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot, and her thoughts about\nthe future were the more readily shapen into resolve.  Ardent souls,\nready to construct their coming lives, are apt to commit themselves to\nthe fulfilment of their own visions.\n\nOne day that she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all\nnight and seeing baby washed, Mrs. Cadwallader came to dine, the Rector\nbeing gone on a fishing excursion.  It was a warm evening, and even in\nthe delightful drawing-room, where the fine old turf sloped from the\nopen window towards a lilied pool and well-planted mounds, the heat was\nenough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curls reflect with\npity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and close cap.  But this\nwas not until some episodes with baby were over, and had left her mind\nat leisure.  She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time\nbefore she said, in her quiet guttural--\n\n\"Dear Dodo, do throw off that cap.  I am sure your dress must make you\nfeel ill.\"\n\n\"I am so used to the cap--it has become a sort of shell,\" said\nDorothea, smiling.  \"I feel rather bare and exposed when it is off.\"\n\n\"I must see you without it; it makes us all warm,\" said Celia, throwing\ndown her fan, and going to Dorothea.  It was a pretty picture to see\nthis little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap from her\nmore majestic sister, and tossing it on to a chair.  Just as the coils\nand braids of dark-brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the\nroom.  He looked at the released head, and said, \"Ah!\" in a tone of\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"It was I who did it, James,\" said Celia.  \"Dodo need not make such a\nslavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap any more among her\nfriends.\"\n\n\"My dear Celia,\" said Lady Chettam, \"a widow must wear her mourning at\nleast a year.\"\n\n\"Not if she marries again before the end of it,\" said Mrs. Cadwallader,\nwho had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager.  Sir\nJames was annoyed, and leaned forward to play with Celia's Maltese dog.\n\n\"That is very rare, I hope,\" said Lady Chettam, in a tone intended to\nguard against such events.  \"No friend of ours ever committed herself\nin that way except Mrs. Beevor, and it was very painful to Lord\nGrinsell when she did so.  Her first husband was objectionable, which\nmade it the greater wonder.  And severely she was punished for it.\nThey said Captain Beevor dragged her about by the hair, and held up\nloaded pistols at her.\"\n\n\"Oh, if she took the wrong man!\" said Mrs. Cadwallader, who was in a\ndecidedly wicked mood.  \"Marriage is always bad then, first or second.\nPriority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other.\nI would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first.\"\n\n\"My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you,\" said Lady Chettam.\n\"I am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if\nour dear Rector were taken away.\"\n\n\"Oh, I make no vows; it might be a necessary economy.  It is lawful to\nmarry again, I suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos instead of\nChristians.  Of course if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take\nthe consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate.\nBut if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery--the sooner the\nbetter.\"\n\n\"I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen,\" said Sir\nJames, with a look of disgust.  \"Suppose we change it.\"\n\n\"Not on my account, Sir James,\" said Dorothea, determined not to lose\nthe opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to\nexcellent matches.  \"If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you\nthat no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than\nsecond marriage.  It is no more to me than if you talked of women going\nfox-hunting: whether it is admirable in them or not, I shall not follow\nthem.  Pray let Mrs. Cadwallader amuse herself on that subject as much\nas on any other.\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Casaubon,\" said Lady Chettam, in her stateliest way, \"you\ndo not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning\nMrs. Beevor.  It was only an instance that occurred to me.  She was\nstep-daughter to Lord Grinsell: he married Mrs. Teveroy for his second\nwife.  There could be no possible allusion to you.\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" said Celia.  \"Nobody chose the subject; it all came out of\nDodo's cap.  Mrs. Cadwallader only said what was quite true.  A woman\ncould not be married in a widow's cap, James.\"\n\n\"Hush, my dear!\" said Mrs. Cadwallader.  \"I will not offend again.  I\nwill not even refer to Dido or Zenobia.  Only what are we to talk\nabout?  I, for my part, object to the discussion of Human Nature,\nbecause that is the nature of rectors' wives.\"\n\nLater in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwallader was gone, Celia said\nprivately to Dorothea, \"Really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like\nyourself again in more ways than one.  You spoke up just as you used to\ndo, when anything was said to displease you.  But I could hardly make\nout whether it was James that you thought wrong, or Mrs. Cadwallader.\"\n\n\"Neither,\" said Dorothea.  \"James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he\nwas mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said.  I\nshould only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of\nblood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended.\"\n\n\"But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better\nto have blood and beauty,\" said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Casaubon had\nnot been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to\ncaution Dorothea in time.\n\n\"Don't be anxious, Kitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life.  I\nshall never marry again,\" said Dorothea, touching her sister's chin,\nand looking at her with indulgent affection.  Celia was nursing her\nbaby, and Dorothea had come to say good-night to her.\n\n\"Really--quite?\" said Celia.  \"Not anybody at all--if he were very\nwonderful indeed?\"\n\nDorothea shook her head slowly.  \"Not anybody at all.  I have\ndelightful plans.  I should like to take a great deal of land, and\ndrain it, and make a little colony, where everybody should work, and\nall the work should be done well.  I should know every one of the\npeople and be their friend.  I am going to have great consultations\nwith Mr. Garth: he can tell me almost everything I want to know.\"\n\n\"Then you _will_ be happy, if you have a plan, Dodo?\" said Celia.\n\"Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he\ncan help you.\"\n\nSir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite\nset against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to \"all\nsorts of plans,\" just like what she used to have.  Sir James made no\nremark.  To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a\nwoman's second marriage, and no match would prevent him from feeling it\na sort of desecration for Dorothea.  He was aware that the world would\nregard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a\nwoman of one-and-twenty; the practice of \"the world\" being to treat of\na young widow's second marriage as certain and probably near, and to\nsmile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly.  But if Dorothea did\nchoose to espouse her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well\nbecome her.\n\n\n", "summary": "Dorothea doesn't realize that she's falling in love with Will. She only considers that she's losing the only person she's ever really been able to talk to openly, and all because of Casaubon's unfair suspicions and jealousy. Dorothea's at dinner at Celia and Sir James' house, and Sir James' mother and Mrs. Cadwallader are there, too. The subject of second marriages comes up, and Dorothea assures them all that she has no intention of remarrying. She emphasizes it further to Celia, in private, and tells her sister that she plans on making a Utopian colony instead. Sir James hears of this from Celia and is happy."}, {"": "456", "document": "SCENE II.\nThe Volscian camp before Rome\n\nEnter MENENIUS to the WATCH on guard\n\n  FIRST WATCH. Stay. Whence are you?\n  SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back.\n  MENENIUS. You guard like men, 'tis well; but, by your leave,\n    I am an officer of state and come\n    To speak with Coriolanus.\n  FIRST WATCH. From whence?\n  MENENIUS. From Rome.\n  FIRST WATCH. You may not pass; you must return. Our general\n    Will no more hear from thence.\n  SECOND WATCH. You'll see your Rome embrac'd with fire before\n    You'll speak with Coriolanus.\n  MENENIUS. Good my friends,\n    If you have heard your general talk of Rome\n    And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks\n    My name hath touch'd your ears: it is Menenius.\n  FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name\n    Is not here passable.\n  MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow,\n    Thy general is my lover. I have been\n    The book of his good acts whence men have read\n    His fame unparallel'd haply amplified;\n    For I have ever verified my friends-\n    Of whom he's chief- with all the size that verity\n    Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes,\n    Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground,\n    I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise\n    Have almost stamp'd the leasing; therefore, fellow,\n    I must have leave to pass.\n  FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his\nbehalf\n    as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass\nhere;\n    no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely.\n    Therefore go back.\n  MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always\n    factionary on the party of your general.\n  SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you\n    have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you\ncannot\n    pass. Therefore go back.\n  MENENIUS. Has he din'd, canst thou tell? For I would not speak\nwith\n    him till after dinner.\n  FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you?\n  MENENIUS. I am as thy general is.\n  FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you,\nwhen\n    you have push'd out your gates the very defender of them, and\nin\n    a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield,\nthink\n    to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the\n    virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied\n    intercession of such a decay'd dotant as you seem to be? Can\nyou\n    think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to\nflame\n    in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceiv'd;\ntherefore\n    back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are\ncondemn'd;\n    our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon.\n  MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use\nme\n    with estimation.\n  FIRST WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not.\n  MENENIUS. I mean thy general.\n  FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say; go,\nlest I\n    let forth your half pint of blood. Back- that's the utmost of\n\n\n    your having. Back.\n  MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow-\n\n                      Enter CORIOLANUS with AUFIDIUS\n\n  CORIOLANUS. What's the matter?\n  MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I'll say an errand for you; you\nshall\n    know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a\nJack\n    guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but\nby my\n    entertainment with him if thou stand'st not i' th' state of\n    hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship and\ncrueller\n    in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what's to\ncome\n    upon thee. The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy\n    particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old\nfather\n    Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for\nus;\n    look thee, here's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to\ncome\n    to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I\n    have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure\nthee to\n    pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods\nassuage\n    thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here;\nthis,\n    who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee.\n  CORIOLANUS. Away!\n  MENENIUS. How! away!\n  CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs\n    Are servanted to others. Though I owe\n    My revenge properly, my remission lies\n    In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar,\n    Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather\n    Than pity note how much. Therefore be gone.\n    Mine ears against your suits are stronger than\n    Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov'd thee,\n    Take this along; I writ it for thy sake     [Gives a letter]\n    And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius,\n    I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius,\n    Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st.\n  AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper.\n                                  Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius\n  FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius?\n  SECOND WATCH. 'Tis a spell, you see, of much power! You know\nthe\n    way home again.\n  FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your\n    greatness back?\n  SECOND WATCH. What cause, do you think, I have to swoon?\n  MENENIUS. I neither care for th' world nor your general; for\nsuch\n    things as you, I can scarce think there's any, y'are so\nslight.\n    He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from\nanother.\n    Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are,\nlong;\n    and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I\nwas\n    said to: Away!                                          Exit\n  FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him.\n  SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general; he's the rock,\nthe\n    oak not to be wind-shaken.                            Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At the Volscian army's camp just outside of Rome, Coriolanus prepares for battle. Menenius shows up to do some good old-fashioned begging but first he has to get past a bunch of Watchmen. The Watchmen don't believe that Menenius is a friend of Coriolanus so they give him a hard time. When Coriolanus shows up, Menenius tries to appeal to him as the guy who always treated him like a \"son.\" Coriolanus is not having any of this. He says he'll have his revenge against Rome. Then he disowns his entire family: \"Wife, mother, child I know not,\" he says. When Coriolanus storms off, Menenius is totally crushed. The Watchmen take the opportunity to rub it in. About two seconds go by and Menenius gets mad. He curses Coriolanus and the whole Volscian army."}, {"": "457", "document": "\n\nWICK CUTTER was the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When\na farmer once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling\nor the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back.\n\nCutter's first name was Wycliffe, and he liked to talk about his pious\nbringing-up. He contributed regularly to the Protestant churches, \"for\nsentiment's sake,\" as he said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a\ntown in Iowa where there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a\nlittle Swedish, which gave him a great advantage with the early\nScandinavian settlers.\n\nIn every frontier settlement there are men who have come there to escape\nrestraint. Cutter was one of the \"fast set\" of Black Hawk business men. He\nwas an inveterate gambler, though a poor loser. When we saw a light\nburning in his office late at night, we knew that a game of poker was\ngoing on. Cutter boasted that he never drank anything stronger than\nsherry, and he said he got his start in life by saving the money that\nother young men spent for cigars. He was full of moral maxims for boys.\nWhen he came to our house on business, he quoted \"Poor Richard's Almanack\"\nto me, and told me he was delighted to find a town boy who could milk a\ncow. He was particularly affable to grandmother, and whenever they met he\nwould begin at once to talk about \"the good old times\" and simple living.\nI detested his pink, bald head, and his yellow whiskers, always soft and\nglistening. It was said he brushed them every night, as a woman does her\nhair. His white teeth looked factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as\nif from perpetual sunburn; he often went away to hot springs to take mud\nbaths. He was notoriously dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had\nlived in his house were the worse for the experience. One of them he had\ntaken to Omaha and established in the business for which he had fitted\nher. He still visited her.\n\nCutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his wife, and yet,\napparently, they never thought of separating. They dwelt in a fussy,\nscroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick evergreens, with a\nfussy white fence and barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about\nhorses, and usually had a colt which he was training for the track. On\nSunday mornings one could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around\nthe race-course in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a\nblack-and-white-check traveling cap, his whiskers blowing back in the\nbreeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of them a\nquarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he had no\nchange and would \"fix it up next time.\" No one could cut his lawn or wash\nhis buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim about his place that\na boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw a dead cat into his back\nyard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his alley. It was a peculiar\ncombination of old-maidishness and licentiousness that made Cutter seem so\ndespicable.\n\nHe had certainly met his match when he married Mrs. Cutter. She was a\nterrifying-looking person; almost a giantess in height, raw-boned, with\niron-gray hair, a face always flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes.\nWhen she meant to be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head\nincessantly and snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and curved,\nlike a horse's; people said babies always cried if she smiled at them. Her\nface had a kind of fascination for me; it was the very color and shape of\nanger. There was a gleam of something akin to insanity in her full,\nintense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made calls in rustling,\nsteel-gray brocades and a tall bonnet with bristling aigrettes.\n\nMrs. Cutter painted china so assiduously that even her washbowls and\npitchers, and her husband's shaving-mug, were covered with violets and\nlilies. Once when Cutter was exhibiting some of his wife's china to a\ncaller, he dropped a piece. Mrs. Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips\nas if she were going to faint and said grandly: \"Mr. Cutter, you have\nbroken all the Commandments--spare the finger-bowls!\"\n\nThey quarreled from the moment Cutter came into the house until they went\nto bed at night, and their hired girls reported these scenes to the town\nat large. Mrs. Cutter had several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful\nhusbands out of the newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised\nhandwriting. Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in\nthe paper-rack, and triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from\nwhich it had been cut. Those two could quarrel all morning about whether\nhe ought to put on his heavy or his light underwear, and all evening about\nwhether he had taken cold or not.\n\nThe Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for dispute. The chief of\nthese was the question of inheritance: Mrs. Cutter told her husband it was\nplainly his fault they had no children. He insisted that Mrs. Cutter had\npurposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him and to\nshare his property with her \"people,\" whom he detested. To this she would\nreply that unless he changed his mode of life, she would certainly outlive\nhim. After listening to her insinuations about his physical soundness,\nCutter would resume his dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at\nthe hour when his wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out\nto the track with his trotting-horse.\n\nOnce when they had quarreled about household expenses, Mrs. Cutter put on\nher brocade and went among their friends soliciting orders for painted\nchina, saying that Mr. Cutter had compelled her \"to live by her brush.\"\nCutter was n't shamed as she had expected; he was delighted!\n\nCutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees which half-buried the\nhouse. His wife declared she would leave him if she were stripped of the\n\"privacy\" which she felt these trees afforded her. That was his\nopportunity, surely; but he never cut down the trees. The Cutters seemed\nto find their relations to each other interesting and stimulating, and\ncertainly the rest of us found them so. Wick Cutter was different from any\nother rascal I have ever known, but I have found Mrs. Cutters all over the\nworld; sometimes founding new religions, sometimes being forcibly\nfed--easily recognizable, even when superficially tamed.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Wick Cutter is the moneylender we've already heard about. He's a bad guy. His first name is Wycliffe and he is Protestant. He comes from Iowa and speaks a bit of Swedish. Cutter gambles a lot and is a bad loser. He always tells people how to act morally and says not to drink very hard liquor or smoke cigars. Cutter likes Jim's grandmother, and they always reminisce about the old days. Jim hates Cutter and the way he looks. He has fake-looking white teeth and yellow whiskers. Jim implies that Cutter got two of the girls who worked with him pregnant. He took one of them to Omaha and he still visits her sometimes. Cutter and his wife argue all the time. He has a thing for horses and trains them for the track. He's very nit-picky about his house and yard. Mrs. Cutter is tall and has long teeth. Babies don't like her. She is also very formal. She likes to paint china as a hobby and sells it to her neighbors when she and Mr. Cutter have arguments about money. Cutter wants to cut down the trees around their house, but his wife says that she'll divorce him if he does. She likes that the trees provide her with privacy. Jim says that he hasn't found anyone like Mr. Cutter, but that he's seen other people who are like Mrs. Cutter in his life."}, {"": "458", "document": "\n\nTHE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented\nand secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We\nwere out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break\nthe ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up\nvines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear\nTony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke\ninto bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds\nwere building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek\nwith Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer\nevery day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can't stand still, not\neven in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether\nthey will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting.\n\nIt must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Antonia were preserving\ncherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion\nhad come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted\npoles up from the depot.\n\nThat afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk,\nlooking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a\nlong gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol.\nThey seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I\novertook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and\nconfiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in\nsummer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught\ndancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another.\n\nThe dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot\nsurrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a\nmerry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles.\nBefore the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their\nchildren to the afternoon dancing class. At three o'clock one met little\ngirls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the\ntime, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni\nreceived them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great\ndeal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore\nher hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral\ncombs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow\nteeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the\nharpist, taught the older ones.\n\nOften the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of\nthe tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under\nthe big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good\ntrade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used\nto bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged\nlittle boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white\numbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came\nto dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town.\nEven on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and\nthe air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in\nthe sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman's garden,\nand the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them.\n\nThe Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour\nsuggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the\nharp struck up \"Home, Sweet Home,\" all Black Hawk knew it was ten o'clock.\nYou could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House\nwhistle.\n\nAt last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings,\nwhen the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the\nboys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks--northward to the\nedge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the\npost-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place\nwhere the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh\naloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed\nto ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple\ntrees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted\nsounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni's harp came in silvery ripples\nthrough the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell\nin--one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so\nseductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had\nn't we had a tent before?\n\nDancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer\nbefore. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the\nexclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times\nany one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men,\nthe Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands\nwho lived near enough to ride into town after their day's work was over.\n\nI never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight\nthen. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and\nall the country girls were on the floor,--Antonia and Lena and Tiny, and\nthe Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who\nfound these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to\nthe Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with\ntheir sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with \"the hired\ngirls.\"\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Jim and the Harling children feel the happiest and most content that spring just playing in the garden. They do not yet know that the summer will change everything. In the beginning of summer, some Italians come into town and set up a dancing pavilion in a vacant lot. They begin giving dancing lessons to children, and people start to gather and congregate around the lot. Now there is something for people to do and somewhere for them to socialize. Dancing becomes a city-wide craze, and every Saturday night there is a late-night dance. Jim goes all the time, as do many girls and boys from the country. At this point, Antonia, Lena, and Tiny become known as \"the hired girls\" and are always at the dances too."}, {"": "459", "document": "\n\n                [Portugal:  the VICEROY'S palace.]\n\n                Enter VICEROY, ALEXANDRO, VILLUPPO.\n\n  VICE.  Is our ambassador dispatch'd for Spain?\n\n  ALEX.  Two days, my liege, are past since his depart.\n\n  VICE.  And tribute payment gone along with him?\n\n  ALEX.  Aye, my good lord.\n\n  VICE.  Then rest we here a-while in our unrest;\n    And feed our sorrows with inward sighs,\n    For deepest cares break never into tears.\n    But wherefore sit I in a regal throne?\n    This better fits a wretch's endless moan.\n    Yet this is higher then my fortunes reach,\n    And therefore better than my state deserves.\n\n                  Falls to the ground.\n\n    Aye, aye, this earth, image of melancholy,\n    Seeks him whom fates adjudge to misery!\n    Here let me lie!  Now am I at the lowest!\n    Qui jacet in terra non habet unde cadat.\n    In me consumpsit vires fortuna nocendo,\n    Nil superest ut jam possit obesse magis.\n    Yes, Fortune may bereave me of my crown--\n    Here, take it now; let Fortune do her worst,\n    She shall not rob me of this sable weed.\n    O, no, she envies none but pleasant things.\n    Such is the folly of despiteful chance,\n    Fortune is blind and sees not my deserts,\n    So is she deaf and hears not my laments;\n    And, could she hear, yet is she willful mad,\n    And therefore will not pity my distress.\n    Suppose that she could pity me, what then?\n    What help can be expected at her hands\n    Whose foot is standing on a rolling stone\n    And mind more mutable then fickle winds?\n    Why wail I, then, where's hope of no redress?\n    O, yes, complaining makes my grief seem less.\n    My late ambition hath distain'd my faith,\n    My breach of faith occasion'd bloody wars,\n    Those bloody wars have spent my treasury,\n    And with my treasury my people's blood,\n    And with the blood my joy and best belov'd,--\n    My best belov'd, my sweet and only son!\n    O, wherefore went I not to war myself?\n    The cause was mine; I might have died for both.\n    My years were mellow, but his young and green:\n    My death were natural, but his was forc'd.\n\n  ALEX.  No doubt, my liege, but still the prince survives.\n\n  VICE.  Survives!  Ay, where?\n\n  ALEX.  In Spain, a prisoner by mischance of war.\n\n  VICE.  Then they have slain him for his father's fault.\n\n  ALEX.  That were a breach to common law of arms.\n\n  VICE.  They reck no laws that meditate revenge.\n\n  ALEX.  His ransom's worth will stay from foul revenge.\n\n  VICE.  No; if he liv'd, the news would soon be here.\n\n  VILLUP.  My sovereign, pardon the author of ill news,\n    And I'll bewray the fortune of thy son.\n\n  VICE.  Speak on; I'll guerdon thee, whate'er it be.\n    Mine ear is ready to receive ill news,\n    My heart grown hard 'gainst mischief's battery;\n    Stand up, I say, and tell thy tale at large.\n\n  VILLUP.  Then hear that truth which these mine eyes have seen:\n    When both the armies were in battle join'd.\n    Don Balthazar amidst the thickest troops,\n    To win renown, did wondrous feats of arms;\n    Amongst the rest I saw him hand-to-hand\n    In single fight with their lord general.\n    Till Alexandro, that here counterfeits\n    Under the colour of a duteous friend,\n    Discharg'd a pistol at the princes back,\n    As though he would have slain their general,\n    But therewithal Don Balthazar fell down;\n    And when he fell, then we began to fly;\n    But, had he liv'd, the day had sure been ours.\n\n  ALEX.  O wicked forgery!  O trait'rous miscreant!\n\n  VICE.  Hold thou thy peace!  But now, Villuppo, say:\n    Where then became the carcass of my son?\n\n  VILLUP.  I saw them drag it to the Spanish tents.\n\n  VICE.  Aye, aye, my nightly dreams have told me this!\n    Thou false, unkind, unthankful, traitorous beast!\n    Wherein had Balthazar offended thee,\n    That thou should betray him to our foes?\n    Was't Spanish gold that bleared so thine eyes\n    That thou couldst see no part of our deserts?\n    Perchance, because thou art Terserae's lord,\n    Thou hadst some hope to wear this diadem\n    If first my son and then myself were slain;\n    But thy ambitious thought shall break thy neck.\n    Aye, this was it that made thee spill his blood!\n\n                  Takes the crown and puts it on again.\n\n    But I'll now wear it till thy blood be spilt.\n\n  ALEX.  Vouchsafe, dread sovereign, to hear me speak!\n\n  VICE.  Away with him!  his sight is second hell!\n    Keep him till we determine his death.\n    If Balthazar be dead, he shall not live.\n\n                 [They take him out.]\n\n    Villuppo, follow us for thy reward.\n\n                 Exit VICE[ROY].\n\n  VILLUP.  Thus have I with an envious forged tale\n    Deceiv'd the king, betray'd mine enemy,\n    And hope for guerdon of my villainy.", "summary": "The King of Spain enters with his brother the Duke of Castile, the Marshall Hieronimo, and a General. The King asks for a battle report, and the General declares that Spain achieved victory with little loss to itself. Portugal will honor Spain and its tribute. The King then requests a more detailed account of the military success and the General gladly obliges. After painting a picture of the battlefield in its poetic glory as well as its grim details, the General says that Don Andrea and his men fought so bravely as to push the Portuguese soldiers into retreat. The Portuguese prince, Balthazar, challenged Andrea and killed him, but Hieronimo's son Horatio, in turn, defeated Balthazar and took him prisoner, effectively assuring the Spanish victory. After hearing the good news reconfirmed, the King rewards the General with a chain. The latter states that a \"peace conditional\" has been reached with Portugal, whereby the Spanish forces will keep their peace so long as Portugal pays its tribute. The King then turns to Hieronimo and promises him and his son a reward. At this point a trumpet sounds, and the army files through the King's hall. Balthazar marches between Horatio and the Duke's son Lorenzo. The King calls for Balthazar to be brought before him and dismisses everyone else, granting every soldier two ducats and every leader ten as a reward. The Portuguese prince presents himself meekly before the Spanish King, who receives him magnanimously: Balthazar shall be kept in Spain, well and alive, though not at liberty per se. At this point the King asks whether it is Horatio or Lorenzo who holds Balthazar prisoner. The two argue over the privilege, each vaunting his own accomplishment in capturing the prince. While Balthazar submits himself to both of the young men, Hieronimo speaks in his son's favor. The King finally pronounces his decision: Lorenzo will hold Balthazar captive and receive his weapons and horse; Horatio will receive the prince's armor, as well as his ransom. Before retiring, the King encourages Horatio to visit Balthazar, as the prince seems to think very fondly of him"}, {"": "460", "document": "\n\nMr. and Mrs. Morland's surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for\ntheir consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,\nconsiderable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an\nattachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more\nnatural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it\nwith only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they\nalone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing\nmanners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having\nnever heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could\nbe told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character\nneeded no attestation. \"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young\nhousekeeper to be sure,\" was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick\nwas the consolation of there being nothing like practice.\n\nThere was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one\nwas removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.\nTheir tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while\nhis parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow\nthemselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to\nsolicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it,\nthey were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but\nthe decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once\nobtained--and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be\nvery long denied--their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His\nconsent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than\nentitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son\nwas, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was\nan income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view,\nit was a match beyond the claims of their daughter.\n\nThe young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They\nfelt and they deplored--but they could not resent it; and they parted,\nendeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed\nalmost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in\nthe fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now\nhis only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his\nimprovements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously\nforward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the\ntorments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let\nus not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did--they had been too kind\nto exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at\nthat time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.\n\nThe anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion\nof Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final\nevent, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will\nsee in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are\nall hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their\nearly marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable\ncircumstance could work upon a temper like the general's? The\ncircumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with\na man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of\nthe summer--an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good\nhumour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained\nhis forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him \"to be a fool if he\nliked it!\"\n\nThe marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such\na home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of\nher choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to\ngive general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the\noccasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending\nmerit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy\nfelicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;\nand he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from\naddressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had\nremoved all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his\ndaughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient\nendurance as when he first hailed her \"Your Ladyship!\" Her husband was\nreally deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and\nhis attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the\nworld. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the\nmost charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination\nof us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to\nadd--aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a\ncharacter not connected with my fable--that this was the very\ngentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of\nwashing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my\nheroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.\n\nThe influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother's behalf\nwas assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances\nwhich, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they\nwere qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely\nmore misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his\nsubsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were\nthey necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand\npounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that\nit greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no\nmeans without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at\nsome pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at\nthe disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every\ngreedy speculation.\n\nOn the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor's marriage,\npermitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the\nbearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty\nprofessions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed:\nHenry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled;\nand, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their\nmeeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by\nthe general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin\nperfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is\nto do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the\ngeneral's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to\ntheir felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their\nknowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,\nI leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the\ntendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or\nreward filial disobedience.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The Morlands are surprised but excited that Henry wants to marry Catherine and they consent. Mrs. Morland warns Henry that Catherine will make a lousy housekeeper though. Mama Morland is so supportive. The only problem is that the General won't give his consent. Henry and Catherine don't want any money from him, but they do want his permission so they won't have to elope. Henry and Catherine part and hope that the General will change his mind soon. Luckily, Eleanor Tilney gets married that summer to a random and wealthy guy we have never heard of before. The narrator admits this and the whole thing is ludicrous and funny. It turns out the long-suffering Eleanor was prevented from marrying the man she loved because he had no money. But, fortunately for her, this man suddenly comes into a fortune and becomes a Viscount. So he and Eleanor marry quickly. The General is beyond thrilled by this and Eleanor, now a Viscountess, convinces him to give his consent to Henry and Catherine and assures him that Catherine isn't dirt poor, just not as rich as the Tilneys. So the General says OK. Henry and Catherine finally get married and have a happy life, according to the narrator."}, {"": "461", "document": "SCENE II\n\n  CLEANTE, DORINE\n\n\n  CLEANTE\n  I won't escort her down,\n  For fear she might fall foul of me again;\n  The good old lady ...\n\n  DORINE\n  Bless us! What a pity\n  She shouldn't hear the way you speak of her!\n  She'd surely tell you you're too \"good\" by half,\n  And that she's not so \"old\" as all that, neither!\n\n  CLEANTE\n  How she got angry with us all for nothing!\n  And how she seems possessed with her Tartuffe!\n\n  DORINE\n  Her case is nothing, though, beside her son's!\n  To see him, you would say he's ten times worse!\n  His conduct in our late unpleasantness [1]\n  Had won him much esteem, and proved his courage\n  In service of his king; but now he's like\n  A man besotted, since he's been so taken\n  With this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves him\n  A hundred times as much as mother, son,\n  Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secrets\n  And lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience.\n  He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheart\n  Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly;\n  At table he must have the seat of honour,\n  While with delight our master sees him eat\n  As much as six men could; we must give up\n  The choicest tidbits to him; if he belches,\n  ('tis a servant speaking) [2]\n  Master exclaims: \"God bless you!\"--Oh, he dotes\n  Upon him! he's his universe, his hero;\n  He's lost in constant admiration, quotes him\n  On all occasions, takes his trifling acts\n  For wonders, and his words for oracles.\n  The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the most on't,\n  He fools him with a hundred masks of virtue,\n  Gets money from him all the time by canting,\n  And takes upon himself to carp at us.\n  Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey\n  Makes it his business to instruct us too;\n  He comes with rolling eyes to preach at us,\n  And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and patches.\n  The wretch, the other day, tore up a kerchief\n  That he had found, pressed in the _Golden Legend_,\n  Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingle\n  The devil's finery with holy things.\n\n  [Footnote 1: Referring to the rebellion called La Fronde, during the\n  minority of Louis XIV.]\n\n  [Footnote 2: Moliere's note, inserted in the text of all the old\n  editions. It is a curious illustration of the desire for uniformity\n  and dignity of style in dramatic verse of the seventeenth century,\n  that Moliere feels called on to apologize for a touch of realism like\n  this. Indeed, these lines were even omitted when the play was given.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Cleante and Dorine stay behind and discuss the situation. Cleante is amazed at how quickly Tartuffe has bamboozled Madame Pernelle. Dorine agrees, but she's even more afraid of the way he's tricking Orgon. Though he was once a wise and prudent advisor to the king, he seems to have gone a bit soft in the noggin. Now, she says, he's obsessed with Tartuffe and ignores everyone else. Dorine points out that Tartuffe has been growing rich and fat thanks to his ignorance - this is what we literary types call exposition."}, {"": "462", "document": "\nOne morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his\nleg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard\nof his loss, and consoled him as well as he could.\n\n\"I know what it is,\" said he, clapping him on the shoulder; \"I've been\nthrough it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the fields to be\nquite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I\ntalked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on the\nbranches, their insides swarming with worms, dead, and an end of it.\nAnd when I thought that there were others at that very moment with their\nnice little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck great blows on\nthe earth with my stick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very\nidea of going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn't believe it. Well,\nquite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an\nautumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb;\nit passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something\nalways remains at the bottom as one would say--a weight here, at one's\nheart. But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way\naltogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must\npull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see\nus; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says\nyou are forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have some\nrabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit.\"\n\nCharles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. He found all\nas he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago. The pear\ntrees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again,\ncame and went, making the farm more full of life.\n\nThinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor\nbecause of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off,\nspoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended\nto be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him\nthan for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He\ntold stories. Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his\nwife suddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in;\nhe thought no more about her.\n\nHe thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. The new\ndelight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now\nchange his meal-times, go in or out without explanation, and when he was\nvery tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So he nursed and\ncoddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him.\nOn the other hand, the death of his wife had not served him ill in his\nbusiness, since for a month people had been saying, \"The poor young\nman! what a loss!\" His name had been talked about, his practice had\nincreased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked.\nHe had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself better\nlooking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass.\n\nOne day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fields.\nHe went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the\noutside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of the wood the sun\nsent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners\nof the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Some flies on the table\nwere crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they\ndrowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in\nby the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and\ntouched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth\nEmma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of\nperspiration on her bare shoulders.\n\nAfter the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to\ndrink. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have\na glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao\nfrom the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the\nbrim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked\nglasses, carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent\nback to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the\nstrain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her\ntongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the\nbottom of her glass.\n\nShe sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking she was\ndarning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not speak, nor did\nCharles. The air coming in under the door blew a little dust over the\nflags; he watched it drift along, and heard nothing but the throbbing\nin his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg in the\nyard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her\nhands, and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs.\n\nShe complained of suffering since the beginning of the season from\ngiddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; she began\ntalking of her convent, Charles of his school; words came to them. They\nwent up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books, the little\nprizes she had won, and the oak-leaf crowns, left at the bottom of a\ncupboard. She spoke to him, too, of her mother, of the country, and even\nshowed him the bed in the garden where, on the first Friday of every\nmonth, she gathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But the\ngardener they had never knew anything about it; servants are so stupid!\nShe would have dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town,\nalthough the length of the fine days made the country perhaps even more\nwearisome in the summer. And, according to what she was saying, her\nvoice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in\nmodulations that ended almost in murmurs as she spoke to herself, now\njoyous, opening big naive eyes, then with her eyelids half closed, her\nlook full of boredom, her thoughts wandering.\n\nGoing home at night, Charles went over her words one by one, trying to\nrecall them, to fill out their sense, that he might piece out the life\nshe had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thoughts\nother than he had seen her the first time, or as he had just left her.\nThen he asked himself what would become of her--if she would be married,\nand to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But\nEmma's face always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the\nhumming of a top, sounded in his ears, \"If you should marry after\nall! If you should marry!\" At night he could not sleep; his throat was\nparched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle and\nopened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm wind blowing\nin the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned his head towards the\nBertaux.\n\nThinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charles promised\nhimself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasion offered, but each\ntime such occasion did offer the fear of not finding the right words\nsealed his lips.\n\nOld Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter, who was\nof no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused her, thinking\nher too clever for farming, a calling under the ban of Heaven, since one\nnever saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortune by it,\nthe good man was losing every year; for if he was good in bargaining, in\nwhich he enjoyed the dodges of the trade, on the other hand, agriculture\nproperly so called, and the internal management of the farm, suited him\nless than most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his\npockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself, liking\nto eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. He liked old cider,\nunderdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beaten up. He took his meals in\nthe kitchen alone, opposite the fire, on a little table brought to him\nall ready laid as on the stage.\n\n     *A mixture of coffee and spirits.\n\nWhen, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his\ndaughter, which meant that he would propose for her one of these days,\nhe chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. He certainly thought him a\nlittle meagre, and not quite the son-in-law he would have liked, but he\nwas said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt\nwould not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old\nRouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of \"his property,\"\nas he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and as the\nshaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, \"If he asks for her,\" he said\nto himself, \"I'll give her to him.\"\n\nAt Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux.\n\nThe last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour to\nhour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along the road\nfull of ruts; they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gave\nhimself as far as to the corner of the hedge, and at last, when past\nit--\n\n\"Monsieur Rouault,\" he murmured, \"I should like to say something to\nyou.\"\n\nThey stopped. Charles was silent.\n\n\"Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?\" said old Rouault,\nlaughing softly.\n\n\"Monsieur Rouault--Monsieur Rouault,\" stammered Charles.\n\n\"I ask nothing better\", the farmer went on. \"Although, no doubt, the\nlittle one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So you get\noff--I'll go back home. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of\nall the people about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so\nthat you mayn't be eating your heart, I'll open wide the outer shutter\nof the window against the wall; you can see it from the back by leaning\nover the hedge.\"\n\nAnd he went off.\n\nCharles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited.\nHalf an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch.\nSuddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown\nback; the hook was still swinging.\n\nThe next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as\nhe entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in\ncountenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The discussion\nof money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before\nthem, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out\nof mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year.\n\nThe winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with\nher trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself\nchemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed. When\nCharles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked\nover; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed\nof the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be\nentrees.\n\nEmma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding\nwith torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea. So\nthere was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which\nthey remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to\nsome extent on the days following.\n\n\n", "summary": "When Monsieur Rouault visits Charles to pay his bill he consoles the young man for his recent loss and invites him to the farm. Charles resumes his visits to the farm and realizes that the bachelor life suits him. He finds that he is increasingly attracted to Emma whom he learns is bored of life on the farm and desires to live in a city. He asks her father for permission to marry her and Monsieur Rouault, who has anticipated the proposal, puts the question to his daughter. She accepts and Monsieur signals to Bovary waiting behind a hedge outside by slamming the shutters. Though Emma would have preferred a torch-lit midnight ceremony they arrange for a traditional ceremony and reception at the farm"}, {"": "463", "document": "Scaena Tertia.\n\nEnter the Duke of Hereford, and Northumberland.\n\n  Bul. How farre is it my Lord to Berkley now?\n  Nor. Beleeue me noble Lord,\nI am a stranger heere in Gloustershire,\nThese high wilde hilles, and rough vneeuen waies,\nDrawes out our miles, and makes them wearisome.\nAnd yet our faire discourse hath beene as sugar,\nMaking the hard way sweet and delectable:\nBut I bethinke me, what a wearie way\nFrom Rauenspurgh to Cottshold will be found,\nIn Rosse and Willoughby, wanting your companie,\nWhich I protest hath very much beguild\nThe tediousnesse, and processe of my trauell:\nBut theirs is sweetned with the hope to haue\nThe present benefit that I possesse;\nAnd hope to ioy, is little lesse in ioy,\nThen hope enioy'd: By this, the wearie Lords\nShall make their way seeme short, as mine hath done,\nBy sight of what I haue, your Noble Companie\n\n   Bull. Of much lesse value is my Companie,\nThen your good words: but who comes here?\n\nEnter H[arry]. Percie.\n\n  North. It is my Sonne, young Harry Percie,\nSent from my Brother Worcester: Whence soeuer.\nHarry, how fares your Vnckle?\n  Percie. I had thought, my Lord, to haue learn'd his\nhealth of you\n\n   North. Why, is he not with the Queene?\n  Percie. No, my good Lord, he hath forsook the Court,\nBroken his Staffe of Office, and disperst\nThe Household of the King\n\n   North. What was his reason?\nHe was not so resolu'd, when we last spake together\n\n   Percie. Because your Lordship was proclaimed Traitor.\nBut hee, my Lord, is gone to Rauenspurgh,\nTo offer seruice to the Duke of Hereford,\nAnd sent me ouer by Barkely, to discouer\nWhat power the Duke of Yorke had leuied there,\nThen with direction to repaire to Rauenspurgh\n\n   North. Haue you forgot the Duke of Hereford (Boy.)\n  Percie. No, my good Lord; for that is not forgot\nWhich ne're I did remember: to my knowledge,\nI neuer in my life did looke on him\n\n   North. Then learne to know him now: this is the\nDuke\n\n   Percie. My gracious Lord, I tender you my seruice,\nSuch as it is, being tender, raw, and young,\nWhich elder dayes shall ripen, and confirme\nTo more approued seruice, and desert\n\n   Bull. I thanke thee gentle Percie, and be sure\nI count my selfe in nothing else so happy,\nAs in a Soule remembring my good Friends:\nAnd as my Fortune ripens with thy Loue,\nIt shall be still thy true Loues recompence,\nMy Heart this Couenant makes, my Hand thus seales it\n\n   North. How farre is it to Barkely? and what stirre\nKeepes good old Yorke there, with his Men of Warre?\n  Percie. There stands the Castle, by yond tuft of Trees,\nMann'd with three hundred men, as I haue heard,\nAnd in it are the Lords of Yorke, Barkely, and Seymor,\nNone else of Name, and noble estimate.\nEnter Rosse and Willoughby.\n\n  North. Here come the Lords of Rosse and Willoughby,\nBloody with spurring, fierie red with haste\n\n   Bull. Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue pursues\nA banisht Traytor; all my Treasurie\nIs yet but vnfelt thankes, which more enrich'd,\nShall be your loue, and labours recompence\n\n   Ross. Your presence makes vs rich, most Noble Lord\n\n   Willo. And farre surmounts our labour to attaine it\n\n   Bull. Euermore thankes, th' Exchequer of the poore,\nWhich till my infant-fortune comes to yeeres,\nStands for my Bountie: but who comes here?\nEnter Barkely.\n\n  North. It is my Lord of Barkely, as I ghesse\n\n   Bark. My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you\n\n   Bull. My Lord, my Answere is to Lancaster,\nAnd I am come to seeke that Name in England,\nAnd I must finde that Title in your Tongue,\nBefore I make reply to aught you say\n\n   Bark. Mistake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaning\nTo raze one Title of your Honor out.\nTo you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will)\nFrom the most glorious of this Land,\nThe Duke of Yorke, to know what pricks you on\nTo take aduantage of the absent time,\nAnd fright our Natiue Peace with selfe-borne Armes.\nEnter Yorke.\n\n  Bull. I shall not need transport my words by you,\nHere comes his Grace in Person. My Noble Vnckle\n\n   York. Shew me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,\nWhose dutie is deceiuable, and false\n\n   Bull. My gracious Vnckle\n\n   York. Tut, tut, Grace me no Grace, nor Vnckle me,\nI am no Traytors Vnckle; and that word Grace,\nIn an vngracious mouth, is but prophane.\nWhy haue these banish'd, and forbidden Legges,\nDar'd once to touch a Dust of Englands Ground?\nBut more then why, why haue they dar'd to march\nSo many miles vpon her peacefull Bosome,\nFrighting her pale-fac'd Villages with Warre,\nAnd ostentation of despised Armes?\nCom'st thou because th' anoynted King is hence?\nWhy foolish Boy, the King is left behind,\nAnd in my loyall Bosome lyes his power.\nWere I but now the Lord of such hot youth,\nAs when braue Gaunt, thy Father, and my selfe\nRescued the Black Prince, that yong Mars of men,\nFrom forth the Rankes of many thousand French:\nOh then, how quickly should this Arme of mine,\nNow Prisoner to the Palsie, chastise thee,\nAnd minister correction to thy Fault\n\n   Bull. My gracious Vnckle, let me know my Fault,\nOn what Condition stands it, and wherein?\n  York. Euen in Condition of the worst degree,\nIn grosse Rebellion, and detested Treason:\nThou art a banish'd man, and here art come\nBefore th' expiration of thy time,\nIn brauing Armes against thy Soueraigne\n\n   Bull. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford,\nBut as I come, I come for Lancaster.\nAnd Noble Vnckle, I beseech your Grace\nLooke on my Wrongs with an indifferent eye:\nYou are my Father, for me thinkes in you\nI see old Gaunt aliue. Oh then my Father,\nWill you permit, that I shall stand condemn'd\nA wandring Vagabond; my Rights and Royalties\nPluckt from my armes perforce, and giuen away\nTo vpstart Vnthrifts? Wherefore was I borne?\nIf that my Cousin King, be King of England,\nIt must be graunted, I am Duke of Lancaster.\nYou haue a Sonne, Aumerle, my Noble Kinsman,\nHad you first died, and he beene thus trod downe,\nHe should haue found his Vnckle Gaunt a Father,\nTo rowze his Wrongs, and chase them to the bay.\nI am denyde to sue my Liuerie here,\nAnd yet my Letters Patents giue me leaue:\nMy Fathers goods are all distraynd, and sold,\nAnd these, and all, are all amisse imployd.\nWhat would you haue me doe? I am a Subiect,\nAnd challenge Law: Attorneyes are deny'd me;\nAnd therefore personally I lay my claime\nTo my Inheritance of free Discent\n\n   North. The Noble Duke hath been too much abus'd\n\n   Ross. It stands your Grace vpon, to doe him right\n\n   Willo. Base men by his endowments are made great\n\n   York. My Lords of England, let me tell you this,\nI haue had feeling of my Cosens Wrongs,\nAnd labour'd all I could to doe him right:\nBut in this kind, to come in brauing Armes,\nBe his owne Caruer, and cut out his way,\nTo find out Right with Wrongs, it may not be;\nAnd you that doe abett him in this kind,\nCherish Rebellion, and are Rebels all\n\n   North. The Noble Duke hath sworne his comming is\nBut for his owne; and for the right of that,\nWee all haue strongly sworne to giue him ayd,\nAnd let him neu'r see Ioy, that breakes that Oath\n\n   York. Well, well, I see the issue of these Armes,\nI cannot mend it, I must needes confesse,\nBecause my power is weake, and all ill left:\nBut if I could, by him that gaue me life,\nI would attach you all, and make you stoope\nVnto the Soueraigne Mercy of the King.\nBut since I cannot, be it knowne to you,\nI doe remaine as Neuter. So fare you well,\nVnlesse you please to enter in the Castle,\nAnd there repose you for this Night\n\n   Bull. An offer Vnckle, that wee will accept:\nBut wee must winne your Grace to goe with vs\nTo Bristow Castle, which they say is held\nBy Bushie, Bagot, and their Complices,\nThe Caterpillers of the Commonwealth,\nWhich I haue sworne to weed, and plucke away\n\n   York. It may be I will go with you: but yet Ile pawse,\nFor I am loth to breake our Countries Lawes:\nNor Friends, nor Foes, to me welcome you are,\nThings past redresse, are now with me past care.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "This scene takes place in Gloucestershire, in the south-west of England. Bolingbroke and his followers have made their way from Ravenspurgh in the north-east and are nearing Berkeley Castle. . Northumberland makes a flattering speech to Bolingbroke, hoping to get in Bolingbroke's good graces, since he expects him soon to be King. Northumberland's young son Percy enters. He gives the news that Worcester has renounced his office as steward of the royal court because Northumberland was declared to be a traitor. Worcester has gone to Ravenspurgh to offer his services to Bolingbroke . Worcester then sent Percy to Berkeley to see what the strength of York's army was. After that, Worcester's instructions were that Percy should join Northumberland and Bolingbroke at Ravenspurgh. Percy has never met Bolingbroke and does not realize that the wronged Duke is the very man who is now accompanying his father. When Northumberland introduces Bolingbroke to Percy, the two exchange courteous words. . Percy tells them they are close to Berkeley Castle, which is manned with a force of three hundred. Ross and Willoughby enter, having made efforts to catch up with Bolingbroke. Then on the other side enters Lord Berkeley, who carries a message from the Duke of York, demanding that Bolingbroke explain why he has returned and is marching across the country in arms. At that point York himself enters and asks Bolingbroke this question himself. York says that were he a younger man, he would soon chastise Bolingbroke and correct his faults. Bolingbroke, pretending innocence, asks what fault he may have committed. After York has pointed out that rebelling against the king is treason, especially for a man who has been banished, Bolingbroke makes his case. He claims that he has only come to seek his rightful title of Duke of Gloucester, which he inherited on the death of his father. He appeals to York's own feelings as a father. Had York died, and Aumerle, his son, been denied his inheritance, then  Gaunt, Bolingbroke's father, would have been intervened on Aumerle's behalf. Bolingbroke uses this argument to claim that York should now support him, not oppose him. . York acknowledges that Bolingbroke has been wronged, and says he did what he could to correct the situation. But Bolingbroke is wrong, York says, to take up arms to prosecute his cause. Northumberland insists that all Bolingbroke wants is what he is entitled to, and that is why he, Northumberland, and the others, have taken up his cause. Knowing that he does not have the forces necessary to defeat Bolingbroke, York backs down, saying he will remain neutral. He invites Bolingbroke and his company to stay the night in the castle. Bolingbroke accepts, and says that next they must go to Bristol to arrest Bushy and Greene. ."}, {"": "464", "document": "\nJimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall.  Above the muffled\nroar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the\nthumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound\nof varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels\nover cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the\nmother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering.\n\nThe old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at\nwill, an expression of great virtue.  She possessed a small music-box\ncapable of one tune, and a collection of \"God bless yehs\" pitched in\nassorted keys of fervency.  Each day she took a position upon the\nstones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and\ncrouched immovable and hideous, like an idol.  She received daily a\nsmall sum in pennies.  It was contributed, for the most part, by\npersons who did not make their homes in that vicinity.\n\nOnce, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled\nwoman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her\ncloak.  When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial\nswoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost\nkicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that\noccasion she referred to when she said: \"The police, damn 'em.\"\n\n\"Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame,\" she said.  \"Go, now, like a dear an'\nbuy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep\nhere.\"\n\nJimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed.  He\npassed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar.  Straining\nup on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would\nlet him.  He saw two hands thrust down and take them.  Directly the\nsame hands let down the filled pail and he left.\n\nIn front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure.  It was his\nfather, swaying about on uncertain legs.\n\n\"Give me deh can.  See?\" said the man, threateningly.\n\n\"Ah, come off!  I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be dirt teh\nswipe it.  See?\" cried Jimmie.\n\nThe father wrenched the pail from the urchin.  He grasped it in both\nhands and lifted it to his mouth.  He glued his lips to the under edge\nand tilted his head.  His hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow\nnear his chin.  There was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer\nwas gone.\n\nThe man caught his breath and laughed.  He hit his son on the head with\nthe empty pail.  As it rolled clanging into the street, Jimmie began to\nscream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins.\n\n\"Look at deh dirt what yeh done me,\" he yelled.  \"Deh ol' woman 'ill be\nraisin' hell.\"\n\nHe retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue.\nHe staggered toward the door.\n\n\"I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh,\" he shouted, and disappeared.\n\nDuring the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking whiskies\nand declaring to all comers, confidentially: \"My home reg'lar livin'\nhell!  Damndes' place!  Reg'lar hell!  Why do I come an' drin' whisk'\nhere thish way?  'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!\"\n\nJimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily up\nthrough the building.  He passed with great caution the door of the\ngnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened.\n\nHe could hear his mother moving heavily about among the furniture of\nthe room.  She was chanting in a mournful voice, occasionally\ninterjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father, who, Jimmie\njudged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner.\n\n\"Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'?  I'll break\nher jaw,\" she suddenly bellowed.\n\nThe man mumbled with drunken indifference.  \"Ah, wha' deh hell.  W'a's\nodds?  Wha' makes kick?\"\n\n\"Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool,\" cried the woman in\nsupreme wrath.\n\nThe husband seemed to become aroused.  \"Go teh hell,\" he thundered\nfiercely in reply.  There was a crash against the door and something\nbroke into clattering fragments.  Jimmie partially suppressed a howl\nand darted down the stairway.  Below he paused and listened.  He heard\nhowls and curses, groans and shrieks, confusingly in chorus as if a\nbattle were raging.  With all was the crash of splintering furniture.\nThe eyes of the urchin glared in fear that one of them would discover\nhim.\n\nCurious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to\nand fro.  \"Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin.\"\n\nJimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the\ntenement had all yawned and shut their doors.  Then he crawled upstairs\nwith the caution of an invader of a panther den.  Sounds of labored\nbreathing came through the broken door-panels.  He pushed the door open\nand entered, quaking.\n\nA glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked\nand soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture.\n\nIn the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep.  In one corner of the\nroom his father's limp body hung across the seat of a chair.\n\nThe urchin stole forward.  He began to shiver in dread of awakening his\nparents.  His mother's great chest was heaving painfully.  Jimmie\npaused and looked down at her.  Her face was inflamed and swollen from\ndrinking.  Her yellow brows shaded eyelids that had brown blue.  Her\ntangled hair tossed in waves over her forehead.  Her mouth was set in\nthe same lines of vindictive hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during\nthe fight.  Her bare, red arms were thrown out above her head in\npositions of exhaustion, something, mayhap, like those of a sated\nvillain.\n\nThe urchin bended over his mother.  He was fearful lest she should open\nher eyes, and the dread within him was so strong, that he could not\nforbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated over the woman's grim face.\n\nSuddenly her eyes opened.  The urchin found himself looking straight\ninto that expression, which, it would seem, had the power to change his\nblood to salt.  He howled piercingly and fell backward.\n\nThe woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her head as if\nin combat, and again began to snore.\n\nJimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited.  A noise in the next\nroom had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was awake.\nHe grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face riveted\nupon the intervening door.\n\nHe heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to him.\n\"Jimmie!  Jimmie!  Are yehs dere?\" it whispered.  The urchin started.\nThe thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the door-way of\nthe other room.  She crept to him across the floor.\n\nThe father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like sleep.  The\nmother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as if she were in\nthe agonies of strangulation.  Out at the window a florid moon was\npeering over dark roofs, and in the distance the waters of a river\nglimmered pallidly.\n\nThe small frame of the ragged girl was quivering.  Her features were\nhaggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear.  She grasped the\nurchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they huddled in a\ncorner.  The eyes of both were drawn, by some force, to stare at the\nwoman's face, for they thought she need only to awake and all fiends\nwould come from below.\n\nThey crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the window,\ndrawing close to the panes, and looking in at the prostrate, heaving\nbody of the mother.\n\n\n", "summary": "The old neighbor has problems of her own. She's a beggar and a thief, but for now, she's Jimmie's only option. She dispatches Jimmie to buy her a can of beer. Unfortunately, Jimmie's father intercepts him and steals the beer. He can't cope with the \"livin hell\" at home either. Jimmie hangs out before returning to the apartment. He can hear his parents fighting, threatening, and perpetrating violence on each other; the neighbors comment on how \"Ol' Johnson\" is at it again. Apparently the parents have earned a bit of a reputation for hand-to-hand combat. Jimmie finally gathers the courage to return, and when he does, he finds his drunken parents passed out on the floor. He and Maggie hold each other, quivering and scared, until \"the ghost mists of dawn\" arrive."}, {"": "465", "document": "ACT II         SCENE I\n\n          ARICIA, ISMENE\n\n\n          ARICIA\n          Hippolytus request to see me here!\n          Hippolytus desire to bid farewell!\n          Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived?\n\n          ISMENE\n          This is the first result of Theseus' death.\n          Prepare yourself to see from every side.\n          Hearts turn towards you that were kept away\n          By Theseus. Mistress of her lot at last,\n          Aricia soon shall find all Greece fall low,\n          To do her homage.\n\n          ARICIA\n          'Tis not then, Ismene,\n          An idle tale? Am I no more a slave?\n          Have I no enemies?\n\n          ISMENE\n          The gods oppose\n          Your peace no longer, and the soul of Theseus\n          Is with your brothers.\n\n          ARICIA\n          Does the voice of fame\n          Tell how he died?\n\n          ISMENE\n          Rumours incredible\n          Are spread. Some say that, seizing a new bride,\n          The faithless husband by the waves was swallow'd.\n          Others affirm, and this report prevails,\n          That with Pirithous to the world below\n          He went, and saw the shores of dark Cocytus,\n          Showing himself alive to the pale ghosts;\n          But that he could not leave those gloomy realms,\n          Which whoso enters there abides for ever.\n\n          ARICIA\n          Shall I believe that ere his destined hour\n          A mortal may descend into the gulf\n          Of Hades? What attraction could o'ercome\n          Its terrors?\n\n          ISMENE\n          He is dead, and you alone\n          Doubt it. The men of Athens mourn his loss.\n          Troezen already hails Hippolytus\n          As King. And Phaedra, fearing for her son,\n          Asks counsel of the friends who share her trouble,\n          Here in this palace.\n\n          ARICIA\n          Will Hippolytus,\n          Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make light\n          My chains, and pity my misfortunes?\n\n          ISMENE\n          Yes,\n          I think so, Madam.\n\n          ARICIA\n          Ah, you know him not\n          Or you would never deem so hard a heart\n          Can pity feel, or me alone except\n          From the contempt in which he holds our sex.\n          Has he not long avoided every spot\n          Where we resort?\n\n          ISMENE\n          I know what tales are told\n          Of proud Hippolytus, but I have seen\n          Him near you, and have watch'd with curious eye\n          How one esteem'd so cold would bear himself.\n          Little did his behavior correspond\n          With what I look'd for; in his face confusion\n          Appear'd at your first glance, he could not turn\n          His languid eyes away, but gazed on you.\n          Love is a word that may offend his pride,\n          But what the tongue disowns, looks can betray.\n\n          ARICIA\n          How eagerly my heart hears what you say,\n          Tho' it may be delusion, dear Ismene!\n          Did it seem possible to you, who know me,\n          That I, sad sport of a relentless Fate,\n          Fed upon bitter tears by night and day,\n          Could ever taste the maddening draught of love?\n          The last frail offspring of a royal race,\n          Children of Earth, I only have survived\n          War's fury. Cut off in the flow'r of youth,\n          Mown by the sword, six brothers have I lost,\n          The hope of an illustrious house, whose blood\n          Earth drank with sorrow, near akin to his\n          Whom she herself produced. Since then, you know\n          How thro' all Greece no heart has been allow'd\n          To sigh for me, lest by a sister's flame\n          The brothers' ashes be perchance rekindled.\n          You know, besides, with what disdain I view'd\n          My conqueror's suspicions and precautions,\n          And how, oppos'd as I have ever been\n          To love, I often thank'd the King's injustice\n          Which happily confirm'd my inclination.\n          But then I never had beheld his son.\n          Not that, attracted merely by the eye, I\n          love him for his beauty and his grace,\n          Endowments which he owes to Nature's bounty,\n          Charms which he seems to know not or to scorn.\n          I love and prize in him riches more rare,\n          The virtues of his sire, without his faults.\n          I love, as I must own, that generous pride\n          Which ne'er has stoop'd beneath the amorous yoke.\n          Phaedra reaps little glory from a lover\n          So lavish of his sighs; I am too proud\n          To share devotion with a thousand others,\n          Or enter where the door is always open.\n          But to make one who ne'er has stoop'd before\n          Bend his proud neck, to pierce a heart of stone,\n          To bind a captive whom his chains astonish,\n          Who vainly 'gainst a pleasing yoke rebels,--\n          That piques my ardour, and I long for that.\n          'Twas easier to disarm the god of strength\n          Than this Hippolytus, for Hercules\n          Yielded so often to the eyes of beauty,\n          As to make triumph cheap. But, dear Ismene,\n          I take too little heed of opposition\n          Beyond my pow'r to quell, and you may hear me,\n          Humbled by sore defeat, upbraid the pride\n          I now admire. What! Can he love? and I\n          Have had the happiness to bend--\n\n          ISMENE\n          He comes\n          Yourself shall hear him.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Aricia has just been told by her companion, Ismene, that Hippolytus wishes to see her, that Theseus is dead, and that she is no longer a prisoner. Aricia finds it hard to credit so much good news at once. She is disinclined to believe the story of Theseus' death -- that he descended alive into hell and was unable to return -- and she does not see why Theseus' son should be kinder to her than his father. Ismene, however, does. Curious about Hippolytus and his renowned chastity, she has studied him closely and believes he is in love with Aricia. For Aricia, this is the best of all possible news. Her life has not been a happy one. When her six brothers were killed fighting Theseus, she was left alone in the world surrounded by political enemies, forbidden even to marry and make herself a home. This last prohibition, however, troubled her little; She had no interest in love -- until she met Hippolytus. She admired him not only for his grace and beauty, but for his qualities of character: To her, he was Theseus without Theseus' flaws. More important still, perhaps, she was piqued and challenged by his lack of interest in love. But perhaps Ismene is mistaken about his feelings for her, and she is rejoicing too soon."}, {"": "466", "document": "THE INTERNATIONAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT\n\nThis is a curious and interesting branch of the work of the Salvation\nArmy. About two thousand times a year it receives letters or personal\napplications, asking it to find some missing relative or friend of the\nwriter or applicant. In reply, a form is posted or given, which must\nbe filled up with the necessary particulars. Then, if it be a London\ncase, the Officer in charge sends out a skilled man to work up clues.\nIf, on the other hand, it be a country case, the Officer in charge of\nthe Corps nearest to where it has occurred, is instructed to initiate\nthe inquiry. Also, advertisements are inserted in the Army papers,\nknown as 'The War Cry' and 'The Social Gazette,' both in Great Britain\nand other countries, if the lost person is supposed to be on the\nContinent or in some distant part of the world.\n\nThe result is that a large percentage of the individuals sought for\nare discovered, alive or dead, for in such work the Salvation Army has\nadvantages denied to any other body, scarcely excepting the Police.\nIts representatives are everywhere, and to whatever land they may\nbelong or whatever tongue they may speak, all of them obey an order\nsent out from Headquarters wholeheartedly and uninfluenced by the\nquestion of regard. The usual fee charged for this work is 10_s_.\n6_d_.; but when this cannot be paid, a large number of cases are\nundertaken free. The Army goes to as much trouble in these unpaid\ncases as in any others, only then it is not able to flood the country\nwith printed bills. Of course, where well-to-do people are concerned,\nit expects that its out-of-pocket costs will be met.\n\nThe cases with which it has to deal are of all kinds. Often those who\nhave disappeared are found to have done so purposely, perhaps leaving\nbehind them manufactured evidence, such as coats or letters on a\nriver-bank, suggesting that they have committed suicide. Generally,\nthese people are involved in some fraud or other trouble. Again,\nhusbands desert their wives, or wives their husbands, and vanish, in\nwhich instances they are probably living with somebody else under\nanother name. Or children are kidnapped, or girls are lured away, or\nindividuals emigrate to far lands and neglect to write. Or, perhaps,\nthey simply sink out of all knowledge, and vanish effectually enough\ninto a paupers grave.\n\nBut the oddest cases of all are those of a complete loss of memory, a\nthing that is by no means so infrequent as is generally supposed. The\nexperience of the Army is that the majority of these cases happen\namong those who lead a studious life. The victim goes out in his usual\nhealth and suddenly forgets everything. His mind becomes a total\nblank. Yet certain instincts remain, such as that of earning a living.\n\nThus, to take a single recent example, the son of a large bookseller\nin a country town left the house one day, saying that he would not be\naway for long, and disappeared. At the invitation of his father, the\nArmy took up the case, and ultimately found that the man had been\nworking in its Spa Road Elevator under another name. Afterwards he\nwent away, became destitute, and sold matches in the streets.\nUltimately he was found in a Church Army Home. He recovered his\nmemory, and subsequently lost it again to the extent that he could\nrecall nothing which happened to him during the period of its first\nlapse. All that time vanished into total darkness.\n\nThis business of the hunting out of the missing through the agency of\nthe Salvation Army is one which increases every day. It is not unusual\nfor the Army to discover individuals who have been missing for thirty\nyears and upwards.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Sarah and the other munitions girls share a cup of tea. Sarah is upset that Billy Prior did not show up for their date on Sunday, unaware that he was not allowed to leave Craiglockhart because he had violated curfew. Sarah's friends tease her for a few moments before discussing the dreaded return of Lizzie's husband, who physically abused her before the war. As Lizzie explains, \"'Peace broke out'\" for her the day the war began. A new patient, Willard, lies immobilized on a table. Pieces of tombstone are embedded in his back-side from crossing a graveyard under fire. Though he has no injuries to his spine, Willard cannot walk. Dr. Rivers patiently attempts to introduce the possibility that Willard's paralysis is mental and a result of combat stress, but Willard continues to insist that his spinal cord must be damaged. Sassoon arrives a few minutes before Dr. Rivers for their meeting at the Conservative Club. As he waits, he listens to a pair of upper-class men discuss the war. Their words fill him with hatred, and he finds that his anger has a sexual edge. Though Sassoon has been quick to hold civilians in contempt, he is disgusted with himself for being safely tucked away, thus allowing his message to be disregarded. He thinks that he has become like the apathetic civilians he despises. One of his friends has recently been killed on the battlefield, thus exacerbating Sassoon's guilt. Dr. Rivers arrives and, as Sassoon studies the menu, the psychologist mulls over how much easier his life would be had Sassoon been assigned elsewhere. The lieutenant reminds Rivers of the costs of the war, leaving him constantly questioning whether the psychological and physical damage to these men can ever be justified. Rivers and Sassoon joke over the young waiter who is overly impressed by Sassoon's uniform but the conversation hits a difficult patch when the subject of Sassoon's recently deceased friend arises. After an awkward pause, Sassoon speaks of another friend who was shot through the throat. He admits feeling guilty for being safe; as his friends continue to perish, it has become harder and harder for Sassoon to stay away from the front. Dr. Rivers leaves the club while Sassoon is deep in conversation with an astronomer. Rivers thinks that he will be able to convince Sassoon to return to war because of the lieutenant's inherent need to prove his courage. Upon returning to Craiglockhart, the psychologist finds Willard and his wife stranded at the bottom of a steep hill because Mrs. Willard is not strong enough to push the wheelchair up the slope. Dr. Rivers helps her, noting Willard's growing rage at his impotence"}, {"": "467", "document": "<CHAPTER>\n8--Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody\n\n\nAs soon as the sad little boy had withdrawn from the fire he clasped\nthe money tight in the palm of his hand, as if thereby to fortify his\ncourage, and began to run. There was really little danger in allowing a\nchild to go home alone on this part of Egdon Heath. The distance to\nthe boy's house was not more than three-eighths of a mile, his father's\ncottage, and one other a few yards further on, forming part of the small\nhamlet of Mistover Knap: the third and only remaining house was that\nof Captain Vye and Eustacia, which stood quite away from the small\ncottages and was the loneliest of lonely houses on these thinly\npopulated slopes.\n\nHe ran until he was out of breath, and then, becoming more courageous,\nwalked leisurely along, singing in an old voice a little song about a\nsailor-boy and a fair one, and bright gold in store. In the middle of\nthis the child stopped--from a pit under the hill ahead of him shone a\nlight, whence proceeded a cloud of floating dust and a smacking noise.\n\nOnly unusual sights and sounds frightened the boy. The shrivelled voice\nof the heath did not alarm him, for that was familiar. The thornbushes\nwhich arose in his path from time to time were less satisfactory, for\nthey whistled gloomily, and had a ghastly habit after dark of putting\non the shapes of jumping madmen, sprawling giants, and hideous cripples.\nLights were not uncommon this evening, but the nature of all of them was\ndifferent from this. Discretion rather than terror prompted the boy\nto turn back instead of passing the light, with a view of asking Miss\nEustacia Vye to let her servant accompany him home.\n\nWhen the boy had reascended to the top of the valley he found the fire\nto be still burning on the bank, though lower than before. Beside it,\ninstead of Eustacia's solitary form, he saw two persons, the second\nbeing a man. The boy crept along under the bank to ascertain from\nthe nature of the proceedings if it would be prudent to interrupt so\nsplendid a creature as Miss Eustacia on his poor trivial account.\n\nAfter listening under the bank for some minutes to the talk he turned in\na perplexed and doubting manner and began to withdraw as silently as\nhe had come. That he did not, upon the whole, think it advisable to\ninterrupt her conversation with Wildeve, without being prepared to bear\nthe whole weight of her displeasure, was obvious.\n\nHere was a Scyllaeo-Charybdean position for a poor boy. Pausing when\nagain safe from discovery, he finally decided to face the pit phenomenon\nas the lesser evil. With a heavy sigh he retraced the slope, and\nfollowed the path he had followed before.\n\nThe light had gone, the rising dust had disappeared--he hoped for ever.\nHe marched resolutely along, and found nothing to alarm him till, coming\nwithin a few yards of the sandpit, he heard a slight noise in front,\nwhich led him to halt. The halt was but momentary, for the noise\nresolved itself into the steady bites of two animals grazing.\n\n\"Two he'th-croppers down here,\" he said aloud. \"I have never known 'em\ncome down so far afore.\"\n\nThe animals were in the direct line of his path, but that the child\nthought little of; he had played round the fetlocks of horses from his\ninfancy. On coming nearer, however, the boy was somewhat surprised to\nfind that the little creatures did not run off, and that each wore a\nclog, to prevent his going astray; this signified that they had been\nbroken in. He could now see the interior of the pit, which, being in\nthe side of the hill, had a level entrance. In the innermost corner the\nsquare outline of a van appeared, with its back towards him. A light\ncame from the interior, and threw a moving shadow upon the vertical face\nof gravel at the further side of the pit into which the vehicle faced.\n\nThe child assumed that this was the cart of a gipsy, and his dread of\nthose wanderers reached but to that mild pitch which titillates rather\nthan pains. Only a few inches of mud wall kept him and his family from\nbeing gipsies themselves. He skirted the gravel pit at a respectful\ndistance, ascended the slope, and came forward upon the brow, in order\nto look into the open door of the van and see the original of the\nshadow.\n\nThe picture alarmed the boy. By a little stove inside the van sat a\nfigure red from head to heels--the man who had been Thomasin's friend.\nHe was darning a stocking, which was red like the rest of him. Moreover,\nas he darned he smoked a pipe, the stem and bowl of which were red also.\n\nAt this moment one of the heath-croppers feeding in the outer shadows\nwas audibly shaking off the clog attached to its foot. Aroused by the\nsound, the reddleman laid down his stocking, lit a lantern which hung\nbeside him, and came out from the van. In sticking up the candle he\nlifted the lantern to his face, and the light shone into the whites\nof his eyes and upon his ivory teeth, which, in contrast with the\nred surrounding, lent him a startling aspect enough to the gaze of a\njuvenile. The boy knew too well for his peace of mind upon whose lair\nhe had lighted. Uglier persons than gipsies were known to cross Egdon at\ntimes, and a reddleman was one of them.\n\n\"How I wish 'twas only a gipsy!\" he murmured.\n\nThe man was by this time coming back from the horses. In his fear of\nbeing seen the boy rendered detection certain by nervous motion. The\nheather and peat stratum overhung the brow of the pit in mats, hiding\nthe actual verge. The boy had stepped beyond the solid ground; the\nheather now gave way, and down he rolled over the scarp of grey sand to\nthe very foot of the man.\n\nThe red man opened the lantern and turned it upon the figure of the\nprostrate boy.\n\n\"Who be ye?\" he said.\n\n\"Johnny Nunsuch, master!\"\n\n\"What were you doing up there?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Watching me, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, master.\"\n\n\"What did you watch me for?\"\n\n\"Because I was coming home from Miss Vye's bonfire.\"\n\n\"Beest hurt?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why, yes, you be--your hand is bleeding. Come under my tilt and let me\ntie it up.\"\n\n\"Please let me look for my sixpence.\"\n\n\"How did you come by that?\"\n\n\"Miss Vye gied it to me for keeping up her bonfire.\"\n\nThe sixpence was found, and the man went to the van, the boy behind,\nalmost holding his breath.\n\nThe man took a piece of rag from a satchel containing sewing materials,\ntore off a strip, which, like everything else, was tinged red, and\nproceeded to bind up the wound.\n\n\"My eyes have got foggy-like--please may I sit down, master?\" said the\nboy.\n\n\"To be sure, poor chap. 'Tis enough to make you feel fainty. Sit on that\nbundle.\"\n\nThe man finished tying up the gash, and the boy said, \"I think I'll go\nhome now, master.\"\n\n\"You are rather afraid of me. Do you know what I be?\"\n\nThe child surveyed his vermilion figure up and down with much misgiving\nand finally said, \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, what?\"\n\n\"The reddleman!\" he faltered.\n\n\"Yes, that's what I be. Though there's more than one. You little\nchildren think there's only one cuckoo, one fox, one giant, one devil,\nand one reddleman, when there's lots of us all.\"\n\n\"Is there? You won't carry me off in your bags, will ye, master? 'Tis\nsaid that the reddleman will sometimes.\"\n\n\"Nonsense. All that reddlemen do is sell reddle. You see all these bags\nat the back of my cart? They are not full of little boys--only full of\nred stuff.\"\n\n\"Was you born a reddleman?\"\n\n\"No, I took to it. I should be as white as you if I were to give up the\ntrade--that is, I should be white in time--perhaps six months; not at\nfirst, because 'tis grow'd into my skin and won't wash out. Now, you'll\nnever be afraid of a reddleman again, will ye?\"\n\n\"No, never. Willy Orchard said he seed a red ghost here t'other\nday--perhaps that was you?\"\n\n\"I was here t'other day.\"\n\n\"Were you making that dusty light I saw by now?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I was beating out some bags. And have you had a good bonfire up\nthere? I saw the light. Why did Miss Vye want a bonfire so bad that she\nshould give you sixpence to keep it up?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I was tired, but she made me bide and keep up the fire\njust the same, while she kept going up across Rainbarrow way.\"\n\n\"And how long did that last?\"\n\n\"Until a hopfrog jumped into the pond.\"\n\nThe reddleman suddenly ceased to talk idly. \"A hopfrog?\" he inquired.\n\"Hopfrogs don't jump into ponds this time of year.\"\n\n\"They do, for I heard one.\"\n\n\"Certain-sure?\"\n\n\"Yes. She told me afore that I should hear'n; and so I did. They say\nshe's clever and deep, and perhaps she charmed 'en to come.\"\n\n\"And what then?\"\n\n\"Then I came down here, and I was afeard, and I went back; but I didn't\nlike to speak to her, because of the gentleman, and I came on here\nagain.\"\n\n\"A gentleman--ah! What did she say to him, my man?\"\n\n\"Told him she supposed he had not married the other woman because he\nliked his old sweetheart best; and things like that.\"\n\n\"What did the gentleman say to her, my sonny?\"\n\n\"He only said he did like her best, and how he was coming to see her\nagain under Rainbarrow o' nights.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried the reddleman, slapping his hand against the side of his van\nso that the whole fabric shook under the blow. \"That's the secret o't!\"\n\nThe little boy jumped clean from the stool.\n\n\"My man, don't you be afraid,\" said the dealer in red, suddenly becoming\ngentle. \"I forgot you were here. That's only a curious way reddlemen\nhave of going mad for a moment; but they don't hurt anybody. And what\ndid the lady say then?\"\n\n\"I can't mind. Please, Master Reddleman, may I go home-along now?\"\n\n\"Ay, to be sure you may. I'll go a bit of ways with you.\"\n\nHe conducted the boy out of the gravel pit and into the path leading\nto his mother's cottage. When the little figure had vanished in the\ndarkness the reddleman returned, resumed his seat by the fire, and\nproceeded to darn again.\n\n\n\n</CHAPTER>\n", "summary": "After our little Eustacia-centric interlude, we rejoin the story in the present. Little Johnny is running home with his money, singing a song. He's not scared of the heath at night. But then he spies some unusual lights and is afraid. He turns back to Captain Vye's house in order to ask for a servant to walk him home. He arrives as Eustacia and Wildeve are having their lover's quarrel, and so he eavesdrops, of course. Johnny is highly confused by the whole conversation and decides to take his chances walking home on his own. Then he comes across the reddleman's cart, which turns out to be the source of the weird lights. So, not aliens. The boy is freaked out since everyone knows the reddleman is some sort of ghost/devil/monster thing. Johnny then fails at stealth and rolls down the hill, stopping at the reddleman's feet. Whoops. But then the reddleman starts talking like a normal person and Johnny feels a bit better. Johnny has lost his money through all that rolling, though, so the two look for it. And the reddleman nicely bandages the cut Johnny got on his hand after reenacting The Princess Bride and rolling down a hill. Johnny asks lots of questions about being a reddleman, as nosey kids do. Then Johnny gets chatty and tells Diggory all about Eustacia's weird meeting with some random guy, who apparently had not gotten married today. Diggory is very intrigued and also mad at Wildeve for being a cad. Johnny is still confused. He leaves to go home finally. Diggory then sits back down by his fire and gets back to mending a sock. Diggory's social life is depressing us."}, {"": "468", "document": "XVII. One Night\n\n\nNever did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in\nSoho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat\nunder the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder\nradiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still\nseated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.\n\nLucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening\nfor her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.\n\n\"You are happy, my dear father?\"\n\n\"Quite, my child.\"\n\nThey had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it\nwas yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself\nin her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in\nboth ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this\ntime was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.\n\n\"And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the\nlove that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love\nfor me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or\nif my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by\nthe length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and\nself-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--\"\n\nEven as it was, she could not command her voice.\n\nIn the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face\nupon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of\nthe sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and\nits going.\n\n\"Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,\nquite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will\never interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your\nown heart, do you feel quite certain?\"\n\nHer father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could\nscarcely have assumed, \"Quite sure, my darling! More than that,\" he\nadded, as he tenderly kissed her: \"my future is far brighter, Lucie,\nseen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever\nwas--without it.\"\n\n\"If I could hope _that_, my father!--\"\n\n\"Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain\nit is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot\nfully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be\nwasted--\"\n\nShe moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated\nthe word.\n\n\"--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the\nnatural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely\ncomprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,\nhow could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?\"\n\n\"If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy\nwith you.\"\n\nHe smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy\nwithout Charles, having seen him; and replied:\n\n\"My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been\nCharles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I\nshould have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have\ncast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.\"\n\nIt was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him\nrefer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new\nsensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long\nafterwards.\n\n\"See!\" said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.\n\"I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her\nlight. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think\nof her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against\nmy prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,\nthat I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I\ncould draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines\nwith which I could intersect them.\" He added in his inward and pondering\nmanner, as he looked at the moon, \"It was twenty either way, I remember,\nand the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.\"\n\nThe strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,\ndeepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in\nthe manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present\ncheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.\n\n\"I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn\nchild from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had\nbeen born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it\nwas a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my\nimprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it\nwas a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live\nto weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own\nwill and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.\"\n\nShe drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.\n\n\"I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of\nme--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have\ncast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married\nto a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from\nthe remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a\nblank.\"\n\n\"My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who\nnever existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.\"\n\n\"You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have\nbrought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and\nthe moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?\"\n\n\"She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.\"\n\n\"So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence\nhave touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as\nlike a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its\nfoundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and\nleading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her\nimage in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held\nher in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.\nBut, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?\"\n\n\"The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?\"\n\n\"No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of\nsight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another\nand more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than\nthat she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you\nhave--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?\nI doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these\nperplexed distinctions.\"\n\nHis collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running\ncold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.\n\n\"In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,\ncoming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married\nlife was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture\nwas in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,\ncheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.\"\n\n\"I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love\nthat was I.\"\n\n\"And she showed me her children,\" said the Doctor of Beauvais, \"and\nthey had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed\na prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked\nup at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I\nimagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.\nBut then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and\nblessed her.\"\n\n\"I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless\nme as fervently to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night\nfor loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great\nhappiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the\nhappiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.\"\n\nHe embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked\nHeaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the\nhouse.\n\nThere was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to\nbe no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no\nchange in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,\nby taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the\napocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.\n\nDoctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only\nthree at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles\nwas not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving\nlittle plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.\n\nSo, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.\nBut, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came\ndownstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,\nbeforehand.\n\nAll things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay\nasleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his\nhands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the\nshadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;\nthen, leaned over him, and looked at him.\n\nInto his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he\ncovered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the\nmastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,\nresolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be\nbeheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.\n\nShe timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that\nshe might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his\nsorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once\nmore, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves\nof the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved\nin praying for him.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "London. The night before Lucie's wedding. Lucie sits by her father's side underneath a tree in their yard. She's very, very happy. She worries, however, that her father will be made unhappy by her upcoming marriage. Asking to be reassured that nothing will be changed by her marriage, she begs her father to tell her if he will be at all unhappy in the future. Dr. Manette assures Lucie that he will be happier if she's fully happy. After all, he realizes that she's devoted herself to him. He wouldn't want her life to be spent completely in tending for an old man. As he sits looking at the moon, Dr. Manette remembers the times that the moon was the only thing he could see from his prison window. He tells Lucie that he used to look at the moon and dream of the child whom he'd abandoned when he was sent to prison. Imagining that she'd forgotten him completely, the doctor used to think that the child would grow up without any thought of him troubling her mind. Lucie interrupts him. She's troubled by the thought that he could imagine her to be uncaring. Dr. Manette gently stops her. At other times, he explains, he would imagine his daughter leading him out of his prison cell into the world. This vision, he insisted, was a specter. Lucie struggles to understand all of this. Continuing, the doctor says that, at other times, he imagined his child with a full and happy life--one that he came into when he left prison. That, Lucie recognizes, was his dream of her. The next day, Lucie will get married. No one is invited to the ceremony but Mr. Lorry. Miss Pross will be there, as well. That night, Miss Pross, Lucie, and the doctor have a cheerful supper together. After the doctor goes to bed, Lucie creeps into his room to check on him. He's sleeping soundly. Relieved, she goes to sleep herself."}, {"": "469", "document": "Actus Primus, Scaena Prima.\n\nEnter King Richard, Iohn of Gaunt, with other Nobles and\nAttendants.\n\n  King Richard. Old Iohn of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,\nHast thou according to thy oath and band\nBrought hither Henry Herford thy bold son:\nHeere to make good y boistrous late appeale,\nWhich then our leysure would not let vs heare,\nAgainst the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray?\n  Gaunt. I haue my Liege\n\n   King. Tell me moreouer, hast thou sounded him,\nIf he appeale the Duke on ancient malice,\nOr worthily as a good subiect should\nOn some knowne ground of treacherie in him\n\n   Gaunt. As neere as I could sift him on that argument,\nOn some apparant danger seene in him,\nAym'd at your Highnesse, no inueterate malice\n\n   Kin. Then call them to our presence face to face,\nAnd frowning brow to brow, our selues will heare\nTh' accuser, and the accused, freely speake;\nHigh stomack'd are they both, and full of ire,\nIn rage, deafe as the sea; hastie as fire.\nEnter Bullingbrooke and Mowbray.\n\n  Bul. Many yeares of happy dayes befall\nMy gracious Soueraigne, my most louing Liege\n\n   Mow. Each day still better others happinesse,\nVntill the heauens enuying earths good hap,\nAdde an immortall title to your Crowne\n\n   King. We thanke you both, yet one but flatters vs,\nAs well appeareth by the cause you come,\nNamely, to appeale each other of high treason.\nCoosin of Hereford, what dost thou obiect\nAgainst the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray?\n  Bul. First, heauen be the record to my speech,\nIn the deuotion of a subiects loue,\nTendering the precious safetie of my Prince,\nAnd free from other misbegotten hate,\nCome I appealant to this Princely presence.\nNow Thomas Mowbray do I turne to thee,\nAnd marke my greeting well: for what I speake,\nMy body shall make good vpon this earth,\nOr my diuine soule answer it in heauen.\nThou art a Traitor, and a Miscreant;\nToo good to be so, and too bad to liue,\nSince the more faire and christall is the skie,\nThe vglier seeme the cloudes that in it flye:\nOnce more, the more to aggrauate the note,\nWith a foule Traitors name stuffe I thy throte,\nAnd wish (so please my Soueraigne) ere I moue,\nWhat my tong speaks, my right drawn sword may proue\n  Mow. Let not my cold words heere accuse my zeale:\n'Tis not the triall of a Womans warre,\nThe bitter clamour of two eager tongues,\nCan arbitrate this cause betwixt vs twaine:\nThe blood is hot that must be cool'd for this.\nYet can I not of such tame patience boast,\nAs to be husht, and nought at all to say.\nFirst the faire reuerence of your Highnesse curbes mee,\nFrom giuing reines and spurres to my free speech,\nWhich else would post, vntill it had return'd\nThese tearmes of treason, doubly downe his throat.\nSetting aside his high bloods royalty,\nAnd let him be no Kinsman to my Liege,\nI do defie him, and I spit at him,\nCall him a slanderous Coward, and a Villaine:\nWhich to maintaine, I would allow him oddes,\nAnd meete him, were I tide to runne afoote,\nEuen to the frozen ridges of the Alpes,\nOr any other ground inhabitable,\nWhere euer Englishman durst set his foote.\nMeane time, let this defend my loyaltie,\nBy all my hopes most falsely doth he lie\n\n   Bul. Pale trembling Coward, there I throw my gage,\nDisclaiming heere the kindred of a King,\nAnd lay aside my high bloods Royalty,\nWhich feare, not reuerence makes thee to except.\nIf guilty dread hath left thee so much strength,\nAs to take vp mine Honors pawne, then stoope.\nBy that, and all the rites of Knight-hood else,\nWill I make good against thee arme to arme,\nWhat I haue spoken, or thou canst deuise\n\n   Mow. I take it vp, and by that sword I sweare,\nWhich gently laid my Knight-hood on my shoulder,\nIle answer thee in any faire degree,\nOr Chiualrous designe of knightly triall:\nAnd when I mount, aliue may I not light,\nIf I be Traitor, or vniustly fight\n\n   King. What doth our Cosin lay to Mowbraies charge?\nIt must be great that can inherite vs,\nSo much as of a thought of ill in him\n\n   Bul. Looke what I said, my life shall proue it true,\nThat Mowbray hath receiu'd eight thousand Nobles,\nIn name of lendings for your Highnesse Soldiers,\nThe which he hath detain'd for lewd employments,\nLike a false Traitor, and iniurious Villaine.\nBesides I say, and will in battaile proue,\nOr heere, or elsewhere to the furthest Verge\nThat euer was suruey'd by English eye,\nThat all the Treasons for these eighteene yeeres\nComplotted, and contriued in this Land,\nFetch'd from false Mowbray their first head and spring.\nFurther I say, and further will maintaine\nVpon his bad life, to make all this good.\nThat he did plot the Duke of Glousters death,\nSuggest his soone beleeuing aduersaries,\nAnd consequently, like a Traitor Coward,\nSluc'd out his innocent soule through streames of blood:\nWhich blood, like sacrificing Abels cries,\n(Euen from the toonglesse cauernes of the earth)\nTo me for iustice, and rough chasticement:\nAnd by the glorious worth of my discent,\nThis arme shall do it, or this life be spent\n\n   King. How high a pitch his resolution soares:\nThomas of Norfolke, what sayest thou to this?\n  Mow. Oh let my Soueraigne turne away his face,\nAnd bid his eares a little while be deafe,\nTill I haue told this slander of his blood,\nHow God, and good men, hate so foule a lyar\n\n   King. Mowbray, impartiall are our eyes and eares,\nWere he my brother, nay our kingdomes heyre,\nAs he is but my fathers brothers sonne;\nNow by my Scepters awe, I make a vow,\nSuch neighbour-neerenesse to our sacred blood,\nShould nothing priuiledge him, nor partialize\nThe vn-stooping firmenesse of my vpright soule.\nHe is our subiect (Mowbray) so art thou,\nFree speech, and fearelesse, I to thee allow\n\n   Mow. Then Bullingbrooke, as low as to thy heart,\nThrough the false passage of thy throat; thou lyest:\nThree parts of that receipt I had for Callice,\nDisburst I to his Highnesse souldiers;\nThe other part reseru'd I by consent,\nFor that my Soueraigne Liege was in my debt,\nVpon remainder of a deere Accompt,\nSince last I went to France to fetch his Queene:\nNow swallow downe that Lye. For Glousters death,\nI slew him not; but (to mine owne disgrace)\nNeglected my sworne duty in that case:\nFor you my noble Lord of Lancaster,\nThe honourable Father to my foe,\nOnce I did lay an ambush for your life,\nA trespasse that doth vex my greeued soule:\nBut ere I last receiu'd the Sacrament,\nI did confesse it, and exactly begg'd\nYour Graces pardon, and I hope I had it.\nThis is my fault: as for the rest appeal'd,\nIt issues from the rancour of a Villaine,\nA recreant, and most degenerate Traitor,\nWhich in my selfe I boldly will defend,\nAnd interchangeably hurle downe my gage\nVpon this ouer-weening Traitors foote,\nTo proue my selfe a loyall Gentleman,\nEuen in the best blood chamber'd in his bosome.\nIn hast whereof, most heartily I pray\nYour Highnesse to assigne our Triall day\n\n   King. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen be rul'd by me:\nLet's purge this choller without letting blood:\nThis we prescribe, though no Physition,\nDeepe malice makes too deepe incision.\nForget, forgiue, conclude, and be agreed,\nOur Doctors say, This is no time to bleed.\nGood Vnckle, let this end where it begun,\nWee'l calme the Duke of Norfolke; you, your son\n\n   Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age,\nThrow downe (my sonne) the Duke of Norfolkes gage\n\n   King. And Norfolke, throw downe his\n\n   Gaunt. When Harrie when? Obedience bids,\nObedience bids I should not bid agen\n\n   King. Norfolke, throw downe, we bidde; there is\nno boote\n\n   Mow. My selfe I throw (dread Soueraigne) at thy foot.\nMy life thou shalt command, but not my shame,\nThe one my dutie owes, but my faire name\nDespight of death, that liues vpon my graue\nTo darke dishonours vse, thou shalt not haue.\nI am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffel'd heere,\nPierc'd to the soule with slanders venom'd speare:\nThe which no balme can cure, but his heart blood\nWhich breath'd this poyson\n\n   King. Rage must be withstood:\nGiue me his gage: Lyons make Leopards tame\n\n   Mo. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,\nAnd I resigne my gage. My deere, deere Lord,\nThe purest treasure mortall times afford\nIs spotlesse reputation: that away,\nMen are but gilded loame, or painted clay.\nA Iewell in a ten times barr'd vp Chest,\nIs a bold spirit, in a loyall brest.\nMine Honor is my life; both grow in one:\nTake Honor from me, and my life is done.\nThen (deere my Liege) mine Honor let me trie,\nIn that I liue; and for that will I die\n\n   King. Coosin, throw downe your gage,\nDo you begin\n\n   Bul. Oh heauen defend my soule from such foule sin.\nShall I seeme Crest-falne in my fathers sight,\nOr with pale beggar-feare impeach my hight\nBefore this out-dar'd dastard? Ere my toong,\nShall wound mine honor with such feeble wrong;\nOr sound so base a parle: my teeth shall teare\nThe slauish motiue of recanting feare,\nAnd spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,\nWhere shame doth harbour, euen in Mowbrayes face.\n\nExit Gaunt.\n\n  King. We were not borne to sue, but to command,\nWhich since we cannot do to make you friends,\nBe readie, (as your liues shall answer it)\nAt Couentree, vpon S[aint]. Lamberts day:\nThere shall your swords and Lances arbitrate\nThe swelling difference of your setled hate:\nSince we cannot attone you, you shall see\nIustice designe the Victors Chiualrie.\nLord Marshall, command our Officers at Armes,\nBe readie to direct these home Alarmes.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The first scene of Richard II is set in Windsor Castle, in London. King Richard is to hear the charge of treason that Henry Bolingbroke, the Duke of Hereford, has brought against Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. Bolingbroke and Mowbray enter, and Bolingbroke accuses Mowbray to his face of treason. Mowbray replies by accusing Bolingbroke of slander. Bolingbroke challenges him to trial by combat, and Mowbray accepts. Richard asks Bolingbroke to give details of his accusations against Mowbray. Bolingbroke replies that Mowbray has dishonestly used money intended for Richard's soldiers. But more than that, Bolingbroke claims that Mowbray is to blame for every plot against the crown conceived over the previous eighteen years. Finally, Bolingbroke accuses Mowbray of being the cause of the death of the Duke of Gloucester a couple of years previously. Mowbray responds by calling Bolingbroke a liar. Richard emphasizing that he is impartial in this dispute, encourages Mowbray to respond in detail. Mowbray explains that three-quarters of the money Bolingbroke accuses him of misusing, he in fact paid to the soldiers. The remaining quarter he kept for himself, by agreement with the king, because the king owed him this amount of money. He then answers the second allegation, claiming that he did not kill Gloucester. He then admits that once he did plot against the life of the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, Bolingbroke's father. He says he felt remorse for this, confessed his guilt, and begged for pardon, which he hopes he received. All other charges he denies, and says he accepts Bolingbroke's challenge of trial by combat. Richard tries to settle the matter by asking each man to forgive the other and withdraw their challenges. Mowbray complies only because he has no choice. He still claims to be the victim of slander. Bolingbroke is equally reluctant to withdraw from the quarrel. Seeing their unwillingness to be reconciled, Richard II agrees to allow the trial by combat to go forward."}, {"": "470", "document": "Before the walls of Athens\n\nTrumpets sound. Enter ALCIBIADES with his powers before Athens\n\n  ALCIBIADES. Sound to this coward and lascivious town\n    Our terrible approach.\n\n       Sound a parley. The SENATORS appear upon the walls\n\n    Till now you have gone on and fill'd the time\n    With all licentious measure, making your wills\n    The scope of justice; till now, myself, and such\n    As slept within the shadow of your power,\n    Have wander'd with our travers'd arms, and breath'd\n    Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush,\n    When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong,\n    Cries of itself 'No more!' Now breathless wrong\n    Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease,\n    And pursy insolence shall break his wind\n    With fear and horrid flight.\n  FIRST SENATOR. Noble and young,\n    When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit,\n    Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear,\n    We sent to thee, to give thy rages balm,\n    To wipe out our ingratitude with loves\n    Above their quantity.\n  SECOND SENATOR. So did we woo\n    Transformed Timon to our city's love\n    By humble message and by promis'd means.\n    We were not all unkind, nor all deserve\n    The common stroke of war.\n  FIRST SENATOR. These walls of ours\n    Were not erected by their hands from whom\n    You have receiv'd your griefs; nor are they such\n    That these great tow'rs, trophies, and schools, should fall\n    For private faults in them.\n  SECOND SENATOR. Nor are they living\n    Who were the motives that you first went out;\n    Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess\n    Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord,\n    Into our city with thy banners spread.\n    By decimation and a tithed death-\n    If thy revenges hunger for that food\n    Which nature loathes- take thou the destin'd tenth,\n    And by the hazard of the spotted die\n    Let die the spotted.\n  FIRST SENATOR. All have not offended;\n    For those that were, it is not square to take,\n    On those that are, revenge: crimes, like lands,\n    Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman,\n    Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage;\n    Spare thy Athenian cradle, and those kin\n    Which, in the bluster of thy wrath, must fall\n    With those that have offended. Like a shepherd\n    Approach the fold and cull th' infected forth,\n    But kill not all together.\n  SECOND SENATOR. What thou wilt,\n    Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile\n    Than hew to't with thy sword.\n  FIRST SENATOR. Set but thy foot\n    Against our rampir'd gates and they shall ope,\n    So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before\n    To say thou't enter friendly.\n  SECOND SENATOR. Throw thy glove,\n    Or any token of thine honour else,\n    That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress\n    And not as our confusion, all thy powers\n    Shall make their harbour in our town till we\n    Have seal'd thy full desire.\n  ALCIBIADES. Then there's my glove;\n    Descend, and open your uncharged ports.\n    Those enemies of Timon's and mine own,\n    Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof,\n    Fall, and no more. And, to atone your fears\n    With my more noble meaning, not a man\n    Shall pass his quarter or offend the stream\n    Of regular justice in your city's bounds,\n    But shall be render'd to your public laws\n    At heaviest answer.\n  BOTH. 'Tis most nobly spoken.\n  ALCIBIADES. Descend, and keep your words.\n                       [The SENATORS descend and open the gates]\n\n                 Enter a SOLDIER as a Messenger\n\n  SOLDIER. My noble General, Timon is dead;\n    Entomb'd upon the very hem o' th' sea;\n    And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which\n    With wax I brought away, whose soft impression\n    Interprets for my poor ignorance.\n\n                  ALCIBIADES reads the Epitaph\n\n    'Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft;\n    Seek not my name. A plague consume you wicked caitiffs left!\n    Here lie I, Timon, who alive all living men did hate.\n    Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here thy\n      gait.'\n    These well express in thee thy latter spirits.\n    Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs,\n    Scorn'dst our brain's flow, and those our droplets which\n    From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit\n    Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye\n    On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead\n    Is noble Timon, of whose memory\n    Hereafter more. Bring me into your city,\n    And I will use the olive, with my sword;\n    Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each\n    Prescribe to other, as each other's leech.\n    Let our drums strike.                                 Exeunt\n", "summary": "Alcibiades arrives at the city gates, trumpets blaring. He tells the Senators to surrender to him. In order to do so, they have to give him all his and Timon's enemies; atone for their sins ; and obey the new laws of justice. The Senators all agree to Alcibiades's conditions; he's got them surrounded, and they don't really have a choice. In the midst of this victory, a soldier enters. He gives Alcibiades the waxed inscription from the tomb. Alcibiades reads the epitaph aloud so everyone can hear. It says that Timon hated all men and cursed them. Anyone who seeks him out will be plagued. How touching. Alcibiades gets the last word. He reflects on Timon's death by saying they'll remember what happened to noble Timon. With that, the drums sound, and Alcibiades is victorious."}, {"": "471", "document": "SCENE 2.\n\nNear Saint Edmunds-bury. The French Camp.\n\n[Enter, in arms, LOUIS, SALISBURY, MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and\nsoldiers.]\n\nLOUIS.\nMy Lord Melun, let this be copied out\nAnd keep it safe for our remembrance:\nReturn the precedent to these lords again;\nThat, having our fair order written down,\nBoth they and we, perusing o'er these notes,\nMay know wherefore we took the sacrament,\nAnd keep our faiths firm and inviolable.\n\nSALISBURY.\nUpon our sides it never shall be broken.\nAnd, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear\nA voluntary zeal and an unurg'd faith\nTo your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,\nI am not glad that such a sore of time\nShould seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt,\nAnd heal the inveterate canker of one wound\nBy making many. O, it grieves my soul\nThat I must draw this metal from my side\nTo be a widow-maker! O, and there\nWhere honourable rescue and defence\nCries out upon the name of Salisbury!\nBut such is the infection of the time,\nThat, for the health and physic of our right,\nWe cannot deal but with the very hand\nOf stern injustice and confused wrong.--\nAnd is't not pity, O my grieved friends!\nThat we, the sons and children of this isle,\nWere born to see so sad an hour as this;\nWherein we step after a stranger-march\nUpon her gentle bosom, and fill up\nHer enemies' ranks--I must withdraw and weep\nUpon the spot of this enforc'd cause--\nTo grace the gentry of a land remote,\nAnd follow unacquainted colours here?\nWhat, here?--O nation, that thou couldst remove!\nThat Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about,\nWould bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,\nAnd grapple thee unto a pagan shore,\nWhere these two Christian armies might combine\nThe blood of malice in a vein of league,\nAnd not to spend it so unneighbourly!\n\nLOUIS.\nA noble temper dost thou show in this;\nAnd great affections wrestling in thy bosom\nDoth make an earthquake of nobility.\nO, what a noble combat hast thou fought\nBetween compulsion and a brave respect!\nLet me wipe off this honourable dew\nThat silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:\nMy heart hath melted at a lady's tears,\nBeing an ordinary inundation;\nBut this effusion of such manly drops,\nThis shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,\nStartles mine eyes and makes me more amaz'd\nThan had I seen the vaulty top of heaven\nFigur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.\nLift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,\nAnd with a great heart heave away this storm:\nCommend these waters to those baby eyes\nThat never saw the giant world enrag'd,\nNor met with fortune other than at feasts,\nFull of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping.\nCome, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep\nInto the purse of rich prosperity\nAs Louis himself:--so, nobles, shall you all,\nThat knit your sinews to the strength of mine.--\nAnd even there, methinks, an angel spake:\nLook, where the holy legate comes apace,\nTo give us warrant from the hand of heaven\nAnd on our actions set the name of right\nWith holy breath.\n\n[Enter PANDULPH, attended.]\n\nPANDULPH.\nHail, noble prince of France!\nThe next is this,--King John hath reconcil'd\nHimself to Rome; his spirit is come in,\nThat so stood out against the holy church,\nThe great metropolis and see of Rome:\nTherefore thy threatening colours now wind up,\nAnd tame the savage spirit of wild war,\nThat, like a lion foster'd up at hand,\nIt may lie gently at the foot of peace\nAnd be no further harmful than in show.\n\nLOUIS.\nYour grace shall pardon me, I will not back:\nI am too high-born to be propertied,\nTo be a secondary at control,\nOr useful serving-man and instrument\nTo any sovereign state throughout the world.\nYour breath first kindled the dead coal of wars\nBetween this chastis'd kingdom and myself,\nAnd brought in matter that should feed this fire;\nAnd now 'tis far too huge to be blown out\nWith that same weak wind which enkindled it.\nYou taught me how to know the face of right,\nAcquainted me with interest to this land,\nYea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;\nAnd come ye now to tell me John hath made\nHis peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?\nI, by the honour of my marriage-bed,\nAfter young Arthur, claim this land for mine;\nAnd, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back\nBecause that John hath made his peace with Rome?\nAm I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne,\nWhat men provided, what munition sent,\nTo underprop this action? Is't not I\nThat undergo this charge? Who else but I,\nAnd such as to my claim are liable,\nSweat in this business and maintain this war?\nHave I not heard these islanders shout out,\n'Vive le roi!' as I have bank'd their towns?\nHave I not here the best cards for the game,\nTo will this easy match, play'd for a crown?\nAnd shall I now give o'er the yielded set?\nNo, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.\n\nPANDULPH.\nYou look but on the outside of this work.\n\nLOUIS.\nOutside or inside, I will not return\nTill my attempt so much be glorified\nAs to my ample hope was promised\nBefore I drew this gallant head of war,\nAnd cull'd these fiery spirits from the world,\nTo outlook conquest, and to will renown\nEven in the jaws of danger and of death.--\n\n[Trumpet sounds.]\n\nWhat lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?\n\n[Enter the BASTARD, attended.]\n\nBASTARD.\nAccording to the fair play of the world,\nLet me have audience; I am sent to speak:--\nMy holy lord of Milan, from the king\nI come, to learn how you have dealt for him;\nAnd, as you answer, I do know the scope\nAnd warrant limited unto my tongue.\n\nPANDULPH.\nThe Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,\nAnd will not temporize with my entreaties;\nHe flatly says he'll not lay down his arms.\n\nBASTARD.\nBy all the blood that ever fury breath'd,\nThe youth says well.--Now hear our English king;\nFor thus his royalty doth speak in me.\nHe is prepar'd; and reason too he should:\nThis apish and unmannerly approach,\nThis harness'd masque and unadvised revel\nThis unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops,\nThe king doth smile at; and is well prepar'd\nTo whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,\nFrom out the circle of his territories.\nThat hand which had the strength, even at your door,\nTo cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;\nTo dive, like buckets, in concealed wells;\nTo crouch in litter of your stable planks;\nTo lie, like pawns, lock'd up in chests and trunks;\nTo hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out\nIn vaults and prisons; and to thrill and shake\nEven at the crying of your nation's crow,\nThinking this voice an armed Englishman;--\nShall that victorious hand be feebled here\nThat in your chambers gave you chastisement?\nNo: know the gallant monarch is in arms\nAnd like an eagle o'er his aery towers\nTo souse annoyance that comes near his nest.--\nAnd you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,\nYou bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb\nOf your dear mother England, blush for shame;\nFor your own ladies and pale-visag'd maids,\nLike Amazons, come tripping after drums,--\nTheir thimbles into armed gauntlets chang'd,\nTheir needles to lances, and their gentle hearts\nTo fierce and bloody inclination.\n\nLOUIS.\nThere end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;\nWe grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;\nWe hold our time too precious to be spent\nWith such a brabbler.\n\nPANDULPH.\nGive me leave to speak.\n\nBASTARD.\nNo, I will speak.\n\nLOUIS.\nWe will attend to neither.--\nStrike up the drums; and let the tongue of war,\nPlead for our interest and our being here.\n\nBASTARD.\nIndeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;\nAnd so shall you, being beaten: do but start\nAnd echo with the clamour of thy drum,\nAnd even at hand a drum is ready brac'd\nThat shall reverberate all as loud as thine:\nSound but another, and another shall,\nAs loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,\nAnd mock the deep-mouth'd thunder: for at hand,--\nNot trusting to this halting legate here,\nWhom he hath us'd rather for sport than need,--\nIs warlike John; and in his forehead sits\nA bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day\nTo feast upon whole thousands of the French.\n\nLOUIS.\nStrike up our drums, to find this danger out.\n\nBASTARD.\nAnd thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "In St. Edmundsbury, England, Louis the Dauphin and his posse talk turkey. Louis is holding a piece of paper, a contract that has been signed by the French and English allies. The contract pledges their loyalty to each other, and their promise to fight against King John. Even though he has sworn loyalty to Louis and his cause, Salisbury isn't happy about it. Salisbury cries and gives a long speech about how bad he feels for being a traitor to King John. Louis tells him that it's okay; he totally respects Salisbury's feelings. Then there's a tender moment in which the Dauphin 1) wipes a \"manly\" tear from Salisbury's eye, 2) tells Salisbury how brave he is, and then 3) gently reminds Salisbury that crying is for babies. After the male bonding is over, Louis also promises that they will be able to get lots of plunder out of all of this. Just then, in walks Pandolf. Louis thinks this is a good sign: now he and his allies can get the Pope's blessing for their military expedition. But it turns out that Pandolf has come to put an end to the party. He tells everyone that King John is buddies with the Pope again, so they'd better call off their expedition. Louis is having none of it. He says that events have taken on their own momentum; Pandolf doesn't have the power to stop them now. Anyhow, he says, he paid for this military expedition himself, not the Pope. So the Church should just butt out. At this moment, the Bastard shows up. He asks Pandolf how things are going with his whole stopping-the-invasion-in-its-tracks thing. Pandolf says he's had no luck. The Bastard takes this as his cue: he makes a long speech threatening various horrible things in case the French invaders and English rebels don't turn back. Louis doesn't think much of this speech. Pandolf and the Bastard each try to make a last statement, but Louis tells them both that he won't listen. He tells his drummers to start beating a military march. The Bastard makes some more threats; then everybody heads off to their own people."}, {"": "472", "document": "                [The Spanish court.]\n\n                Enter the KING OF SPAIN, PORTINGAL\n                AMBASSADOR, DON CIPRIAN, &c.\n\n  KING.  Brother of Castille, to the prince's love\n    What says your daughter Bel-imperia?\n\n  CIP.  Although she coy it, as becomes her kind,\n    And yet dissemble that she loves the prince,\n    I doubt not, aye, but she will stoop in time;\n    And, were she froward,--which she will not be,--\n    Yet herein shall she follow my advice,\n    Which is to love him or forgo my love.\n\n  KING.  Then, lord ambassador of Portingal,\n    Advise thy king to make this marriage up\n    For strengthening of our late-confirmed league;\n    I know no better means to make us friends.\n    Her dowry shall be large and liberal;\n    Besides that she is daughter and half heir\n    Unto our brother here, Don Ciprian,\n    And shall enjoy the moiety of his land,\n    I'll grace her marriage with an uncle's gift,\n    And this is it:  in case the match go forward,\n    The tribute which you pay shall be releas'd;\n    And, if by Balthazar she have a son,\n    He shall enjoy the kingdom after us.\n\n  AMBASS.  I'll make the motion to my sovereign liege,\n    And work it if my counsel may prevail.\n\n  KING.  Do so, my lord; and, if he give consent,\n    I hope his presence here will honour us\n    In celebration of the nuptial day,--\n    And let himself determine of the time.\n\n  AMBASS.  Wilt please your Grace command me ought beside?\n\n  KING.  Commend me to the king; and so, farewell!\n    But where's Prince Balthazar, to take his leave?\n\n  AMBASS.  That is perform'd already, my good lord.\n\n  KING.  Amongst the rest of what you have in charge,\n    The prince's ransom must not be forgot:\n    That's none of mine, but his that took him prisoner,--\n    And well his forwardness deserves reward:\n    It was Horatio, our knight-marshall's son.\n\n  AMBASS.  Between us there's a price already pitch'd,\n    And shall be sentwith all convenient speed.\n\n  KING.  Then once again farewell, my lord!\n\n  AMBASS.  Farwell, my lord of Castile, and the rest!\n\n                Exit.\n\n  KING.  Now, brother, you must make some little pains\n    To win fair Bel-imperia from her will;\n    Young virgins must be ruled by their friends.\n    The prince is amiable, and loves her well;\n    If she neglect him and forgo his love,\n    She both will wrong her own estate and ours.\n    Therefore, whiles I do entertain the prince\n    With greatest pleasure that our court affords,\n    Endeavor you to win your daughter's thought.\n    If she give back, all this will come to naught.\n\n                Exeunt.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Horatio and Bellimperia enter the scene. Pedringano, pointing out the lovers for Lorenzo and Balthazar, places the two princes in hiding. Horatio wonders why, their love now made so clear, Bellimperia shows signs of \"inward languishments. Bellimperia responds through an extended metaphor, comparing her heart to a sailing ship: she is still recovering from stormy times , and now seeks refuge in the port that is Horatio's love. Hidden above, Balthazar expresses his dismay, but Lorenzo looks on gleefully - for he already envisions \"Horatio's fall. The two lovers continue their dialogue and soon agree to meet in a secluded field the very same evening. In the meantime, however, they must hide their love from the Duke of Castile. Lorenzo concludes the scene with a promise to send \" soul into eternal night"}, {"": "473", "document": "\nAn orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an elevated\nstage near the centre of a great green-hued hall, played a popular\nwaltz.  The place was crowded with people grouped about little tables.\nA battalion of waiters slid among the throng, carrying trays of beer\nglasses and making change from the inexhaustible vaults of their\ntrousers pockets.  Little boys, in the costumes of French chefs,\nparaded up and down the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes.  There\nwas a low rumble of conversation and a subdued clinking of glasses.\nClouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air about the dull\ngilt of the chandeliers.\n\nThe vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted labor.  Men\nwith calloused hands and attired in garments that showed the wear of an\nendless trudge for a living, smoked their pipes contentedly and spent\nfive, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for beer.  There was a mere\nsprinkling of kid-gloved men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere.\nThe great body of the crowd was composed of people who showed that all\nday they strove with their hands.  Quiet Germans, with maybe their\nwives and two or three children, sat listening to the music, with the\nexpressions of happy cows.  An occasional party of sailors from a\nwar-ship, their faces pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier\nhours of the evening at the small round tables.  Very infrequent tipsy\nmen, swollen with the value of their opinions, engaged their companions\nin earnest and confidential conversation.  In the balcony, and here and\nthere below, shone the impassive faces of women.  The nationalities of\nthe Bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions.\n\nPete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with Maggie at\na table beneath the balcony.\n\n\"Two beehs!\"\n\nLeaning back he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene before\nthem.  This attitude affected Maggie strongly.  A man who could regard\nsuch a sight with indifference must be accustomed to very great things.\n\nIt was obvious that Pete had been to this place many times before, and\nwas very familiar with it.  A knowledge of this fact made Maggie feel\nlittle and new.\n\nHe was extremely gracious and attentive.  He displayed the\nconsideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due.\n\n\"Say, what deh hell?  Bring deh lady a big glass!  What deh hell use is\ndat pony?\"\n\n\"Don't be fresh, now,\" said the waiter, with some warmth, as he\ndeparted.\n\n\"Ah, git off deh eart',\" said Pete, after the other's retreating form.\n\nMaggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance and all his\nknowledge of high-class customs for her benefit.  Her heart warmed as\nshe reflected upon his condescension.\n\nThe orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave vent to a\nfew bars of anticipatory music and a girl, in a pink dress with short\nskirts, galloped upon the stage.  She smiled upon the throng as if in\nacknowledgment of a warm welcome, and began to walk to and fro, making\nprofuse gesticulations and singing, in brazen soprano tones, a song,\nthe words of which were inaudible.  When she broke into the swift\nrattling measures of a chorus some half-tipsy men near the stage joined\nin the rollicking refrain and glasses were pounded rhythmically upon\nthe tables.  People leaned forward to watch her and to try to catch the\nwords of the song.  When she vanished there were long rollings of\napplause.\n\nObedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amidst the\nhalf-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men.  The orchestra plunged into\ndance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in the glare\nof gas jets.  She divulged the fact that she was attired in some half\ndozen skirts.  It was patent that any one of them would have proved\nadequate for the purpose for which skirts are intended.  An occasional\nman bent forward, intent upon the pink stockings.  Maggie wondered at\nthe splendor of the costume and lost herself in calculations of the\ncost of the silks and laces.\n\nThe dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for ten minutes\nupon the faces of her audience.  In the finale she fell into some of\nthose grotesque attitudes which were at the time popular among the\ndancers in the theatres up-town, giving to the Bowery public the\nphantasies of the aristocratic theatre-going public, at reduced rates.\n\n\"Say, Pete,\" said Maggie, leaning forward, \"dis is great.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said Pete, with proper complacence.\n\nA ventriloquist followed the dancer.  He held two fantastic dolls on\nhis knees.  He made them sing mournful ditties and say funny things\nabout geography and Ireland.\n\n\"Do dose little men talk?\" asked Maggie.\n\n\"Naw,\" said Pete, \"it's some damn fake.  See?\"\n\nTwo girls, on the bills as sisters, came forth and sang a duet that is\nheard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices.  They\nsupplemented it with a dance which of course can never be seen at\nconcerts given under church auspices.\n\nAfter the duettists had retired, a woman of debatable age sang a negro\nmelody.  The chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings supposed to\nbe an imitation of a plantation darkey, under the influence, probably,\nof music and the moon.  The audience was just enthusiastic enough over\nit to have her return and sing a sorrowful lay, whose lines told of a\nmother's love and a sweetheart who waited and a young man who was lost\nat sea under the most harrowing circumstances.  From the faces of a\nscore or so in the crowd, the self-contained look faded.  Many heads\nwere bent forward with eagerness and sympathy.  As the last distressing\nsentiment of the piece was brought forth, it was greeted by that kind\nof applause which rings as sincere.\n\nAs a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which described a\nvision of Britain being annihilated by America, and Ireland bursting\nher bonds.  A carefully prepared crisis was reached in the last line of\nthe last verse, where the singer threw out her arms and cried, \"The\nstar-spangled banner.\"  Instantly a great cheer swelled from the\nthroats of the assemblage of the masses.  There was a heavy rumble of\nbooted feet thumping the floor.  Eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and\ncalloused hands waved frantically in the air.\n\nAfter a few moments' rest, the orchestra played crashingly, and a small\nfat man burst out upon the stage.  He began to roar a song and stamp\nback and forth before the foot-lights, wildly waving a glossy silk hat\nand throwing leers, or smiles, broadcast.  He made his face into\nfantastic grimaces until he looked like a pictured devil on a Japanese\nkite.  The crowd laughed gleefully.  His short, fat legs were never\nstill a moment.  He shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig\nuntil the audience broke out in excited applause.\n\nPete did not pay much attention to the progress of events upon the\nstage.  He was drinking beer and watching Maggie.\n\nHer cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes were glistening.\nShe drew deep breaths of pleasure.  No thoughts of the atmosphere of\nthe collar and cuff factory came to her.\n\nWhen the orchestra crashed finally, they jostled their way to the\nsidewalk with the crowd.  Pete took Maggie's arm and pushed a way for\nher, offering to fight with a man or two.\n\nThey reached Maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a moment in\nfront of the gruesome doorway.\n\n\"Say, Mag,\" said Pete, \"give us a kiss for takin' yeh teh deh show,\nwill yer?\"\n\nMaggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him.\n\n\"Naw, Pete,\" she said, \"dat wasn't in it.\"\n\n\"Ah, what deh hell?\" urged Pete.\n\nThe girl retreated nervously.\n\n\"Ah, what deh hell?\" repeated he.\n\nMaggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs.  She turned and smiled\nat him, then disappeared.\n\nPete walked slowly down the street.  He had something of an astonished\nexpression upon his features.  He paused under a lamp-post and breathed\na low breath of surprise.\n\n\"Gawd,\" he said, \"I wonner if I've been played fer a duffer.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "Does Pete know how to party? You betcha. He loves himself a spectacle, so he takes Maggie to music halls, burlesque shows, and all manner of lowbrow entertainment. For Maggie, the escape from life at home is more than welcome. She really digs hanging out with Pete at the smoky orchestra performances, drinking beer and mingling with the masses. Pete stands out because he's a real gentleman, and she loves how he works the whole classy angle for her. But Maggie sees Pete as more than just a night at the theater spent watching people sing and ventriloquists do their acts--he's her ticket out of the dump that is Rum Alley. Pete's really into Maggie, too; she can tell because he stares at her a lot and asks her to kiss him. She's not down for smooching, though. Bummer for Pete--he thought he was going to get some."}, {"": "474", "document": "ACT V. SCENE I.\n\nThe King of Navarre's park.\n\n[Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.]\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nSatis quod sufficit.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nI praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have\nbeen sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty\nwithout affection, audacious without impudency, learned without\nopinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam\nday with a companion of the king's who is intituled, nominated,\nor called, Don Adriano de Armado.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nNovi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his\ndiscourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his\ngait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and\nthrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd,\nas it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nA most singular and choice epithet.\n\n[Draws out his table-book.]\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nHe draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than\nthe staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes,\nsuch insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of\northography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt;\ndet when he should pronounce debt,--d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he\nclepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh\nabbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he\nwould call abominable,--it insinuateth me of insanie: anne\nintelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nLaus Deo, bone intelligo.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nBone? bone for bene: Priscian a little scratch'd; 'twill serve.\n\n[Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD.]\n\nNATHANIEL.\nVidesne quis venit?\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nVideo, et gaudeo.\n\nARMADO.\n[To MOTH] Chirrah!\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nQuare chirrah, not sirrah?\n\nARMADO.\nMen of peace, well encountered.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nMost military sir, salutation.\n\nMOTH.\n[Aside to COSTARD.] They have been at a great feast of\nlanguages and stolen the scraps.\n\nCOSTARD.\nO! they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I\nmarvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou are\nnot so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art\neasier swallowed than a flap-dragon.\n\nMOTH.\nPeace! the peal begins.\n\nARMADO.\n[To HOLOFERNES.] Monsieur, are you not lettered?\n\nMOTH.\nYes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt\nbackward with the horn on his head?\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nBa, pueritia, with a horn added.\n\nMOTH.\nBa! most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nQuis, quis, thou consonant?\n\nMOTH.\nThe third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the\nfifth, if I.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nI will repeat them,--a, e, i,--\n\nMOTH.\nThe sheep; the other two concludes it,--o, u.\n\nARMADO.\nNow, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch,\na quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! It rejoiceth my\nintellect: true wit!\n\nMOTH.\nOffered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nWhat is the figure? What is the figure?\n\nMOTH.\nHorns.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nThou disputes like an infant; go, whip thy gig.\n\nMOTH.\nLend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your\ninfamy circum circa. A gig of a cuckold's horn.\n\nCOSTARD.\nAn I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it\nto buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had\nof thy master, thou half-penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of\ndiscretion. O! an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but\nmy bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me. Go to;\nthou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nO, I smell false Latin! 'dunghill' for unguem.\n\nARMADO.\nArts-man, praeambula; we will be singled from the barbarous. Do\nyou not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the\nmountain?\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nOr mons, the hill.\n\nARMADO.\nAt your sweet pleasure, for the mountain.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nI do, sans question.\n\nARMADO.\nSir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to\ncongratulate the princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of\nthis day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nThe posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable,\ncongruent, and measurable, for the afternoon. The word is well\nculled, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir; I do assure.\n\nARMADO.\nSir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do\nassure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let\nit pass: I do beseech thee, remember thy courtsy; I beseech\nthee, apparel thy head: and among other importunate and most\nserious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that\npass: for I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the\nworld, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal\nfinger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but,\nsweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable:\nsome certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart\nto Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world:\nbut let that pass. The very all of all is, but, sweet heart, I do\nimplore secrecy, that the King would have me present the\nprincess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show,\nor pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the\ncurate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden\nbreaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal,\nto the end to crave your assistance.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nSir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir\nNathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some\nshow in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our\nassistance, the King's command, and this most gallant,\nillustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess, I say\nnone so fit as to present the Nine Worthies.\n\nNATHANIEL.\nWhere will you find men worthy enough to present them?\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nJoshua, yourself; myself, Alexander; this gallant\ngentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great\nlimb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules,--\n\nARMADO.\nPardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that\nWorthy's thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nShall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority: his\nenter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an\napology for that purpose.\n\nMOTH.\nAn excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may\ncry 'Well done, Hercules; now thou crushest the snake!' That is\nthe way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to\ndo it.\n\nARMADO.\nFor the rest of the Worthies?--\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nI will play three myself.\n\nMOTH.\nThrice-worthy gentleman!\n\nARMADO.\nShall I tell you a thing?\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nWe attend.\n\nARMADO.\nWe will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you,\nfollow.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nVia, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while.\n\nDULL.\nNor understood none neither, sir.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nAllons! we will employ thee.\n\nDULL.\nI'll make one in a dance, or so, or I will play on the tabor to\nthe Worthies, and let them dance the hay.\n\nHOLOFERNES.\nMost dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away.\n\n[Exeunt.]\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel and Dull enter from dinner. Nathaniel is up to his usual brown-nosing with Holofernes. He says how refreshing it is to enjoy a scintillating conversation after having spent time earlier in the day talking to Armado. Armado seems to be a sore spot with Holofernes, who busts into a long critique of Armado's ornate communication style. The schoolmaster and curate are showing off their Latin skills when Armado enters with Moth and Costard. Moth is, as usual, not so respectful, and gets into a playful battle of wits with clueless Holofernes. Moth wins. Armado invites Holofernes to take a little walk and hear his proposal. After a good bit of bragging, Armado comes out with it: the King wants him to organize a pageant. Having heard that Holofernes and Nathaniel are good at such things, he's asking for their help. Holofernes doesn't miss a beat. They'll present a pageant of the Nine Worthies--great men in History. Nathaniel, Armado, Costard, and Moth will all have parts, and Holofernes will play three heroes himself. Dull will dance."}, {"": "475", "document": "\nCould Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her\nfirst letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a good\nnight's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again,\nand the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles\nbeing gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father\non his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the\nsubject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness,\nmany drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt\nbefore the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of\nher, and been delighted with his own sagacity.\n\nBefore the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place,\nWilliam was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,\nand he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and\nduring those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and\nhurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free\nconversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no\nacquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and\ndepended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's\naffection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back\nagain to the door to say, \"Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender,\nand not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care of\nFanny.\"\n\nWilliam was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not\nconceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of\nwhat she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and\nimpropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it\nought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her\nfather, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent\nof his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than\nshe had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no\ncuriosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only\nthe newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the\nharbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was\ndirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching\nto tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained\nonly a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely\never noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.\n\nHer disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped\nmuch, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of\nconsequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind;\nbut, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming\nmore and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from\nher than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was\nsoon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her\nheart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor\naffection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her.\nShe was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the\nfirst of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most\ninjudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling;\nand John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her\nmaternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These\nshared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her\nservants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy\nwithout getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without altering\nher ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity;\ndissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, and\nwhether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without any power\nof engaging their respect.\n\nOf her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram\nthan Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.\nNorris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition\nwas naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of\nsimilar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more suited\nto her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her\nimprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a\nwoman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a\nmore respectable mother of nine children on a small income.\n\nMuch of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple\nto make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was\na partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught\nnor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement\nand discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no\nconversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her\nbetter, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company\nthat could lessen her sense of such feelings.\n\nFanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,\nor in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,\nfrom contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about\nworking for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with\nperseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped\noff at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure\nin feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have\nmanaged without her.\n\nSam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went,\nfor he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any errand\nin the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as\nthey were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and\npowerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services\nand gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger\nones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as\nthey were his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason, which\nmight suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to\nbe less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest\nimpression on _them_; they were quite untameable by any means of address\nwhich she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a\nreturn of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early\nlearned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.\n\nBetsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her\ngreatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and\nthen encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to\ndespair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she\nhad many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash\nsquabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least\nso distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no means\nwithout provocation, she feared the disposition that could push them to\nsuch length must be far from amiable, and from affording any repose to\nherself.\n\nSuch was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and\nteach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the\ncontrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates,\nits happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The\nelegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all, the\npeace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance\nevery hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them\n_here_.\n\nThe living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and\nnervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony\ncould have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At\nMansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,\nno tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course\nof cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's\nfeelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting,\ngood sense and good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little\nirritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they\nwere trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with\nthe ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was noisy,\nevery voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled\nthe soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness).\nWhatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out\ntheir excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the\nstairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody\nsat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.\n\nIn a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end\nof a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated\njudgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield\nPark might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.\n\n\n", "summary": "Fanny is not having the best time at the Price house, but she's getting used to it. William comes down to say good-bye and Fanny is sad to see him go. She's now alone with a group of people who are basically strangers. Fanny admits to herself that home isn't what she expected or wanted, and that she's disappointed with how noisy and dirty it is and with how rough and rude her family is. Fanny was especially disappointed in her mom - remember, she'd hoped the two would become quite close. Mrs. Price definitely has her favorites already - William, her other sons, and little Betsey. Susan is as prickly as she is with good reason, it seems. Mrs. Price is a lot like Lady Bertram and, as such, makes a pretty bad mother to a poor family of nine kids. Fanny feels that her parents are both not that great. She's also sad when Sam leaves since he's the best behaved and smartest of all of her younger brothers. Susan, meanwhile, tries hard to help out but doesn't have the education or the attitude needed to accomplish all that much. Susan argues with everyone. Betsey is unfortunately pretty darn spoiled and bratty. Fanny really misses Mansfield and her health is doing badly since she lives in a dirtier, more stressful place now."}, {"": "476", "document": "A public place\n\nEnter Lucius, with three STRANGERS\n\n  LUCIUS. Who, the Lord Timon? He is my very good friend, and an\n    honourable gentleman.\n  FIRST STRANGER. We know him for no less, though we are but\n    strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and\n    which I hear from common rumours: now Lord Timon's happy\nhours\n    are done and past, and his estate shrinks from him.\n  LUCIUS. Fie, no: do not believe it; he cannot want for money.\n  SECOND STRANGER. But believe you this, my lord, that not long\nago\n     one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus to borrow so many\n    talents; nay, urg'd extremely for't, and showed what\nnecessity\n    belong'd to't, and yet was denied.\n  LUCIUS. How?\n  SECOND STRANGER. I tell you, denied, my lord.\n  LUCIUS. What a strange case was that! Now, before the gods, I\nam\n    asham'd on't. Denied that honourable man! There was very\nlittle\n    honour show'd in't. For my own part, I must needs confess I\nhave\n    received some small kindnesses from him, as money, plate,\njewels,\n    and such-like trifles, nothing comparing to his; yet, had he\n    mistook him and sent to me, I should ne'er have denied his\n    occasion so many talents.\n\n                             Enter SERVILIUS\n\n  SERVILIUS. See, by good hap, yonder's my lord; I have sweat to\nsee\n    his honour.- My honour'd lord!\n  LUCIUS. Servilius? You are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well;\ncommend\n    me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend.\n  SERVILIUS. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent-\n  LUCIUS. Ha! What has he sent? I am so much endeared to that\nlord:\n    he's ever sending. How shall I thank him, think'st thou? And\nwhat\n    has he sent now?\n  SERVILIUS. Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord,\n    requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so\nmany\n    talents.\n  LUCIUS. I know his lordship is but merry with me;\n    He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents.\n  SERVILIUS. But in the mean time he wants less, my lord.\n    If his occasion were not virtuous\n    I should not urge it half so faithfully.\n  LUCIUS. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius?\n  SERVILIUS. Upon my soul, 'tis true, sir.\n  LUCIUS. What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against\nsuch\n    a good time, when I might ha' shown myself honourable! How\n    unluckily it happ'ned that I should purchase the day before\nfor a\n    little part and undo a great deal of honour! Servilius, now\n    before the gods, I am not able to do- the more beast, I say!\nI\n    was sending to use Lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can\n    witness; but I would not for the wealth of Athens I had\ndone't\n    now. Commend me bountifully to his good lordship, and I hope\nhis\n    honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have no\npower\n    to be kind. And tell him this from me: I count it one of my\n    greatest afflictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an\n    honourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so\nfar\n    as to use mine own words to him?\n  SERVILIUS. Yes, sir, I shall.\n  LUCIUS. I'll look you out a good turn, Servilius.\n                                                  Exit SERVILIUS\n    True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed;\n    And he that's once denied will hardly speed.            Exit\n  FIRST STRANGER. Do you observe this, Hostilius?\n  SECOND STRANGER. Ay, too well.\n  FIRST STRANGER. Why, this is the world's soul; and just of the\nsame\n      piece\n    Is every flatterer's spirit. Who can call him his friend\n    That dips in the same dish? For, in my knowing,\n    Timon has been this lord's father,\n    And kept his credit with his purse;\n    Supported his estate; nay, Timon's money\n    Has paid his men their wages. He ne'er drinks\n    But Timon's silver treads upon his lip;\n    And yet- O, see the monstrousness of man\n    When he looks out in an ungrateful shape!-\n    He does deny him, in respect of his,\n    What charitable men afford to beggars.\n  THIRD STRANGER. Religion groans at it.\n  FIRST STRANGER. For mine own part,\n    I never tasted Timon in my life,\n    Nor came any of his bounties over me\n    To mark me for his friend; yet I protest,\n    For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue,\n    And honourable carriage,\n    Had his necessity made use of me,\n    I would have put my wealth into donation,\n    And the best half should have return'd to him,\n    So much I love his heart. But I perceive\n    Men must learn now with pity to dispense;\n    For policy sits above conscience.                     Exeunt\n", "summary": "Lucius and a couple of strangers are kickin' it when the topic of Timon comes up. It's going around the rumor mill that Timon needs money, and his friends are refusing him. The men all agree that it sucks. How come no one is helping a friend out? Lucius says he's horrified that his fellow noblemen are snubbing poor Timon. Poor, indeed. Who should enter at that very moment but Servilius, Timon's servant: he's come to find Lucius. Lucius, too, misreads the signs: he thinks Timon has sent another gift basket his way. Nope, says Servilius. Timon needs Lucius's help. Aw, shucks. That's too bad, replies Lucius, because he can't actually give any money away at the moment. Once Servilius leaves, Lucius tells the other men that Timon is finished. He's spent . Lucius exits and gives the two strangers an opportunity to discuss the dramatic turn of events. The strangers are hyper-critical of these men Timon called his friends. They can't believe that all of them are turning him down. One of the strangers points out that for those men, self-interest comes before their consciences."}, {"": "477", "document": "                [Spain: near the DUKE's castle.]\n\n                Enter HIERONIMO.\n\n  HIERO.  Oh eyes!  no eyes but fountains fraught with tears;\n    Oh life! no life, but lively form of death;\n    Oh world! no world, but mass of public wrongs,\n    Confus'd and fill'd with murder and misdeeds;\n    Oh sacred heav'ns, if this unhallow'd deed,\n    If this inhuman and barbarous attempt,\n    If this incomparable murder thus\n    Of mine, but now no more my son shall pass,\n    Unreveal'd and unrevenged pass,\n    How should we term your dealings to be just,\n    If you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust?\n    The night, sad secretary to my moans,\n    With direful visions wake my vexed soul,\n    And with the wounds of my distressful son\n    Solicit me for notice of his death;\n    The ugly fiends do sally forth of hell,\n    And frame my heart with fierce inflamed thoughts;\n    The cloudy day my discontents records,\n    Early begins to register my dreams\n    And drive me forth to seek the murderer.\n    Eyes, life, world, heav'ns, hell, night and day,\n    See, search, show, send, some man, some mean, that may--\n\n                A letter falleth.\n\n    What's here? a letter?  Tush, it is not so!\n    A letter for Hieronimo.\n    [Reads]  \"For want of ink receive this bloody writ.\n    Me hath my hapless brother hid from thee.\n    Revenge thyself on Balthazar and him,\n    For these were they that murdered thy son.\n    Hieronimo, revenge Horatio's death,\n    And better fare then Bel-imperia doth!\"--\n    What means this unexpected miracle?\n    My son slain by Lorenzo and the prince?\n    What cause had they Horatio to malign?\n    Or what might move thee, Bel-imperia,\n    To accuse thy brother, had he been the mean?\n    Hieronimo, beware!  thou art betray'd,\n    And to entrap thy life this train is laid.\n    Advise thee therefore, be not credulous:\n    This is devised to endanger thee,\n    That thou, by this, Lorenzo should'st accuse.\n    And he, for thy dishonour done, should draw\n    Thy life in question and thy name in hate.\n    Dear was the life of my beloved son,\n    And of his death behooves me be aveng'd:\n    Then hazard not thine own, Hieronimo,\n    But live t'effect thy resolution!\n    I therefore will by circumstances try\n    What I can gather to confirm this writ,\n    And, harken near the Duke of Castile's house,\n    Close if I can with Bel-imperia,\n    To listen more, but nothing to bewray.\n\n                Enter PEDRINGANO.\n\n    Now, Pedringano!\n\n  PED.                  Now, Hieronimo!\n\n  HIERO.  Where's thy lady?\n\n  PED.                  I know not; here's my lord.\n\n                Enter LORENZO.\n\n  LOR.  How now, who's this?  Hieronimo?\n\n  HIERO.                My lord.\n\n  PED.  He asketh for my lady Bel-imperia.\n\n  LOR.  What to do, Hieronimo?  Use me.\n\n  HIERO.  Oh, no, my lord, I dare not, it must not be;\n    I humbly thank your lordship.\n\n  LOR.                          Why then, farewell!\n\n  HIERO.  My grief no heart, my thoughts no tongue can tell.\n\n                Exit.\n\n  LOR.  Come hither, Pedringano; see'st thou this?\n\n  PED.  My lord, I see it, and suspect it too.\n\n  LOR.  This is that damned villain Serberine,\n    That hath, I fear, reveal'd Horatio's death.\n\n  PED.  My lord, he could not; 'twas so lately done,\n    And since he hath not left my company.\n\n  LOR.  Admit he have not; his conditions such\n    As fear or flattering words may make him false.\n    I know his humour, and therewith repent\n    That e'er I us'd him in this enterprise.\n    But, Pedringano, to prevent the worst,\n    And 'cause I know thee secret as my soul,\n    Here, for thy further satisfaction, take thou this!\n\n                Gives him more gold.\n\n    And hearken to me;  thus it is devis'd:\n    This night thou must--and prithee so resolve--\n    Meet Serberine at St. Luigi's Park,--\n    Thou knowest 'tis here hard by behind the house;\n    There take thy stand, and see thou strike him sure,\n    For die he must, if we do mean to live.\n\n  PED.  But how shall Serberine be there, my lord?\n\n  LOR.  Let me alone, I'll send him to meet\n    The prince and me where thou must do this deed.\n\n  PED.  It shall be done, my lord; it shall be done;\n    And I'll go arm myself to meet him there.\n\n  LOR.  When things shall alter, as I hope they will,\n    Then shalt thou mount for this, thou knowest my mind.\n\n                Exit PEDRINGANO.\n\n    Che le Ieron!\n\n                Enter PAGE.\n\n  PAGE.         My lord.\n\n  LOR.                  Go, sirrah,\n    To Serberine, and bid him forthwith meet\n    The prince and me at S. Luigi's Park,\n    Behind the house, this evening, boy.\n\n  PAGE.                         I go, my lord.\n\n  LOR.  But, sirrah, let the hour be eight o'clock.\n    Bid him not fail.\n\n  PAGE.         I fly, my lord.\n\n                Exit.\n\n  LOR.  Now to confirm the complot thou hast cast\n    Of all these practices, I'll spread the watch,\n    Upon precise commandment from the king\n    Strongly to guard the place where Pedringano\n    This night shall murder hapless Serberine.\n    Thus must we work that will avoid distrust,\n    Thus must we practice to prevent mishap,\n    And thus one ill another must expulse.\n    This sly enquiry of Hieronimo\n    For Bel-imperia breeds suspicion;\n    And this suspicion bodes a further ill.\n    As for myself, I know my secret fault,\n    And so do they, but I have dealt for them.\n    They that for coin their souls endangered\n    To save my life, for coin shall venture theirs;\n    And better 'tis that base companions die\n    Than by their life to hazard our good haps.\n    Nor shall they live for me to fear their faith;\n    I'll trust myself, myself shall be my friend;\n    For die they shall,--\n    Slaves are ordain'd to no other end.\n\n                Exit.\n\n", "summary": "Hieronimo enters alone and delivers a serious bummer of a soliloquy. His speech is all about not getting justice, and it's heavily ironic because he is supposed to be the dude dishing out justice in Spain. As he soliloquizes, a letter drops magically from the sky . But we know that Bel-Imperia drops the letter. Hieronimo happens to be standing right under the place where Lorenzo has stowed away his sister--how's that for convenient? But the whole letter thing was a wee bit inconvenient for Bel-Imperia, actually. She didn't have a pen handy, meaning she had to write the letter with her own blood. It seems fitting that this bloody play has a bloody letter . Bloody yet straightforward, the letter clearly spells out who killed Horatio and asks Hieronimo to get with the revenging already. Hieronimo is down to get his murder on, but he chooses to test the letter's truthiness before killing two important, royal types. Hieronimo determines to try and find Bel-Imperia to confirm the veracity of the letter--she'd be like, \"dude, I wrote it in blood, didn't I?\" Pedringano then conveniently enters the scene, which gives Hieronimo the opportunity to ask about Bel-Imperia's whereabouts. The slippery servant says something like, \"I dunno.\" At which point, Lorenzo walks in and says something to the effect of, \"if you're looking for my sister, look no more. Our father has hidden her away for shaming our name.\" Lorenzo tells Hieronimo he can get a message to her. But Hieronimo smartly trusts no man, so he says his message can wait. All of this makes Lorenzo think that Hieronimo smells a rat. He then wrongly concludes that his henchman, Serberine, must've leaked some information to Hieronimo. No problem, he concludes. I'll just pay Pedringano to kill Serberine--which he does. But as Pedringano leaves to do the deed, we find out through soliloquy that some more of Lorenzo's lackeys will be waiting at the murder scene to catch Pedringano in the act. Lorenzo is bad, but you've got to hand it to him--he's good at what he does."}, {"": "478", "document": "\n    They said of old the Soul had human shape,\n    But smaller, subtler than the fleshly self,\n    So wandered forth for airing when it pleased.\n    And see! beside her cherub-face there floats\n    A pale-lipped form aerial whispering\n    Its promptings in that little shell her ear.\"\n\n\nNews is often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen\nwhich the bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when\nthey are buzzing in search of their particular nectar.  This fine\ncomparison has reference to Fred Vincy, who on that evening at Lowick\nParsonage heard a lively discussion among the ladies on the news which\ntheir old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr. Casaubon's\nstrange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his will made not long\nbefore his death.  Miss Winifred was astounded to find that her brother\nhad known the fact before, and observed that Camden was the most\nwonderful man for knowing things and not telling them; whereupon Mary\nGarth said that the codicil had perhaps got mixed up with the habits of\nspiders, which Miss Winifred never would listen to.  Mrs. Farebrother\nconsidered that the news had something to do with their having only\nonce seen Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick, and Miss Noble made many small\ncompassionate mewings.\n\nFred knew little and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubons, and\nhis mind never recurred to that discussion till one day calling on\nRosamond at his mother's request to deliver a message as he passed, he\nhappened to see Ladislaw going away.  Fred and Rosamond had little to\nsay to each other now that marriage had removed her from collision with\nthe unpleasantness of brothers, and especially now that he had taken\nwhat she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving up the\nChurch to take to such a business as Mr. Garth's. Hence Fred talked by\npreference of what he considered indifferent news, and \"a propos of\nthat young Ladislaw\" mentioned what he had heard at Lowick Parsonage.\n\nNow Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, knew a great deal more than he told,\nand when he had once been set thinking about the relation between Will\nand Dorothea his conjectures had gone beyond the fact.  He imagined\nthat there was a passionate attachment on both sides, and this struck\nhim as much too serious to gossip about.  He remembered Will's\nirritability when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubon, and was the more\ncircumspect.  On the whole his surmises, in addition to what he knew of\nthe fact, increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw,\nand made him understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch\nafter he had said that he should go away.  It was significant of the\nseparateness between Lydgate's mind and Rosamond's that he had no\nimpulse to speak to her on the subject; indeed, he did not quite trust\nher reticence towards Will.  And he was right there; though he had no\nvision of the way in which her mind would act in urging her to speak.\n\nWhen she repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, he said, \"Take care you don't\ndrop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy.  He is likely to fly out as\nif you insulted him.  Of course it is a painful affair.\"\n\nRosamond turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of\nplacid indifference.  But the next time Will came when Lydgate was\naway, she spoke archly about his not going to London as he had\nthreatened.\n\n\"I know all about it.  I have a confidential little bird,\" said she,\nshowing very pretty airs of her head over the bit of work held high\nbetween her active fingers.  \"There is a powerful magnet in this\nneighborhood.\"\n\n\"To be sure there is.  Nobody knows that better than you,\" said Will,\nwith light gallantry, but inwardly prepared to be angry.\n\n\"It is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and\nforeseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much\nlike to marry, and no one who would so much like to marry her as a\ncertain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by making her\nforfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman--and then--and\nthen--and then--oh, I have no doubt the end will be thoroughly\nromantic.\"\n\n\"Great God! what do you mean?\" said Will, flushing over face and ears,\nhis features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake.\n\"Don't joke; tell me what you mean.\"\n\n\"You don't really know?\" said Rosamond, no longer playful, and desiring\nnothing better than to tell in order that she might evoke effects.\n\n\"No!\" he returned, impatiently.\n\n\"Don't know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs.\nCasaubon marries you she is to forfeit all her property?\"\n\n\"How do you know that it is true?\" said Will, eagerly.\n\n\"My brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers.\"  Will started up from\nhis chair and reached his hat.\n\n\"I dare say she likes you better than the property,\" said Rosamond,\nlooking at him from a distance.\n\n\"Pray don't say any more about it,\" said Will, in a hoarse undertone\nextremely unlike his usual light voice.  \"It is a foul insult to her\nand to me.\"  Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing\nnothing.\n\n\"Now you are angry with _me_,\" said Rosamond.  \"It is too bad to bear\n_me_ malice.  You ought to be obliged to me for telling you.\"\n\n\"So I am,\" said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul\nwhich belongs to dreamers who answer questions.\n\n\"I expect to hear of the marriage,\" said Rosamond, playfully.\n\n\"Never!  You will never hear of the marriage!\"\n\nWith those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, put out his hand to\nRosamond, still with the air of a somnambulist, and went away.\n\nWhen he was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end\nof the room, leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and\nlooking out of the window wearily.  She was oppressed by ennui, and by\nthat dissatisfaction which in women's minds is continually turning into\na trivial jealousy, referring to no real claims, springing from no\ndeeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoism, and yet capable\nof impelling action as well as speech.  \"There really is nothing to\ncare for much,\" said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking of the family at\nQuallingham, who did not write to her; and that perhaps Tertius when he\ncame home would tease her about expenses.  She had already secretly\ndisobeyed him by asking her father to help them, and he had ended\ndecisively by saying, \"I am more likely to want help myself.\"\n\n\n", "summary": "The gossip about how Mr. Casaubon's will made it impossible for Dorothea to marry Will Ladislaw without giving up her property eventually makes its way to Rosamond. Lydgate warns her never to mention it to Will, but she ignores his advice as usual. She flirtingly mentions it to Will the next time they're alone. He's immediately angry and upset, especially because of her careless flirtatiousness. He grabs his hat and leaves. Rosamond feels vaguely jealous. She wants everyone to be in love with her, and doesn't like that she's not the center of Will's universe. It wasn't the first time she'd gone against her husband's wishes that day - she had gone to her father to ask for money that morning, and he'd said no way. She's also depressed that Lydgate's rich relatives haven't written to her."}, {"": "479", "document": "\nTHE BLACK SPOT AGAIN\n\n\nThe council of the buccaneers had lasted some time, when one of them\nre-entered the house, and with a repetition of the same salute, which\nhad in my eyes an ironical air, begged for a moment's loan of the torch.\nSilver briefly agreed, and this emissary retired again, leaving us\ntogether in the dark.\n\n\"There's a breeze coming, Jim,\" said Silver, who had by this time\nadopted quite a friendly and familiar tone.\n\nI turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out. The embers of the\ngreat fire had so far burned themselves out, and now glowed so low and\nduskily, that I understood why these conspirators desired a torch. About\nhalfway down the slope to the stockade they were collected in a group;\none held the light; another was on his knees in their midst, and I saw\nthe blade of an open knife shine in his hand with varying colors, in the\nmoon and torchlight. The rest were all somewhat stooping, as though\nwatching the maneuvers of this last. I could just make out that he had a\nbook as well as a knife in his hand; and was still wondering how\nanything so incongruous had come in their possession, when the kneeling\nfigure rose once more to his feet, and the whole party began to move\ntogether toward the house.\n\n\"Here they come,\" said I; and I returned to my former position, for it\nseemed beneath my dignity that they should find me watching them.\n\n\"Well, let 'em come, lad--let 'em come,\" said Silver, cheerily. \"I've\nstill a shot in my locker.\"\n\nThe door opened, and the five men, standing huddled together just\ninside, pushed one of their number forward. In any other circumstances\nit would have been comical to see his slow advance, hesitating as he set\ndown each foot, but holding his closed right hand in front of him.\n\n\"Step up, lad,\" cried Silver. \"I won't eat you. Hand it over, lubber. I\nknow the rules, I do; I won't hurt a depytation.\"\n\nThus encouraged the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, and having\npassed something to Silver, from hand to hand, slipped yet more smartly\nback again to his companions.\n\nThe sea-cook looked at what had been given him.\n\n\"The black spot! I thought so,\" he observed. \"Where might you have got\nthe paper? Why, hello! look here, now; this ain't lucky! You've gone and\ncut this out of a Bible. What fool's cut a Bible?\"\n\n\"Ah, there,\" said Morgan, \"there! Wot did I say? No good'll come o'\nthat, I said.\"\n\n\"Well, you've about fixed it now, among you,\" continued Silver. \"You'll\nall swing now, I reckon. What soft-headed lubber had a Bible?\"\n\n\"It was Dick,\" said one.\n\n\"Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers,\" said Silver. \"He's seen\nhis slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that.\"\n\nBut here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in.\n\n\"Belay that talk, John Silver,\" he said. \"This crew has tipped you the\nblack spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as\nin dooty bound, and see what's wrote there. Then you can talk.\"\n\n\"Thanky, George,\" replied the sea-cook. \"You always was brisk for\nbusiness, and has the rules by heart, George, as I'm pleased to see.\nWell, what is it, anyway? Ah! 'Deposed'--that's it, is it? Very pretty\nwrote, to be sure; like print, I swear. Your hand o' write, George? Why,\nyou was gettin' quite a leadin' man in this here crew. You'll be cap'n\nnext, I shouldn't wonder. Just oblige me with that torch again, will\nyou? this pipe don't draw.\"\n\n\"Come, now,\" said George, \"you don't fool this crew no more. You're a\nfunny man, by your account; but you're over now, and you'll maybe step\ndown off that barrel, and help vote.\"\n\n\"I thought you said you knowed the rules,\" returned Silver,\ncontemptuously. \"Leastways, if you don't, I do; and I wait here--and I'm\nstill your cap'n, mind--till you outs with your grievances, and I reply;\nin the meantime, your black spot ain't worth a biscuit. After that we'll\nsee.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied George, \"you don't be under no kind of apprehension;\n_we're_ all square, we are. First, you've made a hash of this\ncruise--you'll be a bold man to say no to that. Second, you let the\nenemy out o' this here trap for nothing. Why did they want out? I dunno,\nbut it's pretty plain they wanted it. Third, you wouldn't let us go at\nthem upon the march. Oh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to\nplay booty, that's what's wrong with you. And then, fourth, there's this\nhere boy.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\" asked Silver, quietly.\n\n\"Enough, too,\" retorted George. \"We'll all swing and sun-dry for your\nbungling.\"\n\n\"Well, now, look here, I'll answer these four p'ints; one after another\nI'll answer 'em. I made a hash o' this cruise, did I? Well, now, you all\nknow what I wanted; and you all know, if that had been done, that we'd\n'a' been aboard the _Hispaniola_ this night as ever was, every man of us\nalive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold\nof her, by thunder! Well, who crossed me? Who forced my hand, as was the\nlawful cap'n? Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed, and began\nthis dance? Ah, it's a fine dance--I'm with you there--and looks mighty\nlike a hornpipe in a rope's end at Execution Dock by London town, it\ndoes. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George\nMerry! And you're the last above board of that same meddling crew; and\nyou have the Davy Jones insolence to up and stand for cap'n over\nme--you, that sunk the lot of us! By the powers! but this tops the\nstiffest yarn to nothing.\"\n\nSilver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late\ncomrades that these words had not been said in vain.\n\n\"That's for number one,\" cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his\nbrow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.\n\"Why, I give you my word, I'm sick to speak to you. You've neither sense\nnor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you\ncome to sea. Sea! Gentlemen o' fortune! I reckon tailors is your trade.\"\n\n\"Go on, John,\" said Morgan. \"Speak up to the others.\"\n\n\"Ah, the others!\" returned John. \"They're a nice lot, ain't they? You\nsay this cruise is bungled. Ah! by gum, if you could understand how bad\nit's bungled, you would see! We're that near the gibbet that my neck's\nstiff with thinking on it. You've seen 'em, maybe, hanged in chains,\nbirds about 'em, seamen p'inting 'em out as they go down with the tide.\n'Who's that?' says one. 'That! Why, that's John Silver. I knowed him\nwell,' says another. And you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go\nabout and reach for the other buoy. Now, that's about where we are,\nevery mother's son of us, thanks to him, and Hands, and Anderson, and\nother ruination fools of you. And if you want to know about number four,\nand that boy, why, shiver my timbers! isn't he a hostage? Are we a-going\nto waste a hostage? No, not us; he might be our last chance, and I\nshouldn't wonder. Kill that boy? not me, mates! And number three? Ah,\nwell, there's a deal to say to number three. Maybe you don't count it\nnothing to have a real college doctor come to see you every day--you,\nJohn, with your head broke--or you, George Merry, that had the ague\nshakes upon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the color of\nlemon peel to this same moment on the clock? And maybe, perhaps, you\ndidn't know there was a consort coming, either? But there is, and not so\nlong till then; and we'll see who'll be glad to have a hostage when it\ncomes to that. And as for number two, and why I made a bargain--well,\nyou come crawling on your knees to me to make it--on your knees you\ncame, you was that downhearted--and you'd have starved, too, if I\nhadn't--but that's a trifle! you look there--that's why!\"\n\nAnd he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly\nrecognized--none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three\nred crosses, that I had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the\ncaptain's chest. Why the doctor had given it to him was more than I\ncould fancy.\n\nBut if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was\nincredible to the surviving mutineers. They leaped upon it like cats\nupon a mouse. It went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another;\nand by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they\naccompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they\nwere fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in\nsafety.\n\n\"Yes,\" said one, \"that's Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a score below,\nwith a close hitch to it, so he done ever.\"\n\n\"Mighty pretty,\" said George. \"But how are we to get away with it, and\nus no ship?\"\n\nSilver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a hand against\nthe wall: \"Now, I give you warning, George,\" he cried. \"One more word of\nyour sauce, and I'll call you down and fight you. How? Why, how do I\nknow? You had ought to tell me that--you and the rest, that lost me my\nschooner, with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can't; you\nain't got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can speak, and\nshall, George Merry, you may lay to that.\"\n\n\"That's fair enow,\" said the old man Morgan.\n\n\"Fair! I reckon so,\" said the sea-cook. \"You lost the ship; I found the\ntreasure. Who's the better man at that? And now I resign, by thunder!\nElect whom you please to be your cap'n now; I'm done with it.\"\n\n\"Silver!\" they cried. \"Barbecue forever! Barbecue for cap'n!\"\n\n\"So that's the toon, is it?\" cried the cook. \"George, I reckon you'll\nhave to wait another turn, friend, and lucky for you as I'm not a\nrevengeful man. But that was never my way. And now, shipmates, this\nblack spot? 'Tain't much good now, is it? Dick's crossed his luck and\nspoiled his Bible, and that's about all.\"\n\n\"It'll do to kiss the book on still, won't it?\" growled Dick, who was\nevidently uneasy at the curse he had brought upon himself.\n\n\"A Bible with a bit cut out!\" returned Silver, derisively. \"Not it. It\ndon't bind no more'n a ballad-book.\"\n\n\"Don't it, though?\" cried Dick, with a sort of joy. \"Well, I reckon\nthat's worth having, too.\"\n\n\"Here, Jim--here's a cur'osity for you,\" said Silver, and he tossed me\nthe paper.\n\nIt was a round about the size of a crown piece. One side was blank, for\nit had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of\nRevelation--these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon\nmy mind: \"Without are dogs and murderers.\" The printed side had been\nblackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my\nfingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the\none word \"Deposed.\" I have that curiosity beside me at this moment; but\nnot a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a\nman might make with his thumb-nail.\n\nThat was the end of the night's business. Soon after, with a drink all\nround, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver's vengeance was\nto put George Merry up for sentinel, and threaten him with death if he\nshould prove unfaithful.\n\nIt was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter\nenough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own\nmost perilous position, and, above all, in the remarkable game that I\nsaw Silver now engaged upon--keeping the mutineers together with one\nhand, and grasping, with the other, after every means, possible and\nimpossible, to make his peace and save his miserable life. He himself\nslept peacefully, and snored aloud; yet my heart was sore for him,\nwicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that environed, and the\nshameful gibbet that awaited him.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The pirate council outside takes a long time. Finally, the five pirates come back inside. The youngest one is holding something in his hand, which he gives fearfully to Long John Silver. It's the black spot , but it's been cut out of a Bible, which Long John Silver says is awful luck. It was Dick Johnson who cut the circle of paper out of the Bible. Long John Silver says he's doomed. George Merry points to the reverse side of the spot, where it says, \"Deposed\" . Long John Silver says he's still captain until he hears the crew's problems with him and has a chance to answer. George answers that: 1) Long John Silver has messed up the whole plan; 2) he let their enemies leave their fort just because they wanted to; 3) he prevented the pirates from attacking their enemies as they were leaving the fort; and 4) he let Jim Hawkins live. George says they'll all be hanged thanks to Long John Silver and his mistakes. Long John Silver replies that it's not him who messed up the plan. He wanted to play everything more carefully. It was Job Anderson, Israel Hands, and George Merry who blundered into this mess. Why should they kill Jim when he's a readymade hostage? And the final point: Long John Silver let their enemies live and leave the fort because he's gotten the treasure map in exchange. The pirates are deeply impressed by this revelation. They're all immediately on Long John Silver's side again. Long John Silver says the only thing the black spot has done is spoiled Dick Johnson's Bible. Johnson asks if his Bible will still be good to pray with. Long John Silver says it's no more than a songbook now, but Dick Johnson seems to feel that even that's something. Long John Silver gives Jim the black spot to keep as a memento. They all go to bed, except for one guard. Jim has trouble falling asleep. He can't stop thinking about Long John Silver and the dangerous game he's playing."}, {"": "480", "document": "Scena Quarta.\n\n\nEnter Lear, Kent, and Foole.\n\n  Kent. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter,\nThe tirrany of the open night's too rough\nFor Nature to endure.\n\nStorme still\n\n  Lear. Let me alone\n\n   Kent. Good my Lord enter heere\n\n   Lear. Wilt breake my heart?\n  Kent. I had rather breake mine owne,\nGood my Lord enter\n\n   Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme\nInuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee,\nBut where the greater malady is fixt,\nThe lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare,\nBut if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,\nThou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free,\nThe bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind,\nDoth from my sences take all feeling else,\nSaue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude,\nIs it not as this mouth should teare this hand\nFor lifting food too't? But I will punish home;\nNo, I will weepe no more; in such a night,\nTo shut me out? Poure on, I will endure:\nIn such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill,\nYour old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all,\nO that way madnesse lies, let me shun that:\nNo more of that\n\n   Kent. Good my Lord enter here\n\n   Lear. Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease,\nThis tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder\nOn things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in,\nIn Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie,\nEnter.\n\nNay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe.\nPoore naked wretches, where so ere you are\nThat bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme,\nHow shall your House-lesse heads, and vnfed sides,\nYour lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you\nFrom seasons such as these? O I haue tane\nToo little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe,\nExpose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele,\nThat thou maist shake the superflux to them,\nAnd shew the Heauens more iust.\nEnter Edgar, and Foole.\n\n  Edg. Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom\n\n   Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe\nme, helpe me\n\n   Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there?\n  Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore\nTom\n\n   Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th'\nstraw? Come forth\n\n   Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the\nsharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy\nbed and warme thee\n\n   Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art\nthou come to this?\n  Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom\nthe foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame,\nthrough Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire,\nthat hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters\nin his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him\nProud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure\nincht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor.\nBlisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de,\nblisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking,\ndo poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend\nvexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there\nagaine, and there.\n\nStorme still.\n\n  Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe?\nCould'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all?\n  Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all\nsham'd\n\n   Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre\nHang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters\n\n   Kent. He hath no Daughters Sir\n\n   Lear. Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdu'd Nature\nTo such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters.\nIs it the fashion, that discarded Fathers,\nShould haue thus little mercy on their flesh:\nIudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot\nThose Pelicane Daughters\n\n   Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo\n\n   Foole. This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and\nMadmen\n\n   Edgar. Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents,\nkeepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not,\nwith mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet-heart on\nproud array. Tom's a cold\n\n   Lear. What hast thou bin?\n  Edg. A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that\ncurl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust\nof my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with\nher. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke\nthem in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the\ncontriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I\ndeerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out-Paramour'd\nthe Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand;\nHog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog\nin madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes,\nNor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman.\nKeepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of\nPlackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the\nfoule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the\ncold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy,\nBoy Sesey: let him trot by.\n\nStorme still.\n\n  Lear. Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere\nwith thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is\nman no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st\nthe Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no\nWooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are\nsophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated\nman, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall\nas thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton\nheere.\nEnter Gloucester, with a Torch.\n\n  Foole. Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie\nnight to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field,\nwere like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest\non's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire\n\n   Edg. This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at\nCurfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web\nand the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe;\nMildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature\nof earth.\nSwithold footed thrice the old,\nHe met the Night-Mare, and her nine-fold;\nBid her a-light, and her troth-plight,\nAnd aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee\n\n   Kent. How fares your Grace?\n  Lear. What's he?\n  Kent. Who's there? What is't you seeke?\n  Glou. What are you there? Your Names?\n  Edg. Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the\nToad, the Tod-pole, the wall-Neut, and the water: that\nin the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats\nCow-dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the\nditch-Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing\nPoole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and\nstockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites\nto his backe, sixe shirts to his body:\nHorse to ride, and weapon to weare:\nBut Mice, and Rats, and such small Deare,\nHaue bin Toms food, for seuen long yeare:\nBeware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend\n\n   Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company?\n  Edg. The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman. Modo\nhe's call'd, and Mahu\n\n   Glou. Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so\nvilde, that it doth hate what gets it\n\n   Edg. Poore Tom's a cold\n\n   Glou. Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer\nT' obey in all your daughters hard commands:\nThough their Iniunction be to barre my doores,\nAnd let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you,\nYet haue I ventured to come seeke you out,\nAnd bring you where both fire, and food is ready\n\n   Lear. First let me talke with this Philosopher,\nWhat is the cause of Thunder?\n  Kent. Good my Lord take his offer,\nGo into th' house\n\n   Lear. Ile talke a word with this same lerned Theban:\nWhat is your study?\n  Edg. How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine\n\n   Lear. Let me aske you one word in priuate\n\n   Kent. Importune him once more to go my Lord,\nHis wits begin t' vnsettle\n\n   Glou. Canst thou blame him?\n\nStorm still\n\nHis Daughters seeke his death: Ah, that good Kent,\nHe said it would be thus: poore banish'd man:\nThou sayest the King growes mad, Ile tell thee Friend\nI am almost mad my selfe. I had a Sonne,\nNow out-law'd from my blood: he sought my life\nBut lately: very late: I lou'd him (Friend)\nNo Father his Sonne deerer: true to tell thee,\nThe greefe hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this?\nI do beseech your grace\n\n   Lear. O cry you mercy, Sir:\nNoble Philosopher, your company\n\n   Edg. Tom's a cold\n\n   Glou. In fellow there, into th' Houel; keep thee warm\n\n   Lear. Come, let's in all\n\n   Kent. This way, my Lord\n\n   Lear. With him;\nI will keepe still with my Philosopher\n\n   Kent. Good my Lord, sooth him:\nLet him take the Fellow\n\n   Glou. Take him you on\n\n   Kent. Sirra, come on: go along with vs\n\n   Lear. Come, good Athenian\n\n   Glou. No words, no words, hush\n\n   Edg. Childe Rowland to the darke Tower came,\nHis word was still, fie, foh, and fumme,\nI smell the blood of a Brittish man.\n\nExeunt.\n\n\n", "summary": "Lear and his men reach the hovel, and he mourns that his daughters have betrayed him. When they enter the hovel, they find Edgar disguised as a madman. When the madman speaks, Lear wonders if it was the man's daughters that drove him mad. He laments on how daughters are the roots of the evils in his life. The men begin talking to the beggar, and Gloucester enters telling them that he doesn't approve of the way they have been treated. Lear decides that he likes the beggar and continues having conversations with him while Gloucester tries to get the men to come to a house he has prepared for them. Kent and Gloucester think that Lear is beginning to go mad, and Gloucester himself admits that he feels like he's going mad with everything that happened with Edgar. They all remove to the house Gloucester has prepared, and Lear decides that he must take the beggar too because he enjoys talking to him"}, {"": "481", "document": "\nHe was bewildered. He had nothing to say. He was not even angry, but\nstood, with a glass of whiskey between his hands, trying to think what\nhad led her to such a conclusion.\n\nShe had chosen the moment before bed, when, in accordance with their\nbourgeois habit, she always dispensed drinks to the men. Freddy and Mr.\nFloyd were sure to retire with their glasses, while Cecil invariably\nlingered, sipping at his while she locked up the sideboard.\n\n\"I am very sorry about it,\" she said; \"I have carefully thought things\nover. We are too different. I must ask you to release me, and try to\nforget that there ever was such a foolish girl.\"\n\nIt was a suitable speech, but she was more angry than sorry, and her\nvoice showed it.\n\n\"Different--how--how--\"\n\n\"I haven't had a really good education, for one thing,\" she continued,\nstill on her knees by the sideboard. \"My Italian trip came too late, and\nI am forgetting all that I learnt there. I shall never be able to talk\nto your friends, or behave as a wife of yours should.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you. You aren't like yourself. You're tired, Lucy.\"\n\n\"Tired!\" she retorted, kindling at once. \"That is exactly like you. You\nalways think women don't mean what they say.\"\n\n\"Well, you sound tired, as if something has worried you.\"\n\n\"What if I do? It doesn't prevent me from realizing the truth. I can't\nmarry you, and you will thank me for saying so some day.\"\n\n\"You had that bad headache yesterday--All right\"--for she had exclaimed\nindignantly: \"I see it's much more than headaches. But give me a\nmoment's time.\" He closed his eyes. \"You must excuse me if I say stupid\nthings, but my brain has gone to pieces. Part of it lives three minutes\nback, when I was sure that you loved me, and the other part--I find it\ndifficult--I am likely to say the wrong thing.\"\n\nIt struck her that he was not behaving so badly, and her irritation\nincreased. She again desired a struggle, not a discussion. To bring on\nthe crisis, she said:\n\n\"There are days when one sees clearly, and this is one of them. Things\nmust come to a breaking-point some time, and it happens to be to-day. If\nyou want to know, quite a little thing decided me to speak to you--when\nyou wouldn't play tennis with Freddy.\"\n\n\"I never do play tennis,\" said Cecil, painfully bewildered; \"I never\ncould play. I don't understand a word you say.\"\n\n\"You can play well enough to make up a four. I thought it abominably\nselfish of you.\"\n\n\"No, I can't--well, never mind the tennis. Why couldn't you--couldn't\nyou have warned me if you felt anything wrong? You talked of our wedding\nat lunch--at least, you let me talk.\"\n\n\"I knew you wouldn't understand,\" said Lucy quite crossly. \"I might have\nknown there would have been these dreadful explanations. Of course,\nit isn't the tennis--that was only the last straw to all I have been\nfeeling for weeks. Surely it was better not to speak until I felt\ncertain.\" She developed this position. \"Often before I have wondered if\nI was fitted for your wife--for instance, in London; and are you fitted\nto be my husband? I don't think so. You don't like Freddy, nor my\nmother. There was always a lot against our engagement, Cecil, but all\nour relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and it was no good\nmentioning it until--well, until all things came to a point. They have\nto-day. I see clearly. I must speak. That's all.\"\n\n\"I cannot think you were right,\" said Cecil gently. \"I cannot tell\nwhy, but though all that you say sounds true, I feel that you are not\ntreating me fairly. It's all too horrible.\"\n\n\"What's the good of a scene?\"\n\n\"No good. But surely I have a right to hear a little more.\"\n\nHe put down his glass and opened the window. From where she knelt,\njangling her keys, she could see a slit of darkness, and, peering into\nit, as if it would tell him that \"little more,\" his long, thoughtful\nface.\n\n\"Don't open the window; and you'd better draw the curtain, too; Freddy\nor any one might be outside.\" He obeyed. \"I really think we had better\ngo to bed, if you don't mind. I shall only say things that will make me\nunhappy afterwards. As you say it is all too horrible, and it is no good\ntalking.\"\n\nBut to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each moment\nmore desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the first\ntime since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a living\nwoman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that even\neluded art. His brain recovered from the shock, and, in a burst of\ngenuine devotion, he cried: \"But I love you, and I did think you loved\nme!\"\n\n\"I did not,\" she said. \"I thought I did at first. I am sorry, and ought\nto have refused you this last time, too.\"\n\nHe began to walk up and down the room, and she grew more and more vexed\nat his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being petty. It would\nhave made things easier for her. By a cruel irony she was drawing out\nall that was finest in his disposition.\n\n\"You don't love me, evidently. I dare say you are right not to. But it\nwould hurt a little less if I knew why.\"\n\n\"Because\"--a phrase came to her, and she accepted it--\"you're the sort\nwho can't know any one intimately.\"\n\nA horrified look came into his eyes.\n\n\"I don't mean exactly that. But you will question me, though I beg you\nnot to, and I must say something. It is that, more or less. When we\nwere only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you're always\nprotecting me.\" Her voice swelled. \"I won't be protected. I will choose\nfor myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can't\nI be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand through\nyou? A woman's place! You despise my mother--I know you do--because\nshe's conventional and bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!\"--she\nrose to her feet--\"conventional, Cecil, you're that, for you may\nunderstand beautiful things, but you don't know how to use them; and you\nwrap yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to wrap up\nme. I won't be stifled, not by the most glorious music, for people are\nmore glorious, and you hide them from me. That's why I break off my\nengagement. You were all right as long as you kept to things, but when\nyou came to people--\" She stopped.\n\nThere was a pause. Then Cecil said with great emotion:\n\n\"It is true.\"\n\n\"True on the whole,\" she corrected, full of some vague shame.\n\n\"True, every word. It is a revelation. It is--I.\"\n\n\"Anyhow, those are my reasons for not being your wife.\"\n\nHe repeated: \"'The sort that can know no one intimately.' It is true. I\nfell to pieces the very first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cad\nto Beebe and to your brother. You are even greater than I thought.\" She\nwithdrew a step. \"I'm not going to worry you. You are far too good to\nme. I shall never forget your insight; and, dear, I only blame you for\nthis: you might have warned me in the early stages, before you felt\nyou wouldn't marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I have\nnever known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg for\nmy silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are a\ndifferent person: new thoughts--even a new voice--\"\n\n\"What do you mean by a new voice?\" she asked, seized with incontrollable\nanger.\n\n\"I mean that a new person seems speaking through you,\" said he.\n\nThen she lost her balance. She cried: \"If you think I am in love with\nsomeone else, you are very much mistaken.\"\n\n\"Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has kept\nEurope back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If\na girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says: 'Oh, she had some\none else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' It's disgusting,\nbrutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom.\"\n\nHe answered reverently: \"I may have said that in the past. I shall never\nsay it again. You have taught me better.\"\n\nShe began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. \"Of\ncourse, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or\nany such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words\nsuggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you\nthat I hadn't known of up till now.\"\n\n\"All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my\nmistake.\"\n\n\"It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals,\nand yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions,\nand all the time you were splendid and new.\" His voice broke. \"I must\nactually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really\nam. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake\nhands?\"\n\n\"Of course I will,\" said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the\ncurtains. \"Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry\nabout it. Thank you very much for your gentleness.\"\n\n\"Let me light your candle, shall I?\"\n\nThey went into the hall.\n\n\"Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Cecil.\"\n\nShe watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters\npassed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused\nstrong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For\nall his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love\nbecame him like the leaving of it.\n\nShe could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil\nbelieved in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one\nof the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty\nand not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had\nbeen thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that\nGeorge had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness.\n\nShe put out the lamp.\n\nIt did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up\ntrying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who\nfollow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by\ncatch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they\nhave yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have\nsinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after\nvirtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and\ntheir piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness\nhypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have\nsinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly\nintervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities\nwill be avenged.\n\nLucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not\nlove him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night\nreceived her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before.\n\n\n", "summary": "This chapter details the somewhat awkward breakup of Lucy and Cecil. Surprisingly, Cecil takes it well. So well, in fact, that Lucy is irritated. Lucy allows herself to get upset, and, seeking an argument, attacks Cecil's attitude and opinions directly. At this last desperate moment, he actually feels something real and legitimate for Lucy - but it's too late. Lucy repeats George's anti-Cecil argument to Cecil himself, almost word for word. He is awestruck. Cecil finally realizes that his approach to Lucy and to women in general has been wrong all along. He apologizes for the wrongs he's done to her, then says that it's as though a new voice is speaking through her tonight. He's actually right - it's George's voice. Lucy is hyper-sensitive to this fact, and she immediately thinks he's accusing her of finding another man. She jumps down Cecil's throat and he apologizes. They calm down as much as possible and part civilly, even tenderly. Lucy, watching Cecil walk away, swears never to marry. The narrator ominously comments that Lucy has joined the ranks of those who deny themselves their true feelings...like Charlotte Bartlett."}, {"": "482", "document": "\nIt was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a\nvictory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was\nmost delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their\ndarling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the\njealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee\nof feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and\nsay he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play\nin particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven\nto it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended\nfrom that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were\nboth as much the better as the happier for the descent.\n\nThey behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no\nexultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed\nto think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles\nMaddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their\ninclination. \"To have it quite in their own family circle was what\nthey had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the\ndestruction of all their comfort\"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,\ngave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were\nready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was\nall good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his\ndress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron\nadmitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook\nto count his speeches.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Tom, \"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.\nPerhaps you may persuade _her_.\"\n\n\"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.\"\n\n\"Oh! very well.\" And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself\nagain in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to\nfail her already.\n\nThere were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this\nchange in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered\nwith such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole\naffair as could have but one effect on him. \"He was certainly right in\nrespecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.\" And the\nmorning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One\nadvantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss\nCrawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to\nundertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all\nthat occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when\nimparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to\nwhom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to\nexcite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of\nwith a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were\nunconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could\nnot feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted\nin every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against\nEdmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his\nhappiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and\nagitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an\ninsult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly\nanswer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and\nimportant; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress,\ntheir favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding\nemployment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful\nconceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had\nno share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst\nof their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room,\nwithout being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would\nhave been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_\ngood-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were\nconsidered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,\nand praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the\ncharacter she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and\nshewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never\nhave belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest,\nshe could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering\nonly her uncle, she must condemn altogether.\n\nFanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,\nas she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,\nthough not quite so blamelessly.\n\nHenry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long\nallowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so\nreasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction\nof his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it\nwithout any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational\ntranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in\nsuch gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;\nor allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety\nto him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.\n\nFor a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had\nendeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and\ncompliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a\nfew repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for\nmore than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather\nthought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might\nere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not\npleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded;\nbut as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry\nmust be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a\nmost persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious\nthought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to\nthe elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too\nmuch admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that\nbrought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so\nparticularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.\n\n\"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,\" was her observation\nto Mary.\n\n\"I dare say she is,\" replied Mary coldly. \"I imagine both sisters are.\"\n\n\"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of\nMr. Rushworth!\"\n\n\"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may\ndo _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and\nindependence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A\nman might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a\nprofession and represent the county.\"\n\n\"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I\ndare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to\nput him in the way of doing anything yet.\"\n\n\"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,\" said\nMary, after a pause. \"Do you remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to\nTobacco,' in imitation of Pope?--\n\n     Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense\n     To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.\n\nI will parody them--\n\n     Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense\n     To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.\n\nWill not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir\nThomas's return.\"\n\n\"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him\nin his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him.\nHe has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house,\nand keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher\nnow than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in\norder. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I\nam sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last\nnight with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I\nthink she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.\"\n\n\"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in\nbefore the articles were signed.\"\n\n\"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as\nthe play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know\nhis own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he\nis Henry, for a time.\"\n\nJulia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and\nthough it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had\nloved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm\ntemper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment\nof a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage.\nHer heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry\nconsolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was\nnow become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;\nand Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the\nattentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to\nMaria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.\nRushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,\nto prevent their being very good friends while their interests were\nthe same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or\nprinciple enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or\ncompassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of\nJulia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford\nwithout trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public\ndisturbance at last.\n\nFanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward\nfellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took\nno liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by\nFanny's consciousness.\n\nThe inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's\ndiscomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to\nthe fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was\nengrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not\nimmediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real\npart, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love\nand consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy\nin contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,\nsuperintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for\nwhich nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half\na crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for\nwatching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.\n\n\n", "summary": "It's a glorious day for Tom and Maria: their overly-moral brother has fallen off his pedestal and has agreed to act with them. Edmund is now no better than they are and he's a big hypocrite, to boot. Edmund still insists he's doing the most moral thing he could do given the situation, but everyone ignores him. Edmund defends Fanny's decision to not act and she's soon the only young person in the house not in the play. She's not even offered a job as stage manager or set designer since Tom has hired some guys to build them a stage and to paint some scenery. It's questionable as to where Tom got the money to do this. Sir Thomas's piggy bank has probably been broken into. Fanny is super jealous of Mary and is pretty miserable to be left out even though she's just as terrified of being included and forced to act. Fanny notices that Julia is suffering, too, but decides that Julia's to blame for a lot of her problems while she herself is blameless. Fanny's rather full of herself here. Mrs. Grant has agreed to do the part that Fanny refused and everyone is glad to have her in the Club since she's so fun and nice. Julia spends her days sulking, making fun of everyone else, and chatting with Mr. Yates. Mrs. Grant chats about the situation with Mary. Mary thinks that everyone involved in the love quadrangle are being pretty ridiculous and that everything is probably going to blow up in their faces when Sir Thomas returns. Mrs. Grant says that neither of the Bertram girls really like Henry since Maria is engaged and Julia is now flirting with Yates. Mary is cynical about it all and Mrs. Grant says that they may need to send Henry away if this is going to be a problem. Julia is suffering from a broken heart all this time. She and Maria, once close sisters, have a hugely strained relationship now. Fanny is the only one who notices that Julia is suffering though she does nothing to reach out to her cousin. Both girls suffer in silence."}, {"": "483", "document": "<CHAPTER>\n2--Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble\n\n\nAlong the road walked an old man. He was white-headed as a mountain,\nbowed in the shoulders, and faded in general aspect. He wore a glazed\nhat, an ancient boat-cloak, and shoes; his brass buttons bearing an\nanchor upon their face. In his hand was a silver-headed walking stick,\nwhich he used as a veritable third leg, perseveringly dotting the ground\nwith its point at every few inches' interval. One would have said that\nhe had been, in his day, a naval officer of some sort or other.\n\nBefore him stretched the long, laborious road, dry, empty, and white.\nIt was quite open to the heath on each side, and bisected that vast dark\nsurface like the parting-line on a head of black hair, diminishing and\nbending away on the furthest horizon.\n\nThe old man frequently stretched his eyes ahead to gaze over the tract\nthat he had yet to traverse. At length he discerned, a long distance\nin front of him, a moving spot, which appeared to be a vehicle, and\nit proved to be going the same way as that in which he himself was\njourneying. It was the single atom of life that the scene contained, and\nit only served to render the general loneliness more evident. Its rate\nof advance was slow, and the old man gained upon it sensibly.\n\nWhen he drew nearer he perceived it to be a spring van, ordinary in\nshape, but singular in colour, this being a lurid red. The driver walked\nbeside it; and, like his van, he was completely red. One dye of that\ntincture covered his clothes, the cap upon his head, his boots, his\nface, and his hands. He was not temporarily overlaid with the colour; it\npermeated him.\n\nThe old man knew the meaning of this. The traveller with the cart was a\nreddleman--a person whose vocation it was to supply farmers with redding\nfor their sheep. He was one of a class rapidly becoming extinct in\nWessex, filling at present in the rural world the place which, during\nthe last century, the dodo occupied in the world of animals. He is a\ncurious, interesting, and nearly perished link between obsolete forms of\nlife and those which generally prevail.\n\nThe decayed officer, by degrees, came up alongside his fellow-wayfarer,\nand wished him good evening. The reddleman turned his head, and replied\nin sad and occupied tones. He was young, and his face, if not exactly\nhandsome, approached so near to handsome that nobody would have\ncontradicted an assertion that it really was so in its natural colour.\nHis eye, which glared so strangely through his stain, was in itself\nattractive--keen as that of a bird of prey, and blue as autumn mist. He\nhad neither whisker nor moustache, which allowed the soft curves of the\nlower part of his face to be apparent. His lips were thin, and though,\nas it seemed, compressed by thought, there was a pleasant twitch at\ntheir corners now and then. He was clothed throughout in a tight-fitting\nsuit of corduroy, excellent in quality, not much worn, and well-chosen\nfor its purpose, but deprived of its original colour by his trade. It\nshowed to advantage the good shape of his figure. A certain well-to-do\nair about the man suggested that he was not poor for his degree.\nThe natural query of an observer would have been, Why should such\na promising being as this have hidden his prepossessing exterior by\nadopting that singular occupation?\n\nAfter replying to the old man's greeting he showed no inclination to\ncontinue in talk, although they still walked side by side, for the elder\ntraveller seemed to desire company. There were no sounds but that of\nthe booming wind upon the stretch of tawny herbage around them, the\ncrackling wheels, the tread of the men, and the footsteps of the two\nshaggy ponies which drew the van. They were small, hardy animals, of a\nbreed between Galloway and Exmoor, and were known as \"heath-croppers\"\nhere.\n\nNow, as they thus pursued their way, the reddleman occasionally left his\ncompanion's side, and, stepping behind the van, looked into its interior\nthrough a small window. The look was always anxious. He would then\nreturn to the old man, who made another remark about the state of the\ncountry and so on, to which the reddleman again abstractedly replied,\nand then again they would lapse into silence. The silence conveyed to\nneither any sense of awkwardness; in these lonely places wayfarers,\nafter a first greeting, frequently plod on for miles without speech;\ncontiguity amounts to a tacit conversation where, otherwise than in\ncities, such contiguity can be put an end to on the merest inclination,\nand where not to put an end to it is intercourse in itself.\n\nPossibly these two might not have spoken again till their parting, had\nit not been for the reddleman's visits to his van. When he returned\nfrom his fifth time of looking in the old man said, \"You have something\ninside there besides your load?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Somebody who wants looking after?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nNot long after this a faint cry sounded from the interior. The reddleman\nhastened to the back, looked in, and came away again.\n\n\"You have a child there, my man?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I have a woman.\"\n\n\"The deuce you have! Why did she cry out?\"\n\n\"Oh, she has fallen asleep, and not being used to traveling, she's\nuneasy, and keeps dreaming.\"\n\n\"A young woman?\"\n\n\"Yes, a young woman.\"\n\n\"That would have interested me forty years ago. Perhaps she's your\nwife?\"\n\n\"My wife!\" said the other bitterly. \"She's above mating with such as I.\nBut there's no reason why I should tell you about that.\"\n\n\"That's true. And there's no reason why you should not. What harm can I\ndo to you or to her?\"\n\nThe reddleman looked in the old man's face. \"Well, sir,\" he said at\nlast, \"I knew her before today, though perhaps it would have been better\nif I had not. But she's nothing to me, and I am nothing to her; and she\nwouldn't have been in my van if any better carriage had been there to\ntake her.\"\n\n\"Where, may I ask?\"\n\n\"At Anglebury.\"\n\n\"I know the town well. What was she doing there?\"\n\n\"Oh, not much--to gossip about. However, she's tired to death now, and\nnot at all well, and that's what makes her so restless. She dropped off\ninto a nap about an hour ago, and 'twill do her good.\"\n\n\"A nice-looking girl, no doubt?\"\n\n\"You would say so.\"\n\nThe other traveller turned his eyes with interest towards the van\nwindow, and, without withdrawing them, said, \"I presume I might look in\nupon her?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the reddleman abruptly. \"It is getting too dark for you to\nsee much of her; and, more than that, I have no right to allow you.\nThank God she sleeps so well, I hope she won't wake till she's home.\"\n\n\"Who is she? One of the neighbourhood?\"\n\n\"'Tis no matter who, excuse me.\"\n\n\"It is not that girl of Blooms-End, who has been talked about more or\nless lately? If so, I know her; and I can guess what has happened.\"\n\n\"'Tis no matter.... Now, sir, I am sorry to say that we shall soon have\nto part company. My ponies are tired, and I have further to go, and I am\ngoing to rest them under this bank for an hour.\"\n\nThe elder traveller nodded his head indifferently, and the reddleman\nturned his horses and van in upon the turf, saying, \"Good night.\" The\nold man replied, and proceeded on his way as before.\n\nThe reddleman watched his form as it diminished to a speck on the road\nand became absorbed in the thickening films of night. He then took\nsome hay from a truss which was slung up under the van, and, throwing a\nportion of it in front of the horses, made a pad of the rest, which he\nlaid on the ground beside his vehicle. Upon this he sat down, leaning\nhis back against the wheel. From the interior a low soft breathing came\nto his ear. It appeared to satisfy him, and he musingly surveyed the\nscene, as if considering the next step that he should take.\n\nTo do things musingly, and by small degrees, seemed, indeed, to be a\nduty in the Egdon valleys at this transitional hour, for there was that\nin the condition of the heath itself which resembled protracted and\nhalting dubiousness. It was the quality of the repose appertaining\nto the scene. This was not the repose of actual stagnation, but the\napparent repose of incredible slowness. A condition of healthy life so\nnearly resembling the torpor of death is a noticeable thing of its\nsort; to exhibit the inertness of the desert, and at the same time to be\nexercising powers akin to those of the meadow, and even of the forest,\nawakened in those who thought of it the attentiveness usually engendered\nby understatement and reserve.\n\nThe scene before the reddleman's eyes was a gradual series of ascents\nfrom the level of the road backward into the heart of the heath. It\nembraced hillocks, pits, ridges, acclivities, one behind the other, till\nall was finished by a high hill cutting against the still light sky.\nThe traveller's eye hovered about these things for a time, and finally\nsettled upon one noteworthy object up there. It was a barrow. This bossy\nprojection of earth above its natural level occupied the loftiest ground\nof the loneliest height that the heath contained. Although from the\nvale it appeared but as a wart on an Atlantean brow, its actual bulk was\ngreat. It formed the pole and axis of this heathery world.\n\nAs the resting man looked at the barrow he became aware that its summit,\nhitherto the highest object in the whole prospect round, was surmounted\nby something higher. It rose from the semiglobular mound like a spike\nfrom a helmet. The first instinct of an imaginative stranger might have\nbeen to suppose it the person of one of the Celts who built the barrow,\nso far had all of modern date withdrawn from the scene. It seemed a sort\nof last man among them, musing for a moment before dropping into eternal\nnight with the rest of his race.\n\nThere the form stood, motionless as the hill beneath. Above the plain\nrose the hill, above the hill rose the barrow, and above the barrow rose\nthe figure. Above the figure was nothing that could be mapped elsewhere\nthan on a celestial globe.\n\nSuch a perfect, delicate, and necessary finish did the figure give\nto the dark pile of hills that it seemed to be the only obvious\njustification of their outline. Without it, there was the dome without\nthe lantern; with it the architectural demands of the mass were\nsatisfied. The scene was strangely homogeneous, in that the vale, the\nupland, the barrow, and the figure above it amounted only to unity.\nLooking at this or that member of the group was not observing a complete\nthing, but a fraction of a thing.\n\nThe form was so much like an organic part of the entire motionless\nstructure that to see it move would have impressed the mind as a strange\nphenomenon. Immobility being the chief characteristic of that whole\nwhich the person formed portion of, the discontinuance of immobility in\nany quarter suggested confusion.\n\nYet that is what happened. The figure perceptibly gave up its fixity,\nshifted a step or two, and turned round. As if alarmed, it descended on\nthe right side of the barrow, with the glide of a water-drop down a bud,\nand then vanished. The movement had been sufficient to show more clearly\nthe characteristics of the figure, and that it was a woman's.\n\nThe reason of her sudden displacement now appeared. With her dropping\nout of sight on the right side, a newcomer, bearing a burden, protruded\ninto the sky on the left side, ascended the tumulus, and deposited the\nburden on the top. A second followed, then a third, a fourth, a fifth,\nand ultimately the whole barrow was peopled with burdened figures.\n\nThe only intelligible meaning in this sky-backed pantomime of\nsilhouettes was that the woman had no relation to the forms who had\ntaken her place, was sedulously avoiding these, and had come thither\nfor another object than theirs. The imagination of the observer clung\nby preference to that vanished, solitary figure, as to something more\ninteresting, more important, more likely to have a history worth knowing\nthan these newcomers, and unconsciously regarded them as intruders. But\nthey remained, and established themselves; and the lonely person who\nhitherto had been queen of the solitude did not at present seem likely\nto return.\n\n</CHAPTER>\n", "summary": "Some people finally arrive! An old man is walking along a road. Another fellow appears on the scene - it's a guy walking alongside a van and surrounded by a cloud a red dust, like Pig-Pen. This guy is a \"reddleman,\" which is a person who sold red dye to people. Since he works with red dye all the time, the reddleman is stained red and is often socially ostracized because of that. The men walk along the road. Yes, nature is described some more. Finally, the two guys strike up a conversation. There's a girl in the reddleman's van. The reddleman is not her husband, and he's just helping her out of a jam. He refuses to elaborate more than that. The old man, a retired naval officer, is nosey, but doesn't learn any juicy gossip. The old man leaves for his house and we follow the reddleman. The heath used to be a hangout for ancient Celts and there's some cool ruins and a creepy, prehistoric vibe floating around the place. The reddleman sees a mysterious figure on a hill, but it promptly disappears."}, {"": "484", "document": "Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another.\n\n1 Y'are well met once againe\n\n2 So are you\n\n1 You come to take your stand heere, and behold\nThe Lady Anne, passe from her Corronation\n\n2 'Tis all my businesse. At our last encounter,\n  The Duke of Buckingham came from his Triall\n\n  1 'Tis very true. But that time offer'd sorrow,\n  This generall ioy\n\n  2 'Tis well: The Citizens\n  I am sure haue shewne at full their Royall minds,\n  As let 'em haue their rights, they are euer forward\n  In Celebration of this day with Shewes,\n  Pageants, and Sights of Honor\n\n  1 Neuer greater,\n  Nor Ile assure you better taken Sir\n\n  2 May I be bold to aske what that containes,\n  That Paper in your hand\n\n  1 Yes, 'tis the List\n  Of those that claime their Offices this day,\n  By custome of the Coronation.\n  The Duke of Suffolke is the first, and claimes\n  To be high Steward; Next the Duke of Norfolke,\n  He to be Earle Marshall: you may reade the rest\n\n  1 I thanke you Sir: Had I not known those customs,\n  I should haue beene beholding to your Paper:\n  But I beseech you, what's become of Katherine\n  The Princesse Dowager? How goes her businesse?\n  1 That I can tell you too. The Archbishop\n  Of Canterbury, accompanied with other\n  Learned, and Reuerend Fathers of his Order,\n  Held a late Court at Dunstable; sixe miles off\n  From Ampthill, where the Princesse lay, to which\n  She was often cyted by them, but appear'd not:\n  And to be short, for not Appearance, and\n  The Kings late Scruple, by the maine assent\n  Of all these Learned men, she was diuorc'd,\n  And the late Marriage made of none effect:\n  Since which, she was remou'd to Kymmalton,\n  Where she remaines now sicke\n\n  2 Alas good Lady.\n  The Trumpets sound: Stand close,\n  The Queene is comming.\n\n  Ho-boyes. The Order of the Coronation. 1 A liuely Flourish of\n  Trumpets. 2\n  Then, two Iudges. 3 Lord Chancellor, with Purse and Mace before\n  him. 4\n  Quirristers singing. Musicke. 5 Maior of London, bearing the\n  Mace. Then\n  Garter, in his Coate of Armes, and on his head he wore a Gilt\n  Copper\n  Crowne. 6 Marquesse Dorset, bearing a Scepter of Gold, on his\n  head, a\n  Demy Coronall of Gold. With him, the Earle of Surrey, bearing the\n  Rod of\n  Siluer with the Doue, Crowned with an Earles Coronet. Collars of\n  Esses. 7\n  Duke of Suffolke, in his Robe of Estate, his Coronet on his head,\n  bearing\n  a long white Wand, as High Steward. With him, the Duke of\n  Norfolke, with\n  the Rod of Marshalship, a Coronet on his head. Collars of Esses. 8\n  A\n  Canopy, borne by foure of the Cinque-Ports, vnder it the Queene in\n  her\n  Robe, in her haire, richly adorned with Pearle, Crowned. On each\n  side her,\n  the Bishops of London, and Winchester. 9 The Olde Dutchesse of\n  Norfolke,\n  in a Coronall of Gold, wrought with Flowers bearing the Queenes\n  Traine. 10\n  Certaine Ladies or Countesses, with plaine Circlets of Gold,\n  without\n  Flowers. Exeunt, first passing ouer the Stage in Order and State,\n  and\n  then, A great Flourish of Trumpets.\n\n  2 A Royall Traine beleeue me: These I know:\n  Who's that that beares the Scepter?\n  1 Marquesse Dorset,\n  And that the Earle of Surrey, with the Rod\n\n  2 A bold braue Gentleman. That should bee\n  The Duke of Suffolke\n\n  1 'Tis the same: high Steward\n\n  2 And that my Lord of Norfolke?\n  1 Yes\n\n  2 Heauen blesse thee,\n  Thou hast the sweetest face I euer look'd on.\n  Sir, as I haue a Soule, she is an Angell;\n  Our King ha's all the Indies in his Armes,\n  And more, and richer, when he straines that Lady,\n  I cannot blame his Conscience\n\n  1 They that beare\n  The Cloath of Honour ouer her, are foure Barons\n  Of the Cinque-Ports\n\n  2 Those men are happy,\n  And so are all, are neere her.\n  I take it, she that carries vp the Traine,\n  Is that old Noble Lady, Dutchesse of Norfolke\n\n  1 It is, and all the rest are Countesses\n\n  2 Their Coronets say so. These are Starres indeed,\n  And sometimes falling ones\n\n  2 No more of that.\n  Enter a third Gentleman.\n\n  1 God saue you Sir. Where haue you bin broiling?\n  3 Among the crowd i'th' Abbey, where a finger\n  Could not be wedg'd in more: I am stifled\n  With the meere ranknesse of their ioy\n\n  2 You saw the Ceremony?\n  3 That I did\n\n  1 How was it?\n  3 Well worth the seeing\n\n  2 Good Sir, speake it to vs?\n  3 As well as I am able. The rich streame\n  Of Lords, and Ladies, hauing brought the Queene\n  To a prepar'd place in the Quire, fell off\n  A distance from her; while her Grace sate downe\n  To rest a while, some halfe an houre, or so,\n  In a rich Chaire of State, opposing freely\n  The Beauty of her Person to the People.\n  Beleeue me Sir, she is the goodliest Woman\n  That euer lay by man: which when the people\n  Had the full view of, such a noyse arose,\n  As the shrowdes make at Sea, in a stiffe Tempest,\n  As lowd, and to as many Tunes. Hats, Cloakes,\n  (Doublets, I thinke) flew vp, and had their Faces\n  Bin loose, this day they had beene lost. Such ioy\n  I neuer saw before. Great belly'd women,\n  That had not halfe a weeke to go, like Rammes\n  In the old time of Warre, would shake the prease\n  And make 'em reele before 'em. No man liuing\n  Could say this is my wife there, all were wouen\n  So strangely in one peece\n\n  2 But what follow'd?\n  3 At length, her Grace rose, and with modest paces\n  Came to the Altar, where she kneel'd, and Saint-like\n  Cast her faire eyes to Heauen, and pray'd deuoutly.\n  Then rose againe, and bow'd her to the people:\n  When by the Arch-byshop of Canterbury,\n  She had all the Royall makings of a Queene;\nAs holy Oyle, Edward Confessors Crowne,\n   The Rod, and Bird of Peace, and all such Emblemes\n   Laid Nobly on her: which perform'd, the Quire\n   With all the choysest Musicke of the Kingdome,\n   Together sung Te Deum. So she parted,\n   And with the same full State pac'd backe againe\n   To Yorke-Place, where the Feast is held\n\n   1 Sir,\n   You must no more call it Yorke-place, that's past:\n   For since the Cardinall fell, that Titles lost,\n   'Tis now the Kings, and call'd White-Hall\n\n   3 I know it:\n   But 'tis so lately alter'd, that the old name\n   Is fresh about me\n\n   2 What two Reuerend Byshops\n   Were those that went on each side of the Queene?\n   3 Stokeley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester,\n   Newly preferr'd from the Kings Secretary:\n   The other London\n\n   2 He of Winchester\n   Is held no great good louer of the Archbishops,\n   The vertuous Cranmer\n\n   3 All the Land knowes that:\n   How euer, yet there is no great breach, when it comes\n   Cranmer will finde a Friend will not shrinke from him\n\n   2 Who may that be, I pray you\n\n   3 Thomas Cromwell,\n   A man in much esteeme with th' King, and truly\n   A worthy Friend. The King ha's made him\n   Master o'th' Iewell House,\n   And one already of the Priuy Councell\n\n   2 He will deserue more\n\n   3 Yes without all doubt.\n   Come Gentlemen, ye shall go my way,\n   Which is to'th Court, and there ye shall be my Guests:\n   Something I can command. As I walke thither,\n   Ile tell ye more\n\n   Both. You may command vs Sir.\n\n   Exeunt.\n\n\n", "summary": "The two gentlemen of the earlier public scene once again encounter each other, this time in a street in Westminister. The whole place is agog with the excitement of Annes coronation and the two men wait to catch a glimpse of the new Queen. The Archbishop of Canterbury has finalized the Kings divorce to Katherine, now the princess dowager. As the royal procession passes by the two men are all praise for the new queen. A third gentleman, who has just witnessed the coronation, joins the two men. He gives them a detailed account of the coronation ceremony. Thomas Cromwell, he tells them, has been taken under the Kings wing and has been made a member of the Privy Council. He invites the other two men to the court and they accept his offer."}, {"": "485", "document": "SCENE VI.\nWales. Before the cave of BELARIUS\n\nEnter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes\n\n  IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one.\n    I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together\n    Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick\n    But that my resolution helps me. Milford,\n    When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee,\n    Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think\n    Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,\n    Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me\n    I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie,\n    That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis\n    A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,\n    When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness\n    Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood\n    Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!\n    Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee\n    My hunger's gone; but even before, I was\n    At point to sink for food. But what is this?\n    Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold.\n    I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine,\n    Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant.\n    Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever\n    Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here?\n    If anything that's civil, speak; if savage,\n    Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter.\n    Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy\n    But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't.\n    Such a foe, good heavens!                 Exit into the cave\n\n            Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS\n\n  BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and\n    Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I\n    Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match.\n    The sweat of industry would dry and die\n    But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs\n    Will make what's homely savoury; weariness\n    Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth\n    Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here,\n    Poor house, that keep'st thyself!\n  GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary.\n  ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.\n  GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that\n    Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd.\n  BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in.\n    But that it eats our victuals, I should think\n    Here were a fairy.\n  GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir?\n  BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,\n    An earthly paragon! Behold divineness\n    No elder than a boy!\n\n                       Re-enter IMOGEN\n\n  IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not.\n    Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought\n    To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth,\n    I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found\n    Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat.\n    I would have left it on the board, so soon\n    As I had made my meal, and parted\n    With pray'rs for the provider.\n  GUIDERIUS. Money, youth?\n  ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt,\n    As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those\n    Who worship dirty gods.\n  IMOGEN. I see you're angry.\n    Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should\n    Have died had I not made it.\n  BELARIUS. Whither bound?\n  IMOGEN. To Milford Haven.\n  BELARIUS. What's your name?\n  IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who\n    Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford;\n    To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,\n    I am fall'n in this offence.\n  BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth,\n    Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds\n    By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd!\n    'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer\n    Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it.\n    Boys, bid him welcome.\n  GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth,\n    I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty\n    I bid for you as I'd buy.\n  ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort\n    He is a man. I'll love him as my brother;\n    And such a welcome as I'd give to him\n    After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome!\n    Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends.\n  IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends,\n    If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they\n    Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize\n    Been less, and so more equal ballasting\n    To thee, Posthumus.\n  BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress.\n  GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't!\n  ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be,\n    What pain it cost, what danger! Gods!\n  BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys.\n  IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men,\n    That had a court no bigger than this cave,\n    That did attend themselves, and had the virtue\n    Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by\n    That nothing-gift of differing multitudes,\n    Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods!\n    I'd change my sex to be companion with them,\n    Since Leonatus' false.\n  BELARIUS. It shall be so.\n    Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in.\n    Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd,\n    We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story,\n    So far as thou wilt speak it.\n  GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near.\n  ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less\nwelcome.\n  IMOGEN. Thanks, sir.\n  ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near.                            Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Enroute to Milford-Haven, Imogen loses her way and arrives before the cave of Belarius. She is hungry and tired but also frightened of what she might find in the cave. So she draws her sword and enters but finds the cave empty. A little later Belarius and the brothers Guiderius and Arviragus enter, with the day's hunt. They are surprised to find Imogen dressed in boy's clothes inside the cave. She gives her name as Fidele. Although Imogen and her brothers do not recognize each other, they feel great love for each other quite spontaneously. She wishes they were her brothers, then her plight would have been different. She tells them that she is bound for Italy to meet a relative, and they make her welcome with their warmth and hospitality."}, {"": "486", "document": "Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.\n\n\nEnter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of\nWestmerland, Sir Walter Blunt, and Falstaffe.\n\n  King. How bloodily the Sunne begins to peere\nAboue yon busky hill: the day lookes pale\nAt his distemperature\n  Prin. The Southerne winde\nDoth play the Trumpet to his purposes,\nAnd by his hollow whistling in the Leaues,\nFortels a Tempest, and a blust'ring day\n\n   King. Then with the losers let it sympathize,\nFor nothing can seeme foule to those that win.\n\nThe Trumpet sounds.\n\nEnter Worcester.\n\n  King. How now my Lord of Worster? 'Tis not well\nThat you and I should meet vpon such tearmes,\nAs now we meet. You haue deceiu'd our trust,\nAnd made vs doffe our easie Robes of Peace,\nTo crush our old limbes in vngentle Steele:\nThis is not well, my Lord, this is not well.\nWhat say you to it? Will you againe vnknit\nThis churlish knot of all-abhorred Warre?\nAnd moue in the obedient Orbe againe,\nWhere you did giue a faire and naturall light,\nAnd be no more an exhall'd Meteor,\nA prodigie of Feare, and a Portent\nOf broached Mischeefe, to the vnborne Times?\n  Wor. Heare me, my Liege:\nFor mine owne part, I could be well content\nTo entertaine the Lagge-end of my life\nWith quiet houres: For I do protest,\nI haue not sought the day of this dislike\n\n   King. You haue not sought it: how comes it then?\n  Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it\n\n   Prin. Peace, Chewet, peace\n\n   Wor. It pleas'd your Maiesty, to turne your lookes\nOf Fauour, from my Selfe, and all our House;\nAnd yet I must remember you my Lord,\nWe were the first, and dearest of your Friends:\nFor you, my staffe of Office did I breake\nIn Richards time, and poasted day and night\nTo meete you on the way, and kisse your hand,\nWhen yet you were in place, and in account\nNothing so strong and fortunate, as I;\nIt was my Selfe, my Brother, and his Sonne,\nThat brought you home, and boldly did out-dare\nThe danger of the time. You swore to vs,\nAnd you did sweare that Oath at Doncaster,\nThat you did nothing of purpose 'gainst the State,\nNor claime no further, then your new-falne right,\nThe seate of Gaunt, Dukedome of Lancaster,\nTo this, we sware our aide: But in short space,\nIt rain'd downe Fortune showring on your head,\nAnd such a floud of Greatnesse fell on you,\nWhat with our helpe, what with the absent King.\nWhat with the iniuries of wanton time,\nThe seeming sufferances that you had borne,\nAnd the contrarious Windes that held the King\nSo long in the vnlucky Irish Warres,\nThat all in England did repute him dead:\nAnd from this swarme of faire aduantages,\nYou tooke occasion to be quickly woo'd,\nTo gripe the generall sway into your hand,\nForgot your Oath to vs at Doncaster,\nAnd being fed by vs, you vs'd vs so,\nAs that vngentle gull the Cuckowes Bird,\nVseth the Sparrow, did oppresse our Nest\nGrew by our Feeding, to so great a builke,\nThat euen our Loue durst not come neere your sight\nFor feare of swallowing: But with nimble wing\nWe were infor'd for safety sake, to flye\nOut of your sight, and raise this present Head,\nWhereby we stand opposed by such meanes\nAs you your selfe, haue forg'd against your selfe,\nBy vnkinde vsage, dangerous countenance,\nAnd violation of all faith and troth\nSworne to vs in yonger enterprize\n\n   Kin. These things indeed you haue articulated,\nProclaim'd at Market Crosses, read in Churches,\nTo face the Garment of Rebellion\nWith some fine colour, that may please the eye\nOf fickle Changelings, and poore Discontents,\nWhich gape, and rub the Elbow at the newes\nOf hurly burly Innouation:\nAnd neuer yet did Insurrection want\nSuch water-colours, to impaint his cause:\nNor moody Beggars, staruing for a time\nOf pell-mell hauocke, and confusion\n\n   Prin. In both our Armies, there is many a soule\nShall pay full dearely for this encounter,\nIf once they ioyne in triall. Tell your Nephew,\nThe Prince of Wales doth ioyne with all the world\nIn praise of Henry Percie: By my Hopes,\nThis present enterprize set off his head,\nI do not thinke a brauer Gentleman,\nMore actiue, valiant, or more valiant yong,\nMore daring, or more bold, is now aliue,\nTo grace this latter Age with Noble deeds.\nFor my part, I may speake it to my shame,\nI haue a Truant beene to Chiualry,\nAnd so I heare, he doth account me too:\nYet this before my Fathers Maiesty,\nI am content that he shall take the oddes\nOf his great name and estimation,\nAnd will, to saue the blood on either side,\nTry fortune with him, in a Single Fight\n\n   King. And Prince of Wales, so dare we venter thee,\nAlbeit, considerations infinite\nDo make against it: No good Worster, no,\nWe loue our people well; euen those we loue\nThat are misled vpon your Cousins part:\nAnd will they take the offer of our Grace:\nBoth he, and they, and you; yea euery man\nShall be my Friend againe, and Ile be his.\nSo tell your Cousin, and bring me word,\nWhat he will do. But if he will not yeeld,\nRebuke and dread correction waite on vs,\nAnd they shall do their Office. So bee gone,\nWe will not now be troubled with reply,\nWe offer faire, take it aduisedly.\n\nExit Worcester.\n\n  Prin. It will not be accepted, on my life,\nThe Dowglas and the Hotspurre both together,\nAre confident against the world in Armes\n\n   King. Hence therefore, euery Leader to his charge,\nFor on their answer will we set on them;\nAnd God befriend vs, as our cause is iust.\n\nExeunt.\n\nManet Prince and Falstaffe.\n\n  Fal. Hal, if thou see me downe in the battell,\nAnd bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship\n\n   Prin. Nothing but a Colossus can do thee that frendship\nSay thy prayers, and farewell\n\n   Fal. I would it were bed time Hal, and all well\n\n   Prin. Why, thou ow'st heauen a death\n\n   Falst. 'Tis not due yet: I would bee loath to pay him\nbefore his day. What neede I bee so forward with him,\nthat call's not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honor prickes\nme on. But how if Honour pricke me off when I come\non? How then? Can Honour set too a legge? No: or an\narme? No: Or take away the greefe of a wound? No.\nHonour hath no skill in Surgerie, then? No. What is Honour\nA word. What is that word Honour? Ayre: A\ntrim reckoning. Who hath it? He that dy'de a Wednesday.\nDoth he feele it? No. Doth hee heare it? No. Is it\ninsensible then? yea, to the dead. But wil it not liue with\nthe liuing? No. Why? Detraction wil not suffer it, therfore\nIle none of it. Honour is a meere Scutcheon, and so\nends my Catechisme.\nEnter.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The next morning, the king's forces prepare for the day's battle. Worcester and Vernon arrive from the rebel camp for a little chat with the king. Henry urges them to accept his peace offer. Falstaff cracks an inappropriate joke and Hal tells him to zip it. Worcester says he doesn't necessarily want to fight with the king but the Henry's left his family no other choice. Worcester says the Percy family feels like they've been used by the king and reminds him of how they helped him get his family's land back. King Henry says the Percys are full of it and they've been spouting off lies all over England - they're just making excuses so they can try to overthrow him. Prince Hal steps up and offers to fight Hotspur in man-to-man combat to save the troops on both sides from an ugly battle. He gives Hotspur props for being so courageous and says it would be an honor to fight him. King Henry tells Worcester that the rebels should accept his peace offer if they know what's good for them. Worcester and Vernon say they'll deliver the message to Hotspur and return to the rebel camp. Prince Hal predicts Hotspur will blow off the offer and the king tells his troops to get ready to rumble. Alone on stage, Falstaff and Hal discuss the impending battle. Falstaff asks Hal to look out for him. The prince tells the old man he owes \"God a death\" and leaves. Falstaff delivers his famous speech on \"honour.\" He says honor is nothing but a \"word\" and doesn't mean anything, especially to the dead who have paid for it with their lives. Falstaff wants no part of it."}, {"": "487", "document": "<CHAPTER>\n5--The Journey across the Heath\n\n\nThursday, the thirty-first of August, was one of a series of days during\nwhich snug houses were stifling, and when cool draughts were treats;\nwhen cracks appeared in clayey gardens, and were called \"earthquakes\" by\napprehensive children; when loose spokes were discovered in the wheels\nof carts and carriages; and when stinging insects haunted the air, the\nearth, and every drop of water that was to be found.\n\nIn Mrs. Yeobright's garden large-leaved plants of a tender kind flagged\nby ten o'clock in the morning; rhubarb bent downward at eleven; and even\nstiff cabbages were limp by noon.\n\nIt was about eleven o'clock on this day that Mrs. Yeobright started\nacross the heath towards her son's house, to do her best in getting\nreconciled with him and Eustacia, in conformity with her words to the\nreddleman. She had hoped to be well advanced in her walk before the heat\nof the day was at its highest, but after setting out she found that this\nwas not to be done. The sun had branded the whole heath with its mark,\neven the purple heath-flowers having put on a brownness under the dry\nblazes of the few preceding days. Every valley was filled with air like\nthat of a kiln, and the clean quartz sand of the winter water-courses,\nwhich formed summer paths, had undergone a species of incineration since\nthe drought had set in.\n\nIn cool, fresh weather Mrs. Yeobright would have found no inconvenience\nin walking to Alderworth, but the present torrid attack made the journey\na heavy undertaking for a woman past middle age; and at the end of the\nthird mile she wished that she had hired Fairway to drive her a portion\nat least of the distance. But from the point at which she had arrived it\nwas as easy to reach Clym's house as to get home again. So she went on,\nthe air around her pulsating silently, and oppressing the earth with\nlassitude. She looked at the sky overhead, and saw that the sapphirine\nhue of the zenith in spring and early summer had been replaced by a\nmetallic violet.\n\nOccasionally she came to a spot where independent worlds of ephemerons\nwere passing their time in mad carousal, some in the air, some on the\nhot ground and vegetation, some in the tepid and stringy water of a\nnearly dried pool. All the shallower ponds had decreased to a vaporous\nmud amid which the maggoty shapes of innumerable obscure creatures could\nbe indistinctly seen, heaving and wallowing with enjoyment. Being a\nwoman not disinclined to philosophize she sometimes sat down under her\numbrella to rest and to watch their happiness, for a certain hopefulness\nas to the result of her visit gave ease to her mind, and between\nimportant thoughts left it free to dwell on any infinitesimal matter\nwhich caught her eyes.\n\nMrs. Yeobright had never before been to her son's house, and its exact\nposition was unknown to her. She tried one ascending path and another,\nand found that they led her astray. Retracing her steps, she came again\nto an open level, where she perceived at a distance a man at work. She\nwent towards him and inquired the way.\n\nThe labourer pointed out the direction, and added, \"Do you see that\nfurze-cutter, ma'am, going up that footpath yond?\"\n\nMrs. Yeobright strained her eyes, and at last said that she did perceive\nhim.\n\n\"Well, if you follow him you can make no mistake. He's going to the same\nplace, ma'am.\"\n\nShe followed the figure indicated. He appeared of a russet hue, not more\ndistinguishable from the scene around him than the green caterpillar\nfrom the leaf it feeds on. His progress when actually walking was more\nrapid than Mrs. Yeobright's; but she was enabled to keep at an equable\ndistance from him by his habit of stopping whenever he came to a brake\nof brambles, where he paused awhile. On coming in her turn to each of\nthese spots she found half a dozen long limp brambles which he had cut\nfrom the bush during his halt and laid out straight beside the path.\nThey were evidently intended for furze-faggot bonds which he meant to\ncollect on his return.\n\nThe silent being who thus occupied himself seemed to be of no more\naccount in life than an insect. He appeared as a mere parasite of\nthe heath, fretting its surface in his daily labour as a moth frets a\ngarment, entirely engrossed with its products, having no knowledge of\nanything in the world but fern, furze, heath, lichens, and moss.\n\nThe furze-cutter was so absorbed in the business of his journey that he\nnever turned his head; and his leather-legged and gauntleted form at\nlength became to her as nothing more than a moving handpost to show her\nthe way. Suddenly she was attracted to his individuality by observing\npeculiarities in his walk. It was a gait she had seen somewhere before;\nand the gait revealed the man to her, as the gait of Ahimaaz in the\ndistant plain made him known to the watchman of the king. \"His walk\nis exactly as my husband's used to be,\" she said; and then the thought\nburst upon her that the furze-cutter was her son.\n\nShe was scarcely able to familiarize herself with this strange reality.\nShe had been told that Clym was in the habit of cutting furze, but she\nhad supposed that he occupied himself with the labour only at odd times,\nby way of useful pastime; yet she now beheld him as a furze-cutter and\nnothing more--wearing the regulation dress of the craft, and thinking\nthe regulation thoughts, to judge by his motions. Planning a dozen hasty\nschemes for at once preserving him and Eustacia from this mode of life,\nshe throbbingly followed the way, and saw him enter his own door.\n\nAt one side of Clym's house was a knoll, and on the top of the knoll a\nclump of fir trees so highly thrust up into the sky that their foliage\nfrom a distance appeared as a black spot in the air above the crown\nof the hill. On reaching this place Mrs. Yeobright felt distressingly\nagitated, weary, and unwell. She ascended, and sat down under their\nshade to recover herself, and to consider how best to break the ground\nwith Eustacia, so as not to irritate a woman underneath whose apparent\nindolence lurked passions even stronger and more active than her own.\n\nThe trees beneath which she sat were singularly battered, rude, and\nwild, and for a few minutes Mrs. Yeobright dismissed thoughts of her own\nstorm-broken and exhausted state to contemplate theirs. Not a bough in\nthe nine trees which composed the group but was splintered, lopped,\nand distorted by the fierce weather that there held them at its mercy\nwhenever it prevailed. Some were blasted and split as if by lightning,\nblack stains as from fire marking their sides, while the ground at their\nfeet was strewn with dead fir-needles and heaps of cones blown down in\nthe gales of past years. The place was called the Devil's Bellows, and\nit was only necessary to come there on a March or November night to\ndiscover the forcible reasons for that name. On the present heated\nafternoon, when no perceptible wind was blowing, the trees kept up a\nperpetual moan which one could hardly believe to be caused by the air.\n\nHere she sat for twenty minutes or more ere she could summon resolution\nto go down to the door, her courage being lowered to zero by her\nphysical lassitude. To any other person than a mother it might have\nseemed a little humiliating that she, the elder of the two women, should\nbe the first to make advances. But Mrs. Yeobright had well considered\nall that, and she only thought how best to make her visit appear to\nEustacia not abject but wise.\n\nFrom her elevated position the exhausted woman could perceive the roof\nof the house below, and the garden and the whole enclosure of the\nlittle domicile. And now, at the moment of rising, she saw a second man\napproaching the gate. His manner was peculiar, hesitating, and not that\nof a person come on business or by invitation. He surveyed the house\nwith interest, and then walked round and scanned the outer boundary\nof the garden, as one might have done had it been the birthplace of\nShakespeare, the prison of Mary Stuart, or the Chateau of Hougomont.\nAfter passing round and again reaching the gate he went in. Mrs.\nYeobright was vexed at this, having reckoned on finding her son and his\nwife by themselves; but a moment's thought showed her that the\npresence of an acquaintance would take off the awkwardness of her first\nappearance in the house, by confining the talk to general matters until\nshe had begun to feel comfortable with them. She came down the hill to\nthe gate, and looked into the hot garden.\n\nThere lay the cat asleep on the bare gravel of the path, as if beds,\nrugs, and carpets were unendurable. The leaves of the hollyhocks hung\nlike half-closed umbrellas, the sap almost simmered in the stems, and\nfoliage with a smooth surface glared like metallic mirrors. A small\napple tree, of the sort called Ratheripe, grew just inside the gate, the\nonly one which throve in the garden, by reason of the lightness of\nthe soil; and among the fallen apples on the ground beneath were wasps\nrolling drunk with the juice, or creeping about the little caves in each\nfruit which they had eaten out before stupefied by its sweetness. By the\ndoor lay Clym's furze-hook and the last handful of faggot-bonds she had\nseen him gather; they had plainly been thrown down there as he entered\nthe house.\n\n\n\n</CHAPTER>\n", "summary": "It's August and it's a super hot day. Mrs. Yeobright sets out in the heat to visit her son and her daughter-in-law. She's hot and exhausted and the walk is very long. She comes across a fellow furze-cutter who directs her to Clym's house. Mrs. Yeobright follows a familiar-looking figure and is stunned to discover that it's her son and that he is a furze-cutter. She sits down for a bit to think things over. We get lots of descriptions of the hot day and the heath, which makes us want some lemonade. Mrs. Yeobright continues to watch the house and think deep thoughts."}, {"": "488", "document": "\n\"Ha! ha! ha!  But you know there is no such thing as choice in reality,\nsay what you like,\" you will interpose with a chuckle.  \"Science has\nsucceeded in so far analysing man that we know already that choice and\nwhat is called freedom of will is nothing else than--\"\n\nStay, gentlemen, I meant to begin with that myself I confess, I was\nrather frightened.  I was just going to say that the devil only knows\nwhat choice depends on, and that perhaps that was a very good thing,\nbut I remembered the teaching of science ... and pulled myself up.  And\nhere you have begun upon it.  Indeed, if there really is some day\ndiscovered a formula for all our desires and caprices--that is, an\nexplanation of what they depend upon, by what laws they arise, how they\ndevelop, what they are aiming at in one case and in another and so on,\nthat is a real mathematical formula--then, most likely, man will at\nonce cease to feel desire, indeed, he will be certain to.  For who\nwould want to choose by rule?  Besides, he will at once be transformed\nfrom a human being into an organ-stop or something of the sort; for\nwhat is a man without desires, without free will and without choice, if\nnot a stop in an organ?  What do you think?  Let us reckon the\nchances--can such a thing happen or not?\n\n\"H'm!\" you decide.  \"Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view\nof our advantage.  We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our\nfoolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a\nsupposed advantage.  But when all that is explained and worked out on\npaper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible and\nsenseless to suppose that some laws of nature man will never\nunderstand), then certainly so-called desires will no longer exist.\nFor if a desire should come into conflict with reason we shall then\nreason and not desire, because it will be impossible retaining our\nreason to be SENSELESS in our desires, and in that way knowingly act\nagainst reason and desire to injure ourselves. And as all choice and\nreasoning can be really calculated--because there will some day be\ndiscovered the laws of our so-called free will--so, joking apart, there\nmay one day be something like a table constructed of them, so that we\nreally shall choose in accordance with it.  If, for instance, some day\nthey calculate and prove to me that I made a long nose at someone\nbecause I could not help making a long nose at him and that I had to do\nit in that particular way, what FREEDOM is left me, especially if I am\na learned man and have taken my degree somewhere?  Then I should be\nable to calculate my whole life for thirty years beforehand.  In short,\nif this could be arranged there would be nothing left for us to do;\nanyway, we should have to understand that.  And, in fact, we ought\nunwearyingly to repeat to ourselves that at such and such a time and in\nsuch and such circumstances nature does not ask our leave; that we have\ngot to take her as she is and not fashion her to suit our fancy, and if\nwe really aspire to formulas and tables of rules, and well, even ... to\nthe chemical retort, there's no help for it, we must accept the retort\ntoo, or else it will be accepted without our consent....\"\n\nYes, but here I come to a stop!  Gentlemen, you must excuse me for\nbeing over-philosophical; it's the result of forty years underground!\nAllow me to indulge my fancy.  You see, gentlemen, reason is an\nexcellent thing, there's no disputing that, but reason is nothing but\nreason and satisfies only the rational side of man's nature, while will\nis a manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life\nincluding reason and all the impulses. And although our life, in this\nmanifestation of it, is often worthless, yet it is life and not simply\nextracting square roots.  Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to\nlive, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my\ncapacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my\ncapacity for life.  What does reason know?  Reason only knows what it\nhas succeeded in learning (some things, perhaps, it will never learn;\nthis is a poor comfort, but why not say so frankly?) and human nature\nacts as a whole, with everything that is in it, consciously or\nunconsciously, and, even if it goes wrong, it lives.  I suspect,\ngentlemen, that you are looking at me with compassion; you tell me\nagain that an enlightened and developed man, such, in short, as the\nfuture man will be, cannot consciously desire anything disadvantageous\nto himself, that that can be proved mathematically.  I thoroughly\nagree, it can--by mathematics.  But I repeat for the hundredth time,\nthere is one case, one only, when man may consciously, purposely,\ndesire what is injurious to himself, what is stupid, very\nstupid--simply in order to have the right to desire for himself even\nwhat is very stupid and not to be bound by an obligation to desire only\nwhat is sensible.  Of course, this very stupid thing, this caprice of\nours, may be in reality, gentlemen, more advantageous for us than\nanything else on earth, especially in certain cases.  And in particular\nit may be more advantageous than any advantage even when it does us\nobvious harm, and contradicts the soundest conclusions of our reason\nconcerning our advantage--for in any circumstances it preserves for us\nwhat is most precious and most important--that is, our personality, our\nindividuality.  Some, you see, maintain that this really is the most\nprecious thing for mankind; choice can, of course, if it chooses, be in\nagreement with reason; and especially if this be not abused but kept\nwithin bounds.  It is profitable and sometimes even praiseworthy.  But\nvery often, and even most often, choice is utterly and stubbornly\nopposed to reason ... and ... and ... do you know that that, too, is\nprofitable, sometimes even praiseworthy?  Gentlemen, let us suppose\nthat man is not stupid.  (Indeed one cannot refuse to suppose that, if\nonly from the one consideration, that, if man is stupid, then who is\nwise?)  But if he is not stupid, he is monstrously ungrateful!\nPhenomenally ungrateful.  In fact, I believe that the best definition\nof man is the ungrateful biped.  But that is not all, that is not his\nworst defect; his worst defect is his perpetual moral obliquity,\nperpetual--from the days of the Flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period.\nMoral obliquity and consequently lack of good sense; for it has long\nbeen accepted that lack of good sense is due to no other cause than\nmoral obliquity.  Put it to the test and cast your eyes upon the\nhistory of mankind.  What will you see?  Is it a grand spectacle?\nGrand, if you like.  Take the Colossus of Rhodes, for instance, that's\nworth something.  With good reason Mr. Anaevsky testifies of it that\nsome say that it is the work of man's hands, while others maintain that\nit has been created by nature herself.  Is it many-coloured?  May be it\nis many-coloured, too: if one takes the dress uniforms, military and\ncivilian, of all peoples in all ages--that alone is worth something,\nand if you take the undress uniforms you will never get to the end of\nit; no historian would be equal to the job.  Is it monotonous? May be\nit's monotonous too: it's fighting and fighting; they are fighting now,\nthey fought first and they fought last--you will admit, that it is\nalmost too monotonous.  In short, one may say anything about the\nhistory of the world--anything that might enter the most disordered\nimagination. The only thing one can't say is that it's rational.  The\nvery word sticks in one's throat.  And, indeed, this is the odd thing\nthat is continually happening: there are continually turning up in life\nmoral and rational persons, sages and lovers of humanity who make it\ntheir object to live all their lives as morally and rationally as\npossible, to be, so to speak, a light to their neighbours simply in\norder to show them that it is possible to live morally and rationally\nin this world.  And yet we all know that those very people sooner or\nlater have been false to themselves, playing some queer trick, often a\nmost unseemly one.  Now I ask you: what can be expected of man since he\nis a being endowed with strange qualities?  Shower upon him every\nearthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but\nbubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give him economic\nprosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but sleep, eat\ncakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species, and even\nthen out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you some\nnasty trick.  He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately\ndesire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply\nto introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic\nelement.  It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he\nwill desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself--as though\nthat were so necessary--that men still are men and not the keys of a\npiano, which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that\nsoon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar.  And that\nis not all: even if man really were nothing but a piano-key, even if\nthis were proved to him by natural science and mathematics, even then\nhe would not become reasonable, but would purposely do something\nperverse out of simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point.  And if\nhe does not find means he will contrive destruction and chaos, will\ncontrive sufferings of all sorts, only to gain his point!  He will\nlaunch a curse upon the world, and as only man can curse (it is his\nprivilege, the primary distinction between him and other animals), may\nbe by his curse alone he will attain his object--that is, convince\nhimself that he is a man and not a piano-key!  If you say that all\nthis, too, can be calculated and tabulated--chaos and darkness and\ncurses, so that the mere possibility of calculating it all beforehand\nwould stop it all, and reason would reassert itself, then man would\npurposely go mad in order to be rid of reason and gain his point!  I\nbelieve in it, I answer for it, for the whole work of man really seems\nto consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a\nman and not a piano-key! It may be at the cost of his skin, it may be\nby cannibalism!  And this being so, can one help being tempted to\nrejoice that it has not yet come off, and that desire still depends on\nsomething we don't know?\n\nYou will scream at me (that is, if you condescend to do so) that no one\nis touching my free will, that all they are concerned with is that my\nwill should of itself, of its own free will, coincide with my own\nnormal interests, with the laws of nature and arithmetic.\n\nGood heavens, gentlemen, what sort of free will is left when we come to\ntabulation and arithmetic, when it will all be a case of twice two make\nfour?  Twice two makes four without my will.  As if free will meant\nthat!\n\n\n", "summary": "Next, he confronts the counter-argument that man's \"free will\" is just an illusion-just a scientific formula of biological chemicals. The UM says that if this were ever the case, man would cease being human altogether and become an organ stop. Later, he even suggests that this liberty of choice, this freedom to be stupid, is a right"}, {"": "489", "document": "\nYou believe in a palace of crystal that can never be destroyed--a\npalace at which one will not be able to put out one's tongue or make a\nlong nose on the sly.  And perhaps that is just why I am afraid of this\nedifice, that it is of crystal and can never be destroyed and that one\ncannot put one's tongue out at it even on the sly.\n\nYou see, if it were not a palace, but a hen-house, I might creep into\nit to avoid getting wet, and yet I would not call the hen-house a\npalace out of gratitude to it for keeping me dry.  You laugh and say\nthat in such circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion.  Yes, I\nanswer, if one had to live simply to keep out of the rain.\n\nBut what is to be done if I have taken it into my head that that is not\nthe only object in life, and that if one must live one had better live\nin a mansion?  That is my choice, my desire.  You will only eradicate\nit when you have changed my preference.  Well, do change it, allure me\nwith something else, give me another ideal.  But meanwhile I will not\ntake a hen-house for a mansion.  The palace of crystal may be an idle\ndream, it may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and\nthat I have invented it only through my own stupidity, through the\nold-fashioned irrational habits of my generation.  But what does it\nmatter to me that it is inconsistent?  That makes no difference since\nit exists in my desires, or rather exists as long as my desires exist.\nPerhaps you are laughing again? Laugh away; I will put up with any\nmockery rather than pretend that I am satisfied when I am hungry.  I\nknow, anyway, that I will not be put off with a compromise, with a\nrecurring zero, simply because it is consistent with the laws of nature\nand actually exists.  I will not accept as the crown of my desires a\nblock of buildings with tenements for the poor on a lease of a thousand\nyears, and perhaps with a sign-board of a dentist hanging out. Destroy\nmy desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I will\nfollow you.  You will say, perhaps, that it is not worth your trouble;\nbut in that case I can give you the same answer.  We are discussing\nthings seriously; but if you won't deign to give me your attention, I\nwill drop your acquaintance.  I can retreat into my underground hole.\n\nBut while I am alive and have desires I would rather my hand were\nwithered off than bring one brick to such a building!  Don't remind me\nthat I have just rejected the palace of crystal for the sole reason\nthat one cannot put out one's tongue at it.  I did not say because I am\nso fond of putting my tongue out.  Perhaps the thing I resented was,\nthat of all your edifices there has not been one at which one could not\nput out one's tongue.  On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut\noff out of gratitude if things could be so arranged that I should lose\nall desire to put it out.  It is not my fault that things cannot be so\narranged, and that one must be satisfied with model flats.  Then why am\nI made with such desires?  Can I have been constructed simply in order\nto come to the conclusion that all my construction is a cheat?  Can\nthis be my whole purpose?  I do not believe it.\n\nBut do you know what: I am convinced that we underground folk ought to\nbe kept on a curb.  Though we may sit forty years underground without\nspeaking, when we do come out into the light of day and break out we\ntalk and talk and talk....\n\n\n", "summary": "In this chapter, the Underground Man explains his refusal to accept the crystal palace, for the very reason that he wouldn't be able to stick his tongue out at it. He would much rather live in his self-acclaimed underground"}, {"": "490", "document": "                [The DUKE's castle]\n\n                Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR.\n\n  BAL.  How now, my lord?  what makes you rise so soon?\n\n  LOR.  Fear of preventing our mishaps too late.\n\n  BAL.  What mischief is it that we not mistrust?\n\n  LOR. Our greatest ills we least mistrust, my lord,\n    And unexpected harms do hurt us most.\n\n  BAL.  Why, tell me, Don Lorenz,--tell me, man,\n    If aught concerns our honour and your own!\n\n  LOR.  Nor you nor me, my lord, but both in one;\n    But I suspect--and the presumptions great--\n    That by those base confed'rates in our fault\n    Touching the death of Don Horatio\n    We are all betray'd to old Hieronimo.\n\n  BAL.  Betray'd, Lorenzo? tush!  it cannot be.\n\n  LOR.  A guilty conscience urged with the thought\n    Of former evils, easily cannot err:\n    I am persuaded--and dissuade me not--\n    That all's revealed to Hieronimo.\n    And therefore know that I have cast it thus--\n\n                [Enter PAGE.]\n\n    But here's the page.  How now?  what news with thee?\n\n  PAGE.  My lord, Serberine is slain.\n\n  BAL.  Who?  Serberine, my man?\n\n  PAGE. Your Highness' man, my lord.\n\n  LOR.  Speak, page: who murder'd him?\n\n  PAGE.  He that is apprehended for the fact.\n\n  LOR.  Who?\n\n  PAGE.         Pedringano.\n\n  BAL.  Is Serberine slain, that lov'd his lord so well?\n    Injurious villain!  murd'rer of his friend!\n\n  LOR.  Hath Pedringano murder'd Serberine?\n    My lord, let me entreat you to take the pains\n    To exasperate and hasten his revenge\n    With your complaints unto my lord the king.\n    This their dissension breeds a greater doubt.\n\n  BAL.  Assure thee, Don Lorenzo, he shall die,\n    Or else his Highness hardly shall deny.\n    Meanwhile, I'll haste the marshall sessions,\n    For die he shall for this his damned deed.\n\n                Exit BALTHAZAR.\n\n  LOR. [aside]  Why, so!  this fits our former policy;\n    And thus experience bids the wise and deal.\n    I lay the plot, he prosecutes the point;\n    I set the trap, he breaks the worthless twigs,\n    And sees not that wherewith the bird was lim'd.\n    Thus hopeful men, that means to hold their own,\n    Must look, like fowlers, to their dearest friends.\n    He runs to kill whom I have holp to catch,\n    And no man knows it was my reaching fetch.\n    'Tis hard to trust unto a multitude,--\n    Or any one, in mine opinion,\n    When men themselves their secrets will reveal.\n\n                Enter a MESSENGER with a letter.\n\n  LOR.  Boy.\n\n  PAGE.         My lord.\n\n  LOR.                  What's he?\n\n  MES.  I have a letter to your lordship.\n\n  LOR.                          From whence?\n\n  MES.  From Pedringano that's imprison'd.\n\n  LOR.  So he is in prison then?\n\n  MES.                  Aye, my good lord.\n\n  LOR.  What would he with us?\n\n                [Reads the letter.]\n\n                                He writes us here\n    To stand good lord and help him in distress.\n    Tell him I have his letters, know his mind;\n    And what we may, let him assure him of.\n    Fellow, be gone; my boy shall follow thee.\n\n                Exit MESSENGER.\n\n    [Aside]  This works like wax!  Yet once more try thy wits.--\n    Boy, go convey this purse to Pedringano,--\n    Thou know'st the prison,--closely give it him,\n    And be advis'd that none be thereabout.\n    Bid him be merry still, but secret;\n    And, though the marshall sessions be today,\n    Bid him not doubt of his delivery.\n    Tell him his pardon is already sign'd,\n    And thereon bid him boldly be resolv'd;\n    For, were he ready to be turned off,--\n    As 'tis my will the uttermost be tried,--\n    Thou with his pardon shalt attend him still.\n    Show him this box, tell him his pardon's in't;\n    But open't not, and if thou lov'st thy life,\n    But let him wisely keep his hopes unknown.\n    He shall not want while Don Lorenzo lives.\n    Away!\n\n  PAGE.  I go, my lord, I run!\n\n  LOR.   But, sirrah, see that this be cleanly done.\n\n                Exit PAGE.\n\n    Now stands our fortune on a tickle point,\n    And now or never ends Lorenzo's doubts.\n    One only thing is uneffected yet,\n    And that's to see the executioner,--\n    But to what end?  I list not trust the air\n    With utterance of our pretence therein,\n    For fear the privy whisp'ring of the wind\n    Convey our words amongst unfriendly ears,\n    That lie too open to advantages.\n    Et quel che voglio io, nessun lo sa,\n    Intendo io quel mi bastera.\n\n                Exit.\n\n", "summary": "Lorenzo has been taking care off all the bad guy stuff on his own, so he goes to tell Balthazar about how he is in the process of offing their henchmen. While he's doing this, a messenger cruises up and says that Serberine was murdered by Pedringano, to which Lorenzo responds with his best, \"Oh my, how shocking!\" Then another messenger enters with a letter addressed to Lorenzo from Pedringano. In the letter, Pedringano reminds Lorenzo that he's just as guilty of killing Serberine as he is. But the sly Lorenzo is already one step ahead of the servant. So Lorenzo tells the messenger to assure Pedringano that all will be well just so long as he keeps his mouth shut and stays patient. He then gives the messenger a box and tells him to tell Pedringano that his pardon is inside the box. He warns the messenger to never open the box and to warn Pedringano that the box will only be opened just before his execution. Lorenzo slinks off to have a little chat with the executioner."}, {"": "491", "document": "Chapter XIII. Nectar and Ambrosia.\n\n\nM. Fouquet held the stirrup of the king, who, having dismounted, bowed\nmost graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him,\nwhich Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the king's part,\ncarried respectfully to his lips. The king wished to wait in the first\ncourtyard for the arrival of the carriages, nor had he long to wait, for\nthe roads had been put into excellent order by the superintendent, and\na stone would hardly have been found of the size of an egg the whole way\nfrom Melun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on a\ncarpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eight\no'clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet, and at the moment they\nmade their appearance, a light as bright as day burst forth from every\nquarter, trees, vases, and marble statues. This species of enchantment\nlasted until their majesties had retired into the palace. All these\nwonders and magical effects which the chronicler has heaped up, or\nrather embalmed, in his recital, at the risk of rivaling the brain-born\nscenes of romancers; these splendors whereby night seemed vanquished and\nnature corrected, together with every delight and luxury combined for\nthe satisfaction of all the senses, as well as the imagination, Fouquet\ndid in real truth offer to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat of\nwhich no monarch could at that time boast of possessing an equal. We do\nnot intend to describe the grand banquet, at which the royal guests\nwere present, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and more than magic\ntransformations and metamorphoses; it will be enough for our purpose\nto depict the countenance the king assumed, which, from being gay, soon\nwore a very gloomy, constrained, and irritated expression. He remembered\nhis own residence, royal though it was, and the mean and indifferent\nstyle of luxury that prevailed there, which comprised but little more\nthan what was merely useful for the royal wants, without being his own\npersonal property. The large vases of the Louvre, the older furniture\nand plate of Henry II., of Francis I., and of Louis XI., were but\nhistoric monuments of earlier days; nothing but specimens of art, the\nrelics of his predecessors; while with Fouquet, the value of the article\nwas as much in the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate\nfrom a gold service, which artists in his own employ had modeled and\ncast for him alone. Fouquet drank wines of which the king of France did\nnot even know the name, and drank them out of goblets each more valuable\nthan the entire royal cellar.\n\nWhat, too, was to be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures,\nthe servants and officers, of every description, of his household? What\nof the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced by order;\nstiff formality by personal, unrestrained comfort; the happiness and\ncontentment of the guest became the supreme law of all who obeyed\nthe host? The perfect swarm of busily engaged persons moving about\nnoiselessly; the multitude of guests,--who were, however, even\nless numerous than the servants who waited on them,--the myriad of\nexquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods of\ndazzling light, the masses of unknown flowers of which the hot-houses\nhad been despoiled, redundant with luxuriance of unequaled scent and\nbeauty; the perfect harmony of the surroundings, which, indeed, was\nno more than the prelude of the promised _fete_, charmed all who were\nthere; and they testified their admiration over and over again, not\nby voice or gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention, those\ntwo languages of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master\npowerful enough to restrain them.\n\nAs for the king, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at the\nqueen. Anne of Austria, whose pride was superior to that of any creature\nbreathing, overwhelmed her host by the contempt with which she treated\neverything handed to her. The young queen, kind-hearted by nature and\ncurious by disposition, praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly good\nappetite, and asked the names of the strange fruits as they were placed\nupon the table. Fouquet replied that he was not aware of their names.\nThe fruits came from his own stores; he had often cultivated them\nhimself, having an intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic\nfruits and plants. The king felt and appreciated the delicacy of the\nreplies, but was only the more humiliated; he thought the queen a little\ntoo familiar in her manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno\na little too much, in being too proud and haughty; his chief anxiety,\nhowever, was himself, that he might remain cold and distant in his\nbehavior, bordering lightly the limits of supreme disdain or simple\nadmiration.\n\nBut Fouquet had foreseen all this; he was, in fact, one of those men who\nforesee everything. The king had expressly declared that, so long as he\nremained under Fouquet's roof, he did not wish his own different repasts\nto be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and that he would,\nconsequently, dine with the rest of society; but by the thoughtful\nattention of the surintendant, the king's dinner was served up\nseparately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the general\ntable; the dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes of\nwhich was composed, comprised everything the king liked and generally\npreferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse--he, indeed, who had the\nkeenest appetite in his kingdom--for saying that he was not hungry.\nNay, M. Fouquet did even better still; he certainly, in obedience to the\nking's expressed desire, seated himself at the table, but as soon as\nthe soups were served, he arose and personally waited on the king, while\nMadame Fouquet stood behind the queen-mother's armchair. The disdain\nof Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could not resist this\nexcess of kindly feeling and polite attention. The queen ate a biscuit\ndipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the king ate of everything,\nsaying to M. Fouquet: \"It is impossible, monsieur le surintendant, to\ndine better anywhere.\" Whereupon the whole court began, on all sides, to\ndevour the dishes spread before them with such enthusiasm that it looked\nas though a cloud of Egyptian locusts was settling down on green and\ngrowing crops.\n\nAs soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the king became morose\nand overgloomed again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he\nfancied he had previously manifested, and particularly on account of\nthe deferential manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet.\nD'Artagnan, who ate a good deal and drank but little, without allowing\nit to be noticed, did not lose a single opportunity, but made a great\nnumber of observations which he turned to good profit.\n\nWhen the supper was finished, the king expressed a wish not to lose the\npromenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she had placed\nherself at the orders of the lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and\nlake with her own bright and quasi-phosphorescent light. The air was\nstrangely soft and balmy; the daintily shell-gravelled walks through\nthe thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to the feet. The _fete_ was\ncomplete in every respect, for the king, having met La Valliere in one\nof the winding paths of the wood, was able to press her hand and say,\n\"I love you,\" without any one overhearing him except M. d'Artagnan, who\nfollowed, and M. Fouquet, who preceded him.\n\nThe dreamy night of magical enchantments stole smoothly on. The king\nhaving requested to be shown to his room, there was immediately a\nmovement in every direction. The queens passed to their own apartments,\naccompanied by them music of theorbos and lutes; the king found his\nmusketeers awaiting him on the grand flight of steps, for M. Fouquet had\nbrought them on from Melun and had invited them to supper. D'Artagnan's\nsuspicions at once disappeared. He was weary, he had supped well, and\nwished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a _fete_ given by a\nman who was in every sense of the word a king. \"M. Fouquet,\" he said,\n\"is the man for me.\"\n\nThe king was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of\nMorpheus, of which we owe some cursory description to our readers. It\nwas the handsomest and largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the\nvaulted ceiling the happy as well as the unhappy dreams which Morpheus\ninflicts on kings as well as on other men. Everything that sleep gives\nbirth to that is lovely, its fairy scenes, its flowers and nectar, the\nwild voluptuousness or profound repose of the senses, had the painter\nelaborated on his frescoes. It was a composition as soft and pleasing\nin one part as dark and gloomy and terrible in another. The poisoned\nchalice, the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper;\nwizards and phantoms with terrific masks, those half-dim shadows more\nalarming than the approach of fire or the somber face of midnight,\nthese, and such as these, he had made the companions of his more\npleasing pictures. No sooner had the king entered his room than a cold\nshiver seemed to pass through him, and on Fouquet asking him the cause\nof it, the king replied, as pale as death:\n\n\"I am sleepy, that is all.\"\n\n\"Does your majesty wish for your attendants at once?\"\n\n\"No; I have to talk with a few persons first,\" said the king. \"Will you\nhave the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him.\"\n\nFouquet bowed and left the room.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The royal ladies arrive at about eight o'clock. All the delights of Vaux are on full display. Rather than being pleased, the King begins to sulk, because his own palace pales in comparison to Vaux. At the banquet, all kinds of wonderful food are served. Anne of Austria looks down her nose at everything, and Maria Theresa, the young queen, eats well and happily compliments all the dishes. Fouquet and his wife personally serve the royals. As soon as he is full, the King is annoyed again. Everyone seems to like Fouquet. After dinner, the King goes to the gardens and is able to take La Valliere by the hand and say \"I love you.\" The evening is complete. The King is taken to the chamber of Morpheus, a magnificent bedchamber decorated by Le Brun. He asks to see Colbert before going to bed."}, {"": "492", "document": "CHAPTER XLII. UPON THE HEEL OF THE LAST SCENE THE COSMOPOLITAN ENTERS THE BARBER'S SHOP, A BENEDICTION ON HIS LIPS.\n\n\n\n\"Bless you, barber!\"\n\nNow, owing to the lateness of the hour, the barber had been all alone\nuntil within the ten minutes last passed; when, finding himself rather\ndullish company to himself, he thought he would have a good time with\nSouter John and Tam O'Shanter, otherwise called Somnus and Morpheus, two\nvery good fellows, though one was not very bright, and the other an\narrant rattlebrain, who, though much listened to by some, no wise man\nwould believe under oath.\n\nIn short, with back presented to the glare of his lamps, and so to the\ndoor, the honest barber was taking what are called cat-naps, and\ndreaming in his chair; so that, upon suddenly hearing the benediction\nabove, pronounced in tones not unangelic, starting up, half awake, he\nstared before him, but saw nothing, for the stranger stood behind. What\nwith cat-naps, dreams, and bewilderments, therefore, the voice seemed a\nsort of spiritual manifestation to him; so that, for the moment, he\nstood all agape, eyes fixed, and one arm in the air.\n\n\"Why, barber, are you reaching up to catch birds there with salt?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" turning round disenchanted, \"it is only a man, then.\"\n\n\"_Only_ a man? As if to be but a man were nothing. But don't be too sure\nwhat I am. You call me _man_, just as the townsfolk called the angels\nwho, in man's form, came to Lot's house; just as the Jew rustics called\nthe devils who, in man's form, haunted the tombs. You can conclude\nnothing absolute from the human form, barber.\"\n\n\"But I can conclude something from that sort of talk, with that sort of\ndress,\" shrewdly thought the barber, eying him with regained\nself-possession, and not without some latent touch of apprehension at\nbeing alone with him. What was passing in his mind seemed divined by the\nother, who now, more rationally and gravely, and as if he expected it\nshould be attended to, said: \"Whatever else you may conclude upon, it is\nmy desire that you conclude to give me a good shave,\" at the same time\nloosening his neck-cloth. \"Are you competent to a good shave, barber?\"\n\n\"No broker more so, sir,\" answered the barber, whom the business-like\nproposition instinctively made confine to business-ends his views of the\nvisitor.\n\n\"Broker? What has a broker to do with lather? A broker I have always\nunderstood to be a worthy dealer in certain papers and metals.\"\n\n\"He, he!\" taking him now for some dry sort of joker, whose jokes, he\nbeing a customer, it might be as well to appreciate, \"he, he! You\nunderstand well enough, sir. Take this seat, sir,\" laying his hand on a\ngreat stuffed chair, high-backed and high-armed, crimson-covered, and\nraised on a sort of dais, and which seemed but to lack a canopy and\nquarterings, to make it in aspect quite a throne, \"take this seat, sir.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" sitting down; \"and now, pray, explain that about the\nbroker. But look, look--what's this?\" suddenly rising, and pointing,\nwith his long pipe, towards a gilt notification swinging among colored\nfly-papers from the ceiling, like a tavern sign, \"_No Trust?_\" \"No trust\nmeans distrust; distrust means no confidence. Barber,\" turning upon him\nexcitedly, \"what fell suspiciousness prompts this scandalous confession?\nMy life!\" stamping his foot, \"if but to tell a dog that you have no\nconfidence in him be matter for affront to the dog, what an insult to\ntake that way the whole haughty race of man by the beard! By my heart,\nsir! but at least you are valiant; backing the spleen of Thersites with\nthe pluck of Agamemnon.\"\n\n\"Your sort of talk, sir, is not exactly in my line,\" said the barber,\nrather ruefully, being now again hopeless of his customer, and not\nwithout return of uneasiness; \"not in my line, sir,\" he emphatically\nrepeated.\n\n\"But the taking of mankind by the nose is; a habit, barber, which I\nsadly fear has insensibly bred in you a disrespect for man. For how,\nindeed, may respectful conceptions of him coexist with the perpetual\nhabit of taking him by the nose? But, tell me, though I, too, clearly\nsee the import of your notification, I do not, as yet, perceive the\nobject. What is it?\"\n\n\"Now you speak a little in my line, sir,\" said the barber, not\nunrelieved at this return to plain talk; \"that notification I find very\nuseful, sparing me much work which would not pay. Yes, I lost a good\ndeal, off and on, before putting that up,\" gratefully glancing towards\nit.\n\n\"But what is its object? Surely, you don't mean to say, in so many\nwords, that you have no confidence? For instance, now,\" flinging aside\nhis neck-cloth, throwing back his blouse, and reseating himself on the\ntonsorial throne, at sight of which proceeding the barber mechanically\nfilled a cup with hot water from a copper vessel over a spirit-lamp,\n\"for instance, now, suppose I say to you, 'Barber, my dear barber,\nunhappily I have no small change by me to-night, but shave me, and\ndepend upon your money to-morrow'--suppose I should say that now, you\nwould put trust in me, wouldn't you? You would have confidence?\"\n\n\"Seeing that it is you, sir,\" with complaisance replied the barber, now\nmixing the lather, \"seeing that it is _you_ sir, I won't answer that\nquestion. No need to.\"\n\n\"Of course, of course--in that view. But, as a supposition--you would\nhave confidence in me, wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"Why--yes, yes.\"\n\n\"Then why that sign?\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, all people ain't like you,\" was the smooth reply, at the same\ntime, as if smoothly to close the debate, beginning smoothly to apply\nthe lather, which operation, however, was, by a motion, protested\nagainst by the subject, but only out of a desire to rejoin, which was\ndone in these words:\n\n\"All people ain't like me. Then I must be either better or worse than\nmost people. Worse, you could not mean; no, barber, you could not mean\nthat; hardly that. It remains, then, that you think me better than most\npeople. But that I ain't vain enough to believe; though, from vanity, I\nconfess, I could never yet, by my best wrestlings, entirely free myself;\nnor, indeed, to be frank, am I at bottom over anxious to--this same\nvanity, barber, being so harmless, so useful, so comfortable, so\npleasingly preposterous a passion.\"\n\n\"Very true, sir; and upon my honor, sir, you talk very well. But the\nlather is getting a little cold, sir.\"\n\n\"Better cold lather, barber, than a cold heart. Why that cold sign? Ah,\nI don't wonder you try to shirk the confession. You feel in your soul\nhow ungenerous a hint is there. And yet, barber, now that I look into\nyour eyes--which somehow speak to me of the mother that must have so\noften looked into them before me--I dare say, though you may not think\nit, that the spirit of that notification is not one with your nature.\nFor look now, setting, business views aside, regarding the thing in an\nabstract light; in short, supposing a case, barber; supposing, I say,\nyou see a stranger, his face accidentally averted, but his visible part\nvery respectable-looking; what now, barber--I put it to your conscience,\nto your charity--what would be your impression of that man, in a moral\npoint of view? Being in a signal sense a stranger, would you, for that,\nsignally set him down for a knave?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, sir; by no means,\" cried the barber, humanely resentful.\n\n\"You would upon the face of him----\"\n\n\"Hold, sir,\" said the barber, \"nothing about the face; you remember,\nsir, that is out of sight.\"\n\n\"I forgot that. Well then, you would, upon the _back_ of him, conclude\nhim to be, not improbably, some worthy sort of person; in short, an\nhonest man: wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"Not unlikely I should, sir.\"\n\n\"Well now--don't be so impatient with your brush, barber--suppose that\nhonest man meet you by night in some dark corner of the boat where his\nface would still remain unseen, asking you to trust him for a shave--how\nthen?\"\n\n\"Wouldn't trust him, sir.\"\n\n\"But is not an honest man to be trusted?\"\n\n\"Why--why--yes, sir.\"\n\n\"There! don't you see, now?\"\n\n\"See what?\" asked the disconcerted barber, rather vexedly.\n\n\"Why, you stand self-contradicted, barber; don't you?\"\n\n\"No,\" doggedly.\n\n\"Barber,\" gravely, and after a pause of concern, \"the enemies of our\nrace have a saying that insincerity is the most universal and\ninveterate vice of man--the lasting bar to real amelioration, whether of\nindividuals or of the world. Don't you now, barber, by your stubbornness\non this occasion, give color to such a calumny?\"\n\n\"Hity-tity!\" cried the barber, losing patience, and with it respect;\n\"stubbornness?\" Then clattering round the brush in the cup, \"Will you be\nshaved, or won't you?\"\n\n\"Barber, I will be shaved, and with pleasure; but, pray, don't raise\nyour voice that way. Why, now, if you go through life gritting your\nteeth in that fashion, what a comfortless time you will have.\"\n\n\"I take as much comfort in this world as you or any other man,\" cried\nthe barber, whom the other's sweetness of temper seemed rather to\nexasperate than soothe.\n\n\"To resent the imputation of anything like unhappiness I have often\nobserved to be peculiar to certain orders of men,\" said the other\npensively, and half to himself, \"just as to be indifferent to that\nimputation, from holding happiness but for a secondary good and inferior\ngrace, I have observed to be equally peculiar to other kinds of men.\nPray, barber,\" innocently looking up, \"which think you is the superior\ncreature?\"\n\n\"All this sort of talk,\" cried the barber, still unmollified, \"is, as I\ntold you once before, not in my line. In a few minutes I shall shut up\nthis shop. Will you be shaved?\"\n\n\"Shave away, barber. What hinders?\" turning up his face like a flower.\n\nThe shaving began, and proceeded in silence, till at length it became\nnecessary to prepare to relather a little--affording an opportunity for\nresuming the subject, which, on one side, was not let slip.\n\n\"Barber,\" with a kind of cautious kindliness, feeling his way, \"barber,\nnow have a little patience with me; do; trust me, I wish not to offend.\nI have been thinking over that supposed case of the man with the averted\nface, and I cannot rid my mind of the impression that, by your opposite\nreplies to my questions at the time, you showed yourself much of a piece\nwith a good many other men--that is, you have confidence, and then\nagain, you have none. Now, what I would ask is, do you think it sensible\nstanding for a sensible man, one foot on confidence and the other on\nsuspicion? Don't you think, barber, that you ought to elect? Don't you\nthink consistency requires that you should either say 'I have confidence\nin all men,' and take down your notification; or else say, 'I suspect\nall men,' and keep it up.\"\n\nThis dispassionate, if not deferential, way of putting the case, did not\nfail to impress the barber, and proportionately conciliate him.\nLikewise, from its pointedness, it served to make him thoughtful; for,\ninstead of going to the copper vessel for more water, as he had\npurposed, he halted half-way towards it, and, after a pause, cup in\nhand, said: \"Sir, I hope you would not do me injustice. I don't say, and\ncan't say, and wouldn't say, that I suspect all men; but I _do_ say that\nstrangers are not to be trusted, and so,\" pointing up to the sign, \"no\ntrust.\"\n\n\"But look, now, I beg, barber,\" rejoined the other deprecatingly, not\npresuming too much upon the barber's changed temper; \"look, now; to say\nthat strangers are not to be trusted, does not that imply something like\nsaying that mankind is not to be trusted; for the mass of mankind, are\nthey not necessarily strangers to each individual man? Come, come, my\nfriend,\" winningly, \"you are no Timon to hold the mass of mankind\nuntrustworthy. Take down your notification; it is misanthropical; much\nthe same sign that Timon traced with charcoal on the forehead of a skull\nstuck over his cave. Take it down, barber; take it down to-night. Trust\nmen. Just try the experiment of trusting men for this one little trip.\nCome now, I'm a philanthropist, and will insure you against losing a\ncent.\"\n\nThe barber shook his head dryly, and answered, \"Sir, you must excuse me.\nI have a family.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "Frank the cosmopolitan enters a barber shop. He greets the barber with a cheery \"Bless you!\" The barber has been dozing off and dreaming, so at first he thinks that Frank is an angel or other kind of spirit. Frank's like, Um, what's your deal? Then the barber turns around and sees a real human and is a little bummed, but the world makes more sense this way. Next, the barber suspects something amiss about Frank. It's late, Frank's staring, the barber starts to worry. Frank realizes what the barber is thinking and reassures him: Just want a shave, dude. The barber's like, Phew. He knows the terms of their interaction now, so he gets down to business. Frank starts bugging the barber about why he doesn't have confidence in his fellow man when he sees the \"No Trust\" sign that we saw the barber put up in chapter one. Frank: But don't you trust people? Barber: No. The barber is not cool with somebody accusing him of not having faith in his fellow man. Nevertheless, he asserts his right to protect his interests from the tomfoolery of strangers."}, {"": "493", "document": "Chapter LVIII. The Angel of Death.\n\n\nAthos was at this part of his marvelous vision, when the charm was\nsuddenly broken by a great noise rising from the outer gates. A horse\nwas heard galloping over the hard gravel of the great alley, and the\nsound of noisy and animated conversations ascended to the chamber in\nwhich the comte was dreaming. Athos did not stir from the place he\noccupied; he scarcely turned his head towards the door to ascertain the\nsooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the stairs; the\nhorse, which had recently galloped, departed slowly towards the stables.\nGreat hesitation appeared in the steps, which by degrees approached the\nchamber. A door was opened, and Athos, turning a little towards the part\nof the room the noise came from, cried, in a weak voice:\n\n\"It is a courier from Africa, is it not?\"\n\n\"No, monsieur le comte,\" replied a voice which made the father of Raoul\nstart upright in his bed.\n\n\"Grimaud!\" murmured he. And the sweat began to pour down his face.\nGrimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have\nseen, still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first\ninto the boat destined to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of\nthe royal fleet. 'Twas now a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered\nwith dust, and hair whitened by old age. He trembled whilst leaning\nagainst the door-frame, and was near falling on seeing, by the light of\nthe lamps, the countenance of his master. These two men who had lived so\nlong together in a community of intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed\nto economize expressions, knew how to say so many things silently--these\ntwo old friends, one as noble as the other in heart, if they were\nunequal in fortune and birth, remained tongue-tied whilst looking at\neach other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read to\nthe bottom of each other's hearts. The old servitor bore upon his\ncountenance the impression of a grief already old, the outward token of\na grim familiarity with woe. He appeared to have no longer in use more\nthan a single version of his thoughts. As formerly he was accustomed not\nto speak much, he was now accustomed not to smile at all. Athos read at\na glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and\nin the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream:\n\n\"Grimaud,\" said he, \"Raoul is dead. _Is it not so?_\"\n\nBehind Grimaud the other servants listened breathlessly, with their\neyes fixed upon the bed of their sick master. They heard the terrible\nquestion, and a heart-breaking silence followed.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the old man, heaving the monosyllable from his chest with\na hoarse, broken sigh.\n\nThen arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without measure, and\nfilled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized father\nsought with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos like\nthe transition which led to his dream. Without uttering a cry, without\nshedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyes\ntowards Heaven, in order there to see again, rising above the mountain\nof Gigelli, the beloved shade that was leaving him at the moment of\nGrimaud's arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens,\nresuming his marvelous dream, he repassed by the same road by which the\nvision, at once so terrible and sweet, had led him before; for after\nhaving gently closed his eyes, he reopened them and began to smile: he\nhad just seen Raoul, who had smiled upon him. With his hands joined upon\nhis breast, his face turned towards the window, bathed by the fresh air\nof night, which brought upon its wings the aroma of the flowers and\nthe woods, Athos entered, never again to come out of it, into the\ncontemplation of that paradise which the living never see. God willed,\nno doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal beatitude,\nat this hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severely\nreceived by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of\nthe other life of which they get but merest glimpses by the dismal murky\ntorch of death. Athos was spirit-guided by the pure serene soul of his\nson, which aspired to be like the paternal soul. Everything for this\njust man was melody and perfume in the rough road souls take to return\nto the celestial country. After an hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly\nraised his hands as white as wax; the smile did not quit his lips, and\nhe murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible, these three words\naddressed to God or to Raoul:\n\n\"HERE I AM!\"\n\nAnd his hands fell slowly, as though he himself had laid them on the\nbed.\n\nDeath had been kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him\nthe tortures of the agony, convulsions of the last departure; had opened\nwith an indulgent finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul. God\nhad no doubt ordered it thus that the pious remembrance of this death\nshould remain in the hearts of those present, and in the memory of other\nmen--a death which caused to be loved the passage from this life to the\nother by those whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread\nthe last judgment. Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, that\nplacid and sincere smile--an ornament which was to accompany him to the\ntomb. The quietude and calm of his fine features made his servants for\na long time doubt whether he had really quitted life. The comte's people\nwished to remove Grimaud, who, from a distance, devoured the face now\nquickly growing marble-pale, and did not approach, from pious fear of\nbringing to him the breath of death. But Grimaud, fatigued as he was,\nrefused to leave the room. He sat himself down upon the threshold,\nwatching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel, jealous to receive\neither his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The noises all were\nquiet in the house--every one respected the slumber of their lord. But\nGrimaud, by anxiously listening, perceived that the comte no longer\nbreathed. He raised himself with his hands leaning on the ground, looked\nto see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master.\nNothing! Fear seized him; he rose completely up, and, at the very\nmoment, heard some one coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking\nagainst a sword--a warlike sound familiar to his ears--stopped him as he\nwas going towards the bed of Athos. A voice more sonorous than brass or\nsteel resounded within three paces of him.\n\n\"Athos! Athos! my friend!\" cried this voice, agitated even to tears.\n\n\"Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan,\" faltered out Grimaud.\n\n\"Where is he? Where is he?\" continued the musketeer. Grimaud seized\nhis arm in his bony fingers, and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of\nwhich the livid tints of death already showed.\n\nA choked respiration, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the throat of\nD'Artagnan. He advanced on tip-toe, trembling, frightened at the noise\nhis feet made on the floor, his heart rent by a nameless agony. He\nplaced his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the comte's mouth.\nNeither noise, nor breath! D'Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who had\nfollowed him with his eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been\na revelation, came timidly; seated himself at the foot of the bed, and\nglued his lips to the sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of\nhis master. Then large drops began to flow from his red eyes. This old\nman in invincible despair, who wept, bent doubled without uttering a\nword, presented the most touching spectacle that D'Artagnan, in a life\nso filled with emotion, had ever met with.\n\nThe captain resumed standing in contemplation before that smiling dead\nman, who seemed to have burnished his last thought, to give his best\nfriend, the man he had loved next to Raoul, a gracious welcome even\nbeyond life. And for reply to that exalted flattery of hospitality,\nD'Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on the brow, and with his\ntrembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated himself by the pillow\nwithout dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and affectionate\nto him for five and thirty years. He was feeding his soul with the\nremembrances the noble visage of the comte brought to his mind in\ncrowds--some blooming and charming as that smile--some dark, dismal, and\nicy as that visage with its eyes now closed to all eternity.\n\nAll at once the bitter flood which mounted from minute to minute invaded\nhis heart, and swelled his breast almost to bursting. Incapable of\nmastering his emotion, he arose, and tearing himself violently from the\nchamber where he had just found dead him to whom he came to report the\nnews of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-rending that the\nservants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief, answered to\nit by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the late comte by their\nlamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his\nvoice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to\nprofane the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of his\nmaster. Had not Athos always bidden him be dumb?\n\nAt daybreak D'Artagnan, who had wandered about the lower hall, biting\nhis fingers to stifle his sighs--D'Artagnan went up once more; and\nwatching the moments when Grimaud turned his head towards him, he made\nhim a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without\nmaking more noise than a shadow. D'Artagnan went down again, followed\nby Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man's\nhands, \"Grimaud,\" said he, \"I have seen how the father died; now let me\nknow about the son.\"\n\nGrimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of which\nwas traced the address of Athos. He recognized the writing of M. de\nBeaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, while walking about in the\nfirst steel-chill rays of dawn, in the dark alley of old limes, marked\nby the still visible footsteps of the comte who had just died.\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The vision is interrupted by a loud noise. A man on horseback has arrived and is now ascending the stairs. It is Grimaud. Athos asks if Raoul is dead. Grimaud answers in the affirmative. Athos raises his eyes to heaven, imagining that he is once again on the hill, watching his son ascend into heaven. He says, \"Here I am,\" then dies. Athos looks so peaceful that the servants think he is sleeping. Grimaud knows better. He can tell his master is dead. D'Artagnan walks in, calling for Athos. Grimaud points to the bed. It is clear Athos is dead. Grimaud kisses the foot of the bed and begins to cry. D'Artagnan kisses his friend Athos on the forehead. He begins to wail with grief. The servants join in. Only Grimaud remains silent as Athos taught him. The next day, D'Artagnan asks Grimaud for information on Raoul's death."}, {"": "494", "document": "SCENE V.\nWithin Corioli. A street\n\nEnter certain Romans, with spoils\n\n  FIRST ROMAN. This will I carry to Rome.\n  SECOND ROMAN. And I this.\n  THIRD ROMAN. A murrain on 't! I took this for silver.\n                               [Alarum continues still afar off]\n\n          Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS With a trumpeter\n\n  MARCIUS. See here these movers that do prize their hours\n    At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons,\n    Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would\n    Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,\n    Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them!\n                                                Exeunt pillagers\n    And hark, what noise the general makes! To him!\n    There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius,\n    Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus, take\n    Convenient numbers to make good the city;\n    Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste\n    To help Cominius.\n  LARTIUS. Worthy sir, thou bleed'st;\n    Thy exercise hath been too violent\n    For a second course of fight.\n  MARCIUS. Sir, praise me not;\n    My work hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well;\n    The blood I drop is rather physical\n    Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus\n    I will appear, and fight.\n  LARTIUS. Now the fair goddess, Fortune,\n    Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms\n    Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman,\n    Prosperity be thy page!\n  MARCIUS. Thy friend no less\n    Than those she placeth highest! So farewell.\n  LARTIUS. Thou worthiest Marcius!                  Exit MARCIUS\n    Go sound thy trumpet in the market-place;\n    Call thither all the officers o' th' town,\n    Where they shall know our mind. Away!                 Exeunt\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "This scene opens with the noise of a distant battle in the background, probably between Aufidius and Cominius, while the Roman soldiers in Corioli carry away the spoils of victory. Marcius enters with Lartius and scorns the soldiers for ransacking the town, especially since there is still fighting to be done. He directs Titus Lartius to keep part of the army to maintain control over Corioli, while he leads the others away to support Cominius. Titus Lartius counsels him to refrain from fighting another round of battle, for his wounds are still bleeding; Marcius will not think of staying back, for he is determined to fight Aufidius. Lartius praises his valor and wishes him luck."}, {"": "495", "document": "Scaena Quarta.\n\nEnter Richard.\n\n  Rich. I haue bin studying, how to compare\nThis Prison where I liue, vnto the World:\nAnd for because the world is populous,\nAnd heere is not a Creature, but my selfe,\nI cannot do it: yet Ile hammer't out.\nMy Braine, Ile proue the Female to my Soule,\nMy Soule, the Father: and these two beget\nA generation of still breeding Thoughts;\nAnd these same Thoughts, people this Little World\nIn humors, like the people of this world,\nFor no thought is contented. The better sort,\nAs thoughts of things Diuine, are intermixt\nWith scruples, and do set the Faith it selfe\nAgainst the Faith: as thus: Come litle ones: & then again,\nIt is as hard to come, as for a Camell\nTo thred the posterne of a Needles eye.\nThoughts tending to Ambition, they do plot\nVnlikely wonders; how these vaine weake nailes\nMay teare a passage through the Flinty ribbes\nOf this hard world, my ragged prison walles:\nAnd for they cannot, dye in their owne pride.\nThoughts tending to Content, flatter themselues,\nThat they are not the first of Fortunes slaues,\nNor shall not be the last. Like silly Beggars,\nWho sitting in the Stockes, refuge their shame\nThat many haue, and others must sit there;\nAnd in this Thought, they finde a kind of ease,\nBearing their owne misfortune on the backe\nOf such as haue before indur'd the like.\nThus play I in one Prison, many people,\nAnd none contented. Sometimes am I King;\nThen Treason makes me wish my selfe a Beggar,\nAnd so I am. Then crushing penurie,\nPerswades me, I was better when a King:\nThen am I king'd againe: and by and by,\nThinke that I am vn-king'd by Bullingbrooke,\nAnd straight am nothing. But what ere I am,\n\nMusick\n\nNor I, nor any man, that but man is,\nWith nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd\nWith being nothing. Musicke do I heare?\nHa, ha? keepe time: How sowre sweet Musicke is,\nWhen Time is broke, and no Proportion kept?\nSo is it in the Musicke of mens liues:\nAnd heere haue I the daintinesse of eare,\nTo heare time broke in a disorder'd string:\nBut for the Concord of my State and Time,\nHad not an eare to heare my true Time broke.\nI wasted Time, and now doth Time waste me:\nFor now hath Time made me his numbring clocke;\nMy Thoughts, are minutes; and with Sighes they iarre,\nTheir watches on vnto mine eyes, the outward Watch,\nWhereto my finger, like a Dialls point,\nIs pointing still, in cleansing them from teares.\nNow sir, the sound that tels what houre it is,\nAre clamorous groanes, that strike vpon my heart,\nWhich is the bell: so Sighes, and Teares, and Grones,\nShew Minutes, Houres, and Times: but my Time\nRuns poasting on, in Bullingbrookes proud ioy,\nWhile I stand fooling heere, his iacke o'th' Clocke.\nThis Musicke mads me, let it sound no more,\nFor though it haue holpe madmen to their wits,\nIn me it seemes, it will make wise-men mad:\nYet blessing on his heart that giues it me;\nFor 'tis a signe of loue, and loue to Richard,\nIs a strange Brooch, in this all-hating world.\nEnter Groome.\n\n  Groo. Haile Royall Prince\n\n   Rich. Thankes Noble Peere,\nThe cheapest of vs, is ten groates too deere.\nWhat art thou? And how com'st thou hither?\nWhere no man euer comes, but that sad dogge\nThat brings me food, to make misfortune liue?\n  Groo. I was a poore Groome of thy Stable (King)\nWhen thou wer't King: who trauelling towards Yorke,\nWith much adoo, at length haue gotten leaue\nTo looke vpon my (sometimes Royall) masters face.\nO how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld\nIn London streets, that Coronation day,\nWhen Bullingbrooke rode on Roane Barbary,\nThat horse, that thou so often hast bestrid,\nThat horse, that I so carefully haue drest\n\n   Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me gentle Friend,\nHow went he vnder him?\n  Groo. So proudly, as if he had disdain'd the ground\n\n   Rich. So proud, that Bullingbrooke was on his backe;\nThat Iade hath eate bread from my Royall hand.\nThis hand hath made him proud with clapping him.\nWould he not stumble? Would he not fall downe\n(Since Pride must haue a fall) and breake the necke\nOf that proud man, that did vsurpe his backe?\nForgiuenesse horse: Why do I raile on thee,\nSince thou created to be aw'd by man\nWas't borne to beare? I was not made a horse,\nAnd yet I beare a burthen like an Asse,\nSpur-gall'd, and tyrd by iauncing Bullingbrooke.\nEnter Keeper with a Dish.\n\n  Keep. Fellow, giue place, heere is no longer stay\n\n   Rich. If thou loue me, 'tis time thou wer't away\n\n   Groo. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall\nsay.\nEnter.\n\n  Keep. My Lord, wilt please you to fall too?\n  Rich. Taste of it first, as thou wer't wont to doo\n\n   Keep. My Lord I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,\nWho lately came from th' King, commands the contrary\n\n   Rich. The diuell take Henrie of Lancaster, and thee;\nPatience is stale, and I am weary of it\n\n   Keep. Helpe, helpe, helpe.\nEnter Exton and Seruants.\n\n  Ri. How now? what meanes Death in this rude assalt?\nVillaine, thine owne hand yeelds thy deaths instrument,\nGo thou and fill another roome in hell.\n\nExton strikes him downe.\n\nThat hand shall burne in neuer-quenching fire,\nThat staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand,\nHath with the Kings blood, stain'd the Kings own land.\nMount, mount my soule, thy seate is vp on high,\nWhil'st my grosse flesh sinkes downward, heere to dye\n\n   Exton. As full of Valor, as of Royall blood,\nBoth haue I spilt: Oh would the deed were good.\nFor now the diuell, that told me I did well,\nSayes, that this deede is chronicled in hell.\nThis dead King to the liuing King Ile beare,\nTake hence the rest, and giue them buriall heere.\nEnter.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At Windsor Castle we bump into a guy named Exton. Exton thinks he just heard King Henry say the following: \"Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?\" But Exton's not sure he heard right, so he double checks with a servant, who says yep - Henry said that all right. Exton points out that King Henry was looking right at him when he said this and decides he was secretly ordering him to kill Richard."}, {"": "496", "document": "\n\n'These things happened last winter, sir,' said Mrs. Dean; 'hardly more\nthan a year ago.  Last winter, I did not think, at another twelve months'\nend, I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating them!\nYet, who knows how long you'll be a stranger?  You're too young to rest\nalways contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one could\nsee Catherine Linton and not love her.  You smile; but why do you look so\nlively and interested when I talk about her? and why have you asked me to\nhang her picture over your fireplace? and why--?'\n\n'Stop, my good friend!' I cried.  'It may be very possible that _I_\nshould love her; but would she love me?  I doubt it too much to venture\nmy tranquillity by running into temptation: and then my home is not here.\nI'm of the busy world, and to its arms I must return.  Go on.  Was\nCatherine obedient to her father's commands?'\n\n'She was,' continued the housekeeper.  'Her affection for him was still\nthe chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger: he spoke in\nthe deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils and\nfoes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he could\nbequeath to guide her.  He said to me, a few days afterwards, \"I wish my\nnephew would write, Ellen, or call.  Tell me, sincerely, what you think\nof him: is he changed for the better, or is there a prospect of\nimprovement, as he grows a man?\"\n\n'\"He's very delicate, sir,\" I replied; \"and scarcely likely to reach\nmanhood: but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and if Miss\nCatherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be beyond her\ncontrol: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent.  However,\nmaster, you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him and see\nwhether he would suit her: it wants four years and more to his being of\nage.\"'\n\nEdgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton\nKirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly, and we\ncould just distinguish the two fir-trees in the yard, and the\nsparely-scattered gravestones.\n\n'I've prayed often,' he half soliloquised, 'for the approach of what is\ncoming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it.  I thought the memory of\nthe hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than the\nanticipation that I was soon, in a few months, or, possibly, weeks, to be\ncarried up, and laid in its lonely hollow!  Ellen, I've been very happy\nwith my little Cathy: through winter nights and summer days she was a\nliving hope at my side.  But I've been as happy musing by myself among\nthose stones, under that old church: lying, through the long June\nevenings, on the green mound of her mother's grave, and wishing--yearning\nfor the time when I might lie beneath it.  What can I do for Cathy?  How\nmust I quit her?  I'd not care one moment for Linton being Heathcliff's\nson; nor for his taking her from me, if he could console her for my loss.\nI'd not care that Heathcliff gained his ends, and triumphed in robbing me\nof my last blessing!  But should Linton be unworthy--only a feeble tool\nto his father--I cannot abandon her to him!  And, hard though it be to\ncrush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in making her sad while I\nlive, and leaving her solitary when I die.  Darling!  I'd rather resign\nher to God, and lay her in the earth before me.'\n\n'Resign her to God as it is, sir,' I answered, 'and if we should lose\nyou--which may He forbid--under His providence, I'll stand her friend and\ncounsellor to the last.  Miss Catherine is a good girl: I don't fear that\nshe will go wilfully wrong; and people who do their duty are always\nfinally rewarded.'\n\nSpring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, though he\nresumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter.  To her inexperienced\nnotions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; and then his cheek was\noften flushed, and his eyes were bright; she felt sure of his recovering.\nOn her seventeenth birthday, he did not visit the churchyard: it was\nraining, and I observed--'You'll surely not go out to-night, sir?'\n\nHe answered,--'No, I'll defer it this year a little longer.'  He wrote\nagain to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and, had the\ninvalid been presentable, I've no doubt his father would have permitted\nhim to come.  As it was, being instructed, he returned an answer,\nintimating that Mr. Heathcliff objected to his calling at the Grange; but\nhis uncle's kind remembrance delighted him, and he hoped to meet him\nsometimes in his rambles, and personally to petition that his cousin and\nhe might not remain long so utterly divided.\n\nThat part of his letter was simple, and probably his own.  Heathcliff\nknew he could plead eloquently for Catherine's company, then.\n\n'I do not ask,' he said, 'that she may visit here; but am I never to see\nher, because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you forbid her\nto come to mine?  Do, now and then, ride with her towards the Heights;\nand let us exchange a few words, in your presence!  We have done nothing\nto deserve this separation; and you are not angry with me: you have no\nreason to dislike me, you allow, yourself.  Dear uncle! send me a kind\nnote to-morrow, and leave to join you anywhere you please, except at\nThrushcross Grange.  I believe an interview would convince you that my\nfather's character is not mine: he affirms I am more your nephew than his\nson; and though I have faults which render me unworthy of Catherine, she\nhas excused them, and for her sake, you should also.  You inquire after\nmy health--it is better; but while I remain cut off from all hope, and\ndoomed to solitude, or the society of those who never did and never will\nlike me, how can I be cheerful and well?'\n\nEdgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his\nrequest; because he could not accompany Catherine.  He said, in summer,\nperhaps, they might meet: meantime, he wished him to continue writing at\nintervals, and engaged to give him what advice and comfort he was able by\nletter; being well aware of his hard position in his family.  Linton\ncomplied; and had he been unrestrained, would probably have spoiled all\nby filling his epistles with complaints and lamentations: but his father\nkept a sharp watch over him; and, of course, insisted on every line that\nmy master sent being shown; so, instead of penning his peculiar personal\nsufferings and distresses, the themes constantly uppermost in his\nthoughts, he harped on the cruel obligation of being held asunder from\nhis friend and love; and gently intimated that Mr. Linton must allow an\ninterview soon, or he should fear he was purposely deceiving him with\nempty promises.\n\nCathy was a powerful ally at home; and between them they at length\npersuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a walk\ntogether about once a week, under my guardianship, and on the moors\nnearest the Grange: for June found him still declining.  Though he had\nset aside yearly a portion of his income for my young lady's fortune, he\nhad a natural desire that she might retain--or at least return in a short\ntime to--the house of her ancestors; and he considered her only prospect\nof doing that was by a union with his heir; he had no idea that the\nlatter was failing almost as fast as himself; nor had any one, I believe:\nno doctor visited the Heights, and no one saw Master Heathcliff to make\nreport of his condition among us.  I, for my part, began to fancy my\nforebodings were false, and that he must be actually rallying, when he\nmentioned riding and walking on the moors, and seemed so earnest in\npursuing his object.  I could not picture a father treating a dying child\nas tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards learned Heathcliff had\ntreated him, to compel this apparent eagerness: his efforts redoubling\nthe more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling plans were threatened\nwith defeat by death.\n\n\n\n", "summary": "At this point, Nelly interrupts her story to explain to Lockwood its chronology: the events that she has just described happened the previous winter, only a little over a year ago. Nelly says that the previous year, it never crossed her mind that she would entertain a stranger by telling him the story. But she wonders how long he will remain a stranger, speculating that he might fall in love with the beautiful young Catherine. Lockwood confesses that he might, but says that he doubts his love would ever be requited. Besides, he says, these moors are not his home; he must return soon to the outside world. Still, he remains enraptured by the story, and he urges Nelly to continue. She obliges. Young Catherine agrees to abide by her father's wishes and stops sneaking out to visit Linton. But Linton never visits the Grange, either--he is very frail, as Nelly reminds Edgar. Edgar worries over his daughter's happiness, and over the future of his estate. He says that if marrying Linton would make Catherine happy, he would allow it, despite the fact that it would ensure that Heathcliff would inherit Thrushcross Grange. Edgar's health continues to fail, as does Linton's. Eventually, Edgar agrees to allow Catherine to meet Linton, not at Wuthering Heights, but on the moors, not realizing that the young man is as close to death as he is himself"}, {"": "497", "document": "\n\"Margaret, you look upset!\" said Henry.\n\nMansbridge had followed. Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had stood\nup on the box. Margaret shook her head at them; she could not speak any\nmore. She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future depended\non them. Henry was asking more questions. She shook her head again. His\nwords had no sense. She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in. \"You\nmight have given me a knock with the gate,\" was another of his remarks.\nPresently she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her, said, \"Go\naway.\" Henry came nearer. He repeated, \"Margaret, you look upset again.\nMy dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen?\"\n\n\"Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all.\"\n\n\"Manage what?\"\n\nHe stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had\nnot been for the doctor.\n\n\"Stop that at least,\" she said piteously; the doctor had turned back,\nand was questioning the driver of Helen's cab. A new feeling came over\nher; she was fighting for women against men. She did not care about\nrights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be over her body.\n\n\"Come, this is an odd beginning,\" said her husband.\n\nThe doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox--the\nscandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth.\n\n\"I cannot help it,\" said Margaret. \"Do wait. It's not my fault. Please\nall four of you go away now.\"\n\nNow the flyman was whispering to Crane.\n\n\"We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox,\" said the young doctor.\n\"Could you go in and persuade your sister to come out?\"\n\n\"On what grounds?\" said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the\neyes.\n\nThinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a\nnervous breakdown.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You are not qualified\nto attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If we require your services, we\nwill let you know.\"\n\n\"I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish,\" he retorted.\n\n\"You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to\nattend my sister.\"\n\n\"Come, come, Margaret!\" said Henry, never raising his eyes. \"This is a\nterrible business, an appalling business. It's doctor's orders. Open the\ndoor.\"\n\n\"Forgive me, but I will not.\"\n\n\"I don't agree.\"\n\nMargaret was silent.\n\n\"This business is as broad as it's long,\" contributed the doctor. \"We\nhad better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need\nyou.\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" said Henry.\n\n\"I do not need you in the least,\" said Margaret.\n\nThe two men looked at each other anxiously.\n\n\"No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement.\"\n\n\"Margaret, Margaret!\"\n\n\"Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?\"\n\nMr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he\nmust stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support,\nfor there was trouble ahead.\n\n\"It all turns on affection now,\" said Margaret. \"Affection. Don't you\nsee?\" Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with\nher finger. \"Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much.\nMr. Mansbridge doesn't know her. That's all. And affection, when\nreciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr.\nMansbridge. It's a useful formula.\"\n\nHenry told her to be calm.\n\n\"You don't know what you want yourselves,\" said Margaret, folding her\narms. \"For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make\nit. You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it.\nI'll stand here all the day sooner.\"\n\n\"Mansbridge,\" said Henry in a low voice, \"perhaps not now.\"\n\nThe pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went\nback into the car.\n\n\"Now, Henry, you,\" she said gently. None of her bitterness had been\ndirected at him. \"Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no\ndoubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go.\"\n\nHe was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in\na low voice to him.\n\n\"I shall soon find you down at Dolly's,\" she called, as the gate at last\nclanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed,\nturned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string\nof farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for\nthere was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she\nopened the door. \"Oh, my darling!\" she said. \"My darling, forgive me.\"\nHelen was standing in the hall.\n\n\n", "summary": "Henry tries to interfere, since Margaret looks so upset, but she won't let him into the house. She openly disobeys him for the first time, and feels like this is a fight of women against men. The doctor then tries to intervene, saying that Helen might be having a nervous breakdown. Margaret turns away both of them, saying that she and Helen don't need them - her sister still has a long while before the baby's due. Margaret appeals to Henry, saying that it's all about love - she cares for Helen, and neither of them do. The men give in and depart; Henry is confused by all of this, and Margaret tells him she will meet him at Charles and Dolly's. Margaret goes back into the house, where she confronts Helen."}, {"": "498", "document": "SKETCH FIFTH. THE FRIGATE, AND SHIP FLYAWAY.\n\n  \"Looking far forth into the ocean wide,\n  A goodly ship with banners bravely dight,\n  And flag in her top-gallant I espide,\n  Through the main sea making her merry flight.\"\n\n\nEre quitting Rodondo, it must not be omitted that here, in 1813, the\nU.S. frigate Essex, Captain David Porter, came near leaving her bones.\nLying becalmed one morning with a strong current setting her rapidly\ntowards the rock, a strange sail was descried, which--not out of keeping\nwith alleged enchantments of the neighborhood--seemed to be staggering\nunder a violent wind, while the frigate lay lifeless as if spell-bound.\nBut a light air springing up, all sail was made by the frigate in chase\nof the enemy, as supposed--he being deemed an English whale-ship--but\nthe rapidity of the current was so great, that soon all sight was lost\nof him; and, at meridian, the Essex, spite of her drags, was driven so\nclose under the foam-lashed cliffs of Rodondo that, for a time, all\nhands gave her up. A smart breeze, however, at last helped her off,\nthough the escape was so critical as to seem almost miraculous.\n\nThus saved from destruction herself, she now made use of that salvation\nto destroy the other vessel, if possible. Renewing the chase in the\ndirection in which the stranger had disappeared, sight was caught of him\nthe following morning. Upon being descried he hoisted American colors\nand stood away from the Essex. A calm ensued; when, still confident that\nthe stranger was an Englishman, Porter dispatched a cutter, not to board\nthe enemy, but drive back his boats engaged in towing him. The cutter\nsucceeded. Cutters were subsequently sent to capture him; the stranger\nnow showing English colors in place of American. But, when the frigate's\nboats were within a short distance of their hoped-for prize, another\nsudden breeze sprang up; the stranger, under all sail, bore off to the\nwestward, and, ere night, was hull down ahead of the Essex, which, all\nthis time, lay perfectly becalmed.\n\nThis enigmatic craft--American in the morning, and English in the\nevening--her sails full of wind in a calm--was never again beheld. An\nenchanted ship no doubt. So, at least, the sailors swore.\n\nThis cruise of the Essex in the Pacific during the war of 1812, is,\nperhaps, the strangest and most stirring to be found in the history of\nthe American navy. She captured the furthest wandering vessels; visited\nthe remotest seas and isles; long hovered in the charmed vicinity of the\nenchanted group; and, finally, valiantly gave up the ghost fighting two\nEnglish frigates in the harbor of Valparaiso. Mention is made of her\nhere for the same reason that the Buccaneers will likewise receive\nrecord; because, like them, by long cruising among the isles,\ntortoise-hunting upon their shores, and generally exploring them; for\nthese and other reasons, the Essex is peculiarly associated with the\nEncantadas.\n\nHere be it said that you have but three, eye-witness authorities worth\nmentioning touching the Enchanted Isles:--Cowley, the Buccaneer (1684);\nColnet the whaling-ground explorer (1798); Porter, the post captain\n(1813). Other than these you have but barren, bootless allusions from\nsome few passing voyagers or compilers.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n", "summary": "This is a really unusually pointless anecdote about U.S. explorer David Porter and his ship the Essex. His crew saw a ship, tried to catch it, and didn't. But it was in the Enchanted Isles, so everything seemed mysterious and...enchanted. Shmoop note: \"The Encantadas\" was the most popular piece in The Piazza Tales, initially. Go figure."}, {"": "499", "document": "\nA quarter of an hour later I was rushing up and down the room in\nfrenzied impatience, from minute to minute I went up to the screen and\npeeped through the crack at Liza.  She was sitting on the ground with\nher head leaning against the bed, and must have been crying.  But she\ndid not go away, and that irritated me.  This time she understood it\nall.  I had insulted her finally, but ... there's no need to describe\nit.  She realised that my outburst of passion had been simply revenge,\na fresh humiliation, and that to my earlier, almost causeless hatred\nwas added now a PERSONAL HATRED, born of envy....  Though I do not\nmaintain positively that she understood all this distinctly; but she\ncertainly did fully understand that I was a despicable man, and what\nwas worse, incapable of loving her.\n\nI know I shall be told that this is incredible--but it is incredible to\nbe as spiteful and stupid as I was; it may be added that it was strange\nI should not love her, or at any rate, appreciate her love.  Why is it\nstrange?  In the first place, by then I was incapable of love, for I\nrepeat, with me loving meant tyrannising and showing my moral\nsuperiority.  I have never in my life been able to imagine any other\nsort of love, and have nowadays come to the point of sometimes thinking\nthat love really consists in the right--freely given by the beloved\nobject--to tyrannise over her.\n\nEven in my underground dreams I did not imagine love except as a\nstruggle.  I began it always with hatred and ended it with moral\nsubjugation, and afterwards I never knew what to do with the subjugated\nobject. And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded\nin so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with \"real life,\"\nas to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her to\nshame for having come to me to hear \"fine sentiments\"; and did not even\nguess that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me,\nbecause to a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of\nruin, and all moral renewal is included in love and can only show\nitself in that form.\n\nI did not hate her so much, however, when I was running about the room\nand peeping through the crack in the screen.  I was only insufferably\noppressed by her being here.  I wanted her to disappear.  I wanted\n\"peace,\" to be left alone in my underground world.  Real life oppressed\nme with its novelty so much that I could hardly breathe.\n\nBut several minutes passed and she still remained, without stirring, as\nthough she were unconscious.  I had the shamelessness to tap softly at\nthe screen as though to remind her....  She started, sprang up, and\nflew to seek her kerchief, her hat, her coat, as though making her\nescape from me....  Two minutes later she came from behind the screen\nand looked with heavy eyes at me.  I gave a spiteful grin, which was\nforced, however, to KEEP UP APPEARANCES, and I turned away from her\neyes.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" she said, going towards the door.\n\nI ran up to her, seized her hand, opened it, thrust something in it and\nclosed it again.  Then I turned at once and dashed away in haste to the\nother corner of the room to avoid seeing, anyway....\n\nI did mean a moment since to tell a lie--to write that I did this\naccidentally, not knowing what I was doing through foolishness, through\nlosing my head.  But I don't want to lie, and so I will say straight\nout that I opened her hand and put the money in it ... from spite.  It\ncame into my head to do this while I was running up and down the room\nand she was sitting behind the screen.  But this I can say for certain:\nthough I did that cruel thing purposely, it was not an impulse from the\nheart, but came from my evil brain.  This cruelty was so affected, so\npurposely made up, so completely a product of the brain, of books, that\nI could not even keep it up a minute--first I dashed away to avoid\nseeing her, and then in shame and despair rushed after Liza.  I opened\nthe door in the passage and began listening.\n\n\"Liza!  Liza!\" I cried on the stairs, but in a low voice, not boldly.\nThere was no answer, but I fancied I heard her footsteps, lower down on\nthe stairs.\n\n\"Liza!\" I cried, more loudly.\n\nNo answer.  But at that minute I heard the stiff outer glass door open\nheavily with a creak and slam violently; the sound echoed up the stairs.\n\nShe had gone.  I went back to my room in hesitation.  I felt horribly\noppressed.\n\nI stood still at the table, beside the chair on which she had sat and\nlooked aimlessly before me.  A minute passed, suddenly I started;\nstraight before me on the table I saw....  In short, I saw a crumpled\nblue five-rouble note, the one I had thrust into her hand a minute\nbefore.  It was the same note; it could be no other, there was no other\nin the flat.  So she had managed to fling it from her hand on the table\nat the moment when I had dashed into the further corner.\n\nWell!  I might have expected that she would do that.  Might I have\nexpected it?  No, I was such an egoist, I was so lacking in respect for\nmy fellow-creatures that I could not even imagine she would do so.  I\ncould not endure it.  A minute later I flew like a madman to dress,\nflinging on what I could at random and ran headlong after her.  She\ncould not have got two hundred paces away when I ran out into the\nstreet.\n\nIt was a still night and the snow was coming down in masses and falling\nalmost perpendicularly, covering the pavement and the empty street as\nthough with a pillow.  There was no one in the street, no sound was to\nbe heard.  The street lamps gave a disconsolate and useless glimmer.  I\nran two hundred paces to the cross-roads and stopped short.\n\nWhere had she gone?  And why was I running after her?\n\nWhy?  To fall down before her, to sob with remorse, to kiss her feet,\nto entreat her forgiveness!  I longed for that, my whole breast was\nbeing rent to pieces, and never, never shall I recall that minute with\nindifference. But--what for?  I thought.  Should I not begin to hate\nher, perhaps, even tomorrow, just because I had kissed her feet today?\nShould I give her happiness?  Had I not recognised that day, for the\nhundredth time, what I was worth?  Should I not torture her?\n\nI stood in the snow, gazing into the troubled darkness and pondered\nthis.\n\n\"And will it not be better?\" I mused fantastically, afterwards at home,\nstifling the living pang of my heart with fantastic dreams.  \"Will it\nnot be better that she should keep the resentment of the insult for\never? Resentment--why, it is purification; it is a most stinging and\npainful consciousness!  Tomorrow I should have defiled her soul and\nhave exhausted her heart, while now the feeling of insult will never\ndie in her heart, and however loathsome the filth awaiting her--the\nfeeling of insult will elevate and purify her ... by hatred ... h'm!\n... perhaps, too, by forgiveness....  Will all that make things easier\nfor her though? ...\"\n\nAnd, indeed, I will ask on my own account here, an idle question: which\nis better--cheap happiness or exalted sufferings?  Well, which is\nbetter?\n\nSo I dreamed as I sat at home that evening, almost dead with the pain\nin my soul.  Never had I endured such suffering and remorse, yet could\nthere have been the faintest doubt when I ran out from my lodging that\nI should turn back half-way?  I never met Liza again and I have heard\nnothing of her.  I will add, too, that I remained for a long time\nafterwards pleased with the phrase about the benefit from resentment\nand hatred in spite of the fact that I almost fell ill from misery.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\nEven now, so many years later, all this is somehow a very evil memory.\nI have many evil memories now, but ... hadn't I better end my \"Notes\"\nhere?  I believe I made a mistake in beginning to write them, anyway I\nhave felt ashamed all the time I've been writing this story; so it's\nhardly literature so much as a corrective punishment.  Why, to tell\nlong stories, showing how I have spoiled my life through morally\nrotting in my corner, through lack of fitting environment, through\ndivorce from real life, and rankling spite in my underground world,\nwould certainly not be interesting; a novel needs a hero, and all the\ntraits for an anti-hero are EXPRESSLY gathered together here, and what\nmatters most, it all produces an unpleasant impression, for we are all\ndivorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less.\nWe are so divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for\nreal life, and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come\nalmost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and\nwe are all privately agreed that it is better in books.  And why do we\nfuss and fume sometimes?  Why are we perverse and ask for something\nelse?  We don't know what ourselves.  It would be the worse for us if\nour petulant prayers were answered.  Come, try, give any one of us, for\ninstance, a little more independence, untie our hands, widen the\nspheres of our activity, relax the control and we ... yes, I assure you\n... we should be begging to be under control again at once.  I know\nthat you will very likely be angry with me for that, and will begin\nshouting and stamping.  Speak for yourself, you will say, and for your\nmiseries in your underground holes, and don't dare to say all of\nus--excuse me, gentlemen, I am not justifying myself with that \"all of\nus.\"  As for what concerns me in particular I have only in my life\ncarried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway, and\nwhat's more, you have taken your cowardice for good sense, and have\nfound comfort in deceiving yourselves.  So that perhaps, after all,\nthere is more life in me than in you.  Look into it more carefully!\nWhy, we don't even know what living means now, what it is, and what it\nis called?  Leave us alone without books and we shall be lost and in\nconfusion at once.  We shall not know what to join on to, what to cling\nto, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise.\nWe are oppressed at being men--men with a real individual body and\nblood, we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive\nto be some sort of impossible generalised man.  We are stillborn, and\nfor generations past have been begotten, not by living fathers, and\nthat suits us better and better.  We are developing a taste for it.\nSoon we shall contrive to be born somehow from an idea.  But enough; I\ndon't want to write more from \"Underground.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": "The UM realizes that his idea of love is simply \"tyrannizing and demonstrating  moral superiority.\" For this reason he tries to give her a five-ruble note; but she doesn't accept it, making him even more miserable. For the UM realizes that his love has been tainted by his books, by his head. Liza, on the other hand, shows him true love, love from the heart-selfless love. Thus, the UM concludes that he has ruined his life \"through moral decay in  corner.\" Not living up to his own self-framed image of himself as a hero, he is, indeed, the epitome of an anti-hero. Lastly, he returns to his idea that suffering and anguish can be man's most advantageous advantage. He finds a certain satisfaction and truthfulness in his own suffering, and hopes that Liza will find a similar satisfaction, despite the obvious hardship and grief that the said suffering will entail."}]