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Laila found herself caught in a net of terrible thoughts.
He would never come back. His parents had moved away forgood; the trip to Ghazni had been a ruse. An adult scheme tospare the two of them an upsetting farewell.
A land minehad gotten to him again. The way it did in 1981,when he was five, the last time his parents took him south toGhazni. That was shortly after Laila’s third birthday. He’d beenlucky that time, losing only a leg; lucky that he’d survived atall.
Her head rang and rang with these thoughts.
Then one night Laila saw a tiny flashing light from down thestreet. A sound, something between a squeak and a

gasp,escaped herlips. She quickly fished her own flashlight fromunder the bed, but it wouldn’t work. Laila banged it againsther palm, cursed the dead batteries. But it didn’t matter. Hewas back. Laila sat on the edge of her bed, giddy with relief,and watched that beautiful, yellow eye winking on and off.
* * *On her way to Tariq’s house the next day, Laila saw Khadimand a group of his friends across the street. Khadim wassquatting, drawing something in the dirt with a stick. When hesaw her, he dropped the stick and wiggled his fingers. He saidsomething and there was a round of chuckles. Laila droppedher head and hurried past.
“What did youdo1?” she exclaimed when Tariq opened thedoor. Only then did she remember that his uncle was abarber.
Tariq ran his hand over his newly shaved scalp and smiled,showing white, slightly uneven teeth.

“Like it?””You look like you’re enlisting in the army.””You want to feel?” He lowered his head.
The tiny bristles scratched Laila’s palm pleasantly. Tariq wasn’tlike some of the other boys, whose hair concealedcone-shaped skulls and unsightly lumps. Tariq’s head wasperfectly curved and lump-free.
When he looked up, Laila saw that his cheeks and brow hadsunburned”What took you so long?” she said”My uncle was sick. Come on. Come inside.”He led her down the hallway to the family room. Laila lovedeverything about this house. The shabby old rug in the familyroom, the patchwork quilt on the couch, the ordinary clutter ofTariq’s life: his mother’s bolts of fabric, her sewing needlesembedded in spools, the old magazines, the accordion case inthe corner waiting to be cracked open.
“Who is it?”It was his mother calling from the

“Laila,” he answeredHe pulled her a chair. The family room was brightly lit andhad double windows that opened into the yard. On the sillwere empty jars in which Tariq’s mother pickled eggplant andmade carrot marmalade.
“You mean ouraroos,our daughter-in-law,”his father announced,entering the room. He was a carpenter, a lean, white-hairedman in his early sixties. He had gaps between his front teeth,and the squinty eyes of someone who had spent most of hislife outdoors. He opened his arms and Laila went into them,greeted by his pleasant and familiar smell of sawdust. Theykissed on the cheek three times.
“You keep calling her that and she’ll stop coming here,”Tariq’s mother said, passing by them. She was carrying a traywith a large bowl, a serving spoon, and four smaller bowls onit. She set the tray on the table. “Don’t mind the old man.”She cupped Laila’s face. “It’s good to see you, my dear. Come,sit down. I brought back some water-soaked fruit with me.”The table was bulky and made of a light, unfinishedwood-Tariq’s father had built it, as well as the chairs. It wascovered with a moss green vinyl tablecloth with little magentacrescents and stars on it. Most of the living-room wall wastaken up with pictures of Tariq at various ages. In some of thevery early ones, he had two legs.
“I heard your brother was sick,” Laila said to Tariq’s father,dipping a spoon into her bowl of soaked raisins, pistachios, andapricots.
He was lighting a cigarette. “Yes, but he’s fine now,shokr eKhoda, thanks to God.””Heart attack. His second,” Tariq’s mother said, giving herhusband an admonishing look.
Tariq’s father blew smoke and winked at Laila. It struck heragain that Tariq’s parents could easily pass for hisgrandparents. His mother hadn’t had him until she’d been wellinto her forties.
“How is your father, my dear?” Tariq’s mother said, lookingon over her bowl-As long as Laila had known her, Tariq’smother had worn a wig. It was turning a dull purple with age.
It was pulled low on her brow today, and Laila could see thegray hairs of her sideburns.Some days,it rode high on herforehead. But, to Laila, Tariq’s mother never looked pitiable init- What Laila saw was the calm, self-assured face beneath thewig, the clever eyes, the pleasant, unhurried manners.
“He’s fine,” Laila said. “Still at Silo, of course. He’s fine.””And your mother?””Good days. Bad ones too. The same-“”Yes,” Tariq’s mother said thoughtfully, lowering her spoon intothe bowl “How hard it must be, how terribly hard, for amother to be away from her sons.””You’re staying for lunch?” Tariq said-“You have to,” said his mother. “I’m makingshorwa””I don’t want to be amozahem. “”Imposing?” Tariq’s mother said. “We leave for a couple ofweeks and you turn polite on us?””All right, I’ll stay,” Laila said, blushing and smiling.
“It’s settled, then.”The truth was, Laila loved eating meals at Tariq’s house asmuch as she disliked eating them at hers. At Tariq’s, there wasno eating alone; they always ate as a family. Laila liked theviolet plastic drinking glasses they used and the quarter lemonthat always floated in the water pitcher. She liked how theystarted each meal with a bowl of fresh yogurt, how theysqueezed sour oranges on everything, even their yogurt, andhow they made small, harmless jokes at each other’s expense.
Over meals, conversation always flowed. Though Tariq and hisparents were ethnic Pashtuns, they spoke Farsi when Laila wasaround for her benefit, even though Laila more or lessunderstood their native Pashto, having learned it in school. Babisaid that there were tensions between their people-the Tajiks,who were a minority, and Tariq’s people, the Pashtuns, whowere the largest ethnic group in Afghanistan.Tajiks have alwaysfelt slighted, Babi had said.Pashiun kings ruled this country foralmost two hundred and’fifty years, Laila, and Tajiks for all ofnine months, back in 1929.
And you,Laila had asked,do you feel slighted, Babi?
Babi had wiped his eyeglasses clean with the hem of hisshirt.To me, it’s nonsense -and very dangerous nonsense atthat-all this talk of I’m Tajik and you ‘re Pashiun and he’sHazara and she’s Uzbek. We ‘re all Afghans, and that’s all thatshould matter. But when one group rules over the others forso long…Theref s contempt. Rivalry. There is. There always hasbeen.
Maybe so. But Laila never felt it in Tariq’s house, where thesematters never even came up. Her time with Tariq’s familyalways felt natural to Laila, 佛山桑拿网2019论坛 effortless, uncomplicated bydifferences in tribe or language, or by the personal spites andgrudges that infected the air at her own home.
“How about a game of cards?” Tariq said.
“Yes, go upstairs,” his mother said, swiping disapprovingly ather husband’s cloud of smoke. “I’ll getthe shorwa going.”They lay on their stomachs in the middle of Tariq’s room andtook turns dealing forpanjpar. Pedaling air with his foot, Tariqtold her about his trip. The peach saplings he had helped hisuncle plant. A garden snake he had captured.
This room was where Laila and Tariq did their homework,where they built playing-card towers and drew ridiculousportraits of each other. If it was raining, they leaned on thewindowsill, drinking warm, fizzy orange Fanta, and watched theswollen rain droplets trickle down the glass.
“All right, here’s one,” Laila 佛山夜生活luntan said, shuffling. “What goes aroundthe world but stays in a corner?””Wait.” Tariq pushed himself up and swung his artificial leftleg around. Wincing, he lay on his side, leaning on his elbow.
“Hand me that pillow.” He placed it under his leg. “There.
That’s better.”Laila remembered the first time he’d shown her his stump.
She’d been six. With one finger, she had poked the taut.
shiny skin just below his left knee. Her finger had found littlehard lumps there, and Tariq had told her they were spurs ofbone that sometimes grew after an amputation. She’d askedhim if his stump hurt, and he said it got sore at the end ofthe day, when it swelled and didn’t fit the prosthesis like it wassupposed to, like a finger in a thimble.And sometimes it getsrubbed Especially when it’s hot. Then I get rashes and blisters,but my mother has creams 佛山桑拿论坛蒲友交流 that help. It’s not so bad.
Laila had burst into tears.
What are you crying for?He’d strapped his leg back on.Youasked to see it, you giryanok,you crybaby! If I’d known youwere going to bawl, I wouldn ‘i have shown you.
“A stamp,” he said.
“What?””The riddle. The answer is a stamp. We should go to the zooafter lunch.” “You knew that one. Did you?” “Absolutely not.””You’re a cheat.””And you’re envious.” “Of what?””My masculine smarts.””Yourmasculine smarts? Really? Tell me, who always wins atchess?””I let you win.” He laughed. They both knew that wasn’t true.
“And who failed math? Who do you come to for help withyour math homework even though you’re a grade ahead?””I’d be two grades ahead if math didn’t bore me.””I suppose geography bores you too.””How did you know? Now, shut up. So are we going to thezoo or not?”Laila smiled. 佛山桑拿0757 “We’re going.””Good.””I missed you.”There was a pause. Then Tariq turned to her with ahalf-grinning, half-grimacing look of distaste. “What’s thematterwith you?”How many times had she, Hasina, and Giti said those samethree words to each other, Laila wondered, said it withouthesitation, after only two or three days of not seeing eachother? /missed you, Hasina Oh, I missed you too. In Tariq’sgrimace, Laila learned that boys differed from girls in thisregard. They didn’t make a show of friendship. They felt nourge, no need, for this sort of talk. Laila imagined it had beenthis way for her brothers too. Boys, Laila came to see, treatedfriendship the way they treated the sun: its existenceundisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.
“I was trying to annoy you,” she said.
He gave her a sidelong glance. “It worked.”But 广东佛山桑拿论坛 she thought his grimace softened. And she thought thatmaybe the sunburn on his cheeks deepened momentarily.
* * *Laila didn’t mean to tell him. She’d, in fact, decided that tellinghim would be a very bad idea. Someone would get hurt,because Tariq wouldn’t be able to let it pass. But when theywere on the street later, heading down to thebus stop, she sawKhadim again, leaning against a wall He was surrounded by hisfriends, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He grinned at herdefiantly.
And so she told Tariq. The story spilled out of her mouthbefore she could stop it.
“He did what?”She told him again.
He pointed to Khadim. “Him? He’s the one? You’re sure?””I’m sure.”Tariq clenched his teeth and muttered something to himself inPashto that Laila didn’t catch. “You wait here,” he said, in Farsinow.
“No, Tariq-“He was already crossing 佛山夜生活888 the street.
Khadim was the first to see him. His grin faded, and hepushed himself off the wall. He unhooked his thumbs from thebelt loops and made himself more upright, taking on aself-conscious air of menace. The others followed his gaze.
Laila wished she hadn’t said anything. What if they bandedtogether? How many of them were there-ten? eleven? twelve?
What if they hurt him?
Then Tariq stopped a few feet from Khadim and his band.
There was a moment of consideration, Laila thought, maybe achange of heart, and, when he bent down, she imagined hewould pretend his shoelace had come undone and walk backto her. Then his hands went to work, and she understood.
The others understood too when Tariq straightened up,standing on one leg. When he began hopping toward Khadim,then charging him, his unstrapped leg raised high over hisshoulder 佛山桑拿哪里好 like a sword.
The boys stepped aside in a hurry. They gave him a clearpath to Khadim.
Then it was all dust and fists and kicks and yelps.
Khadim never bothered Laila again.
* * *That night, as most nights, Laila set the dinner table for twoonly. Mammy said she wasn’t hungry. On those nights that shewas, she made a point of taking a plate to her room beforeBabi even came home. She was usually asleep or lying awakein bed by the time Laila and Babi sat down to eat.
Babi came out of the bathroom, his hair-peppered white withflour when he’d come home-washed clean now and combedback.
“What are we having, Laila?””Leftoveraush soup.””Sounds good,” he said, folding the towel with which he’ddried his hair. “So what are we working on tonight? Addingfractions?””Actually, converting fractions to mixed numbers.””Ah. Right.”Every night 佛山夜生活qq群 after dinner, Babi helped Laila with her homeworkand gave her some of his own. This was only to keep Laila astep or two ahead of her class, not because he disapproved ofthe work assigned by the school-the propaganda teachingnotwithstanding. In fact, Babi thought that the one thing thecommunists had done right-or at least intended to-ironically,was in the field of education, the vocation from which they hadfired him. More specifically, the education of women. Thegovernment had sponsored literacy classes for all women.
Almost two-thirds of the students at Kabul University werewomen now, Babi said, women who were studying law,medicine, engineering.
Women have always had it hard in this country, Laila, butthey’re probably more free now, under the communists, andhave more rights than they’ve ever had before,Babi said, alwayslowering 佛山桑拿会所600全套 his voice, aware of how intolerant Mammy was ofeven remotely positive talk of the communists.But it’s true, Babisaid,it’sagood time to be a woman in Afghanistan. And you cantake advantage of that, Laila Of course, women’s freedom -here, he shook his head ruefully-is also one of the reasonspeople out there took up arms in the first place.
By “out there,” he didn’t mean Kabul, which had always beenrelatively liberal and progressive. Here in Kabul, women taughtat the university, ran schools, held office in the government-No, Babi meant the tribal areas, especially the Pashtun regionsin the south or in the east near the Pakistani border, wherewomen were rarely seen on the streets and only then in burqaand accompanied by men. He meant those regions where menwho lived by ancient tribal laws had rebelled against thecommunists 佛山桑拿红场 and their decrees to liberate women, to abolishforced marriage, to raise the minimum marriage age to sixteenfor girls. There, men saw it as an insult to their centuries-oldtradition, Babi said, to be told by the government-and a godlessone at that-that their daughters had to leave home, attendschool, and work alongside men.
God forbid that should happen!Babi liked to say sarcastically.
Then he would sigh, and say,Laila, my love, the only enemy anAfghan cannot defeat is himselfBabi took his seat at the table, dipped bread into his bowlofaush.
Laila decided that she would tell him about what Tariq haddone to Khadim, over the meal, before they started in onfractions. But she never got the chance. Because, right then,there was a knock at the door, and, on the other side of thedoor, a stranger with news.
Chapter 19.
I need to speak to your parents,dokhiarjan” he said whenLaila opened the door. He was a stocky man, with a sharp,weather-roughened face. He wore a potato-colored coat, and abrown woolpakol on his head”Can I tell them who’s here?”Then Babi’s hand was on Laila’s shoulder, and he gentlypulled her from the door.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, Laila. Go on.”As she moved toward the steps, Laila heard the visitor say toBabi that he had news from Panjshir. Mammy was in theroom now too. She had one hand clamped over her mouth,and her eyes were skipping from Babi to the man in thepakolLaila peeked from the top of the stairs. She watched thestranger sit down with her parents. He leaned toward them.
Said a few muted words. Then Babi’s face was white, andgetting whiter, and he was looking at his hands, and Mammywas screaming, screaming, and tearing at her hair.
* * *The next morning, the day ofthefaiiha, a flock of neighborhoodwomen descended on the house and took charge ofpreparations for thekhatm dinner that would take place afterthe funeral Mammy sat on the couch the whole morning, herfingers working a handkerchief, her face bloated. She wastended to by a pair of sniffling women who took turns pattingMammy’s hand gingerly, like she was the rarest and mostfragile doll in the world. Mammy did not seem aware of theirpresence.
Laila kneeled before her mother and took her hands.
“Mammy.”Mammy’s eyes drifted down. She blinked.
“We’ll take care of her, Laila jan,” one of the women saidwith an air of self-importance. Laila had been to funerals beforewhere she had seen women like this, women who relished allthings that had to do with death, official consolers who let noone trespass on their self-appointed duties.
“It’s under control. You go on now, girl, and do somethingelse. Leave your mother be.”Shooed away, Laila felt useless. She bounced from one roomto the next. She puttered around the kitchen for a while. Anuncharacteristically subdued Hasina and her mother came. Sodid Giti and her mother. When Giti saw Laila, she hurriedover, threw her bony arms around her, and gave Laila a verylong, and surprisingly strong, embrace. When she pulled back,tears had pooled in her eyes. “I am so sorry, Laila,” she said.
Laila thanked her. The three girls sat outside in the yard untilone of the women assigned them the task of washing glassesand stacking plates on the table.
Babi too kept walking in and out of the house aimlessly,looking, it seemed, for something to do.
“Keep him away from me.” That was the only time Mammysaid anything all morning.
Babi ended up sitting alone on a folding chair in the hallway,looking desolate and small Then one of the women told him hewas in the way there. He apologized and disappeared into hisstudy.
* * *That apternoon, the men went to a hall in Karteh-Seh thatBabi had rented for thefatiha. The women came to the house.
Laila took her spot beside Mammy, next to the living-roomentrance where it was customary for the family of the deceasedto sit. Mourners removed their shoes at the door, nodded atacquaintances as they crossed the room, and sat on foldingchairs arranged along the walls. Laila saw Wajma, the elderlymidwife who had delivered her. She saw Tariq’s mother too,wearing a black scarf over the wig. She gave Laila a nod anda slow, sad, close-lipped smile.
From a cassette player, a man’s nasal voice chanted versesfrom the Koran. In between, the women sighed and shiftedand sniffled. There were muted coughs, murmurs, and,periodically, someone let out a theatrical, sorrow-drenched sob.


Although it was never established that Saunders had had hishand improperly in the Piggly Wiggly corporate till during hiscornering operation, his first business move after the collapse ofhis attempt to unload stock suggested that he had at least hadgood reason to refuse a spot audit of the company’s books. Inspite of futile grunts of protest from the watchdog committee,he began selling not Piggly Wiggly stock but Piggly Wigglystores—partly liquidating the company, that is—and no oneknew where he would stop. The Chicago stores went first, andthose in Denver and Kansas City soon followed. His announcedintention was to build up the company’s treasury so that itcould buy the stock that the public had spurned, but there wassome suspicion that the treasury desperately needed atransfusion just then—and not of Piggly Wiggly stock, either.
“I’ve got Wall Street and the whole gang licked,” Saundersreported cheerfully in June. But in mid-August, with theSeptember 1st deadline for repayment of two and a half milliondollars on his loan staring him in the face and with nothinglike that amount of cash either on hand or in prospect, heresigned as president of Piggly Wiggly Stores, Inc., and turnedover his assets—his stock in the company, his Pink Palace, andall the rest of his property—to his creditors.
It remained only for the formal stamp of failure to be put onSaunders personally and on Piggly Wiggly under hismanagement. On August 22nd, the New York auction firm ofAdrian H. Muller & Son, which dealt in so manynext-to-worthless stocks that its salesroom was often called “thesecurities graveyard,” knocked down fifteen hundred shares ofPiggly Wiggly at a dollar a share—the traditional price forsecurities that have been run into the ground—and thefollowing spring Saunders went through formal bankruptcyproceedings. But these were anticlimaxes. The real low point ofSaunders’ career was probably the day he was forced out ofhis company’s presidency, and it was then that, in the opinionof many of his admirers, he achieved his rhetorical peak. Whenhe emerged, harassed but still defiant, from a directors’
conference and announced his resignation to reporters, a hushfell. Then Saunders added hoarsely, “They have the body ofPiggly Wiggly, but they cannot have the soul.”
IF by the soul of Piggly Wiggly Saunders meant himself, then itdid remain free—free to go marching on in its own erratic way.
He never ventured to play another game of Corner, but hisspirit was far from broken. Although officially bankrupt, hemanaged to find people of truly rocklike faith who were stillwilling to finance him, and they enabled him to live on a scaleonly slightly less grand than in the past; reduced to playing golfat the Memphis Country Club rather than on his own privatecourse, he handed out caddy tips that the club governorsconsidered as corrupting as ever. To be sure, he no longerowned the Pink Palace, but this was about the only evidencethat served to remind his fellow townsmen of his misfortunes.
Eventually, the unfinished pleasure dome came into the handsof the city of Memphis, which appropriated $150,000 to finishit and turn it into a museum of natural history and industrialarts. As such, it continues to sustain the Saunders legend inMemphis.
After his downfall, Saunders spent the better part of threeyears in seeking redress of the wrongs that he felt he hadsuffered in the Piggly Wiggly fight, and in foiling the efforts ofhis enemies and creditors to make things still more unpleasantfor him. For a while, he kept threatening to sue the StockExchange for conspiracy and breach of contract, but a test suit,brought by some small Piggly Wiggly stockholders, failed, andhe dropped the idea. Then, in January, 1926, he learned that afederal indictment was about to be brought against him forusing the mails to defraud in his mail-order campaign to sellhis Piggly Wiggly stock. He believed, incorrectly, that thegovernment had been egged on to bring the indictment by anold associate of his—John C. Burch, of Memphis, who hadbecome secretary-treasurer of Piggly Wiggly after the shakeup.
His patience once more exhausted, Saunders went around toPiggly Wiggly headquarters and confronted Burch. Thisconference proved far more satisfactory to Saunders than hisboard-room scuffle on the day the Memphis civic stock-sellingdrive failed. Burch, according to Saunders, “undertook in astammering way to deny” the accusation, whereupon Saundersdelivered a right to the jaw, knocking off Burch’s glasses butnot doing much other damage. Burch afterward belittled theblow as “glancing,” and added an alibi that sounded like that ofany outpointed pugilist: “The assault upon me was made sosuddenly that I did not have time or opportunity to strike Mr.
Saunders.” Burch refused to press charges.
About a month later, the mail-fraud indictment was broughtagainst Saunders, but by that time, satisfied that Burch wasinnocent of any dirty work, he was his amiable old self again.
“I have only one thing 佛山夜网狼女 to regret in this new affair,” heannounced pleasantly, “and that is my fistic encounter withJohn C. Burch.” The new affair didn’t last long; in April theindictment was quashed by the Memphis District Court, andSaunders and Piggly Wiggly were finally quits. By then, thecompany was well on its way back up, and, with a greatlychanged corporate structure, it flourished on into the nineteensixties; housewives continued to ramble down the aisles ofhundreds of Piggly Wiggly stores, now operated under afranchise agreement with the Piggly Wiggly Corporation, ofJacksonville, Florida.
Saunders, too, was well on his way back up. In 1928, hestarted a new grocery chain, which he—but hardly anyoneelse—called the Clarence Saunders, Sole Owner of My Name,Stores, Inc. Its outlets soon came to be known as Sole Ownerstores, which was precisely what they weren’t, for withoutSaunders’ faithful 佛山桑拿论坛的qq群 backers they would have existed only in hismind. Saunders’ choice of a corporate title, however, was notdesigned to mislead the public; rather, it was his ironic way ofreminding the world that, after the skinning Wall Street hadgiven him, his name was about the only thing he still had aclear title to. How many Sole Owner customers—or governorsof the Stock Exchange, for that matter—got the point isquestionable. In any case, the new stores caught on so rapidlyand did so well that Saunders leaped back up from bankruptcyto riches, and bought a million-dollar estate just outsideMemphis. He also organized and underwrote a professionalfootball team called the Sole Owner Tigers—an investment thatpaid off handsomely on the fall afternoons when he could hearcries of “Rah! Rah! Rah! Sole Owner! Sole Owner! SoleOwner!” ringing through the Memphis Stadium.
FOR the second time, Saunders’ 佛山桑拿qq glory was fleeting. The veryfirst wave of the depression hit Sole Owner Stores such acrushing blow that in 1930 they went bankrupt, and he wasbroke again. But again he pulled himself together and survivedthe debacle. Finding backers, he planned a new chain ofgrocery stores, and thought up a name for it that was moreoutlandish, if possible, than either of its predecessors—Keedoozle.
He never made another killing, however, or bought anothermillion-dollar estate, though it was always clear that he expectedto. His hopes were pinned on the Keedoozle, an electricallyoperated grocery store, and he spent the better part of the lasttwenty years of his life trying to perfect it. In a Keedoozlestore, the merchandise was displayed behind glass panels, eachwith a slot beside it, like the food in an Automat. There thesimilarity ended, for, instead of inserting coins in the slot toopen a panel and lift out a purchase, Keedoozle 佛山桑拿微信 customersinserted a key that they were given on entering the store.
Moreover, Saunders’ thinking had advanced far beyond theelementary stage of having the key open the panel; each timea Keedoozle key was inserted in a slot, the identity of the itemselected was inscribed in code on a segment of recording tapeembedded in the key itself, and simultaneously the item wasautomatically transferred to a conveyor belt that carried it to anexit gate at the front of the store. When a customer hadfinished his shopping, he would present his key to an attendantat the gate, who would decipher the tape and add up the bill.
As soon as this was paid, the purchases would be catapultedinto the customer’s arms, all bagged and wrapped, by a deviceat the end of the conveyor belt.
A couple of pilot Keedoozle stores were tried out—one inMemphis and the other in Chicago—but it was found that themachinery was too complex and expensive to compete withsupermarket pushcarts. Undeterred, Saunders set to work onan even more intricate mechanism—the Foodelectric, 佛山夜生活最热闹的地方 whichwould do everything the Keedoozle could do and add up thebill as well. It will never corner the retail-store-equipmentmarket, though, because it was still unfinished when Saundersdied, in October, 1953, five years too soon for him to see theBruce “corner”, which, in any case, he would have been fullyentitled to scoff at as a mere squabble among ribbon clerks.
Chapter 9 A Second 佛山南海桑拿休闲会所 Sort of Life
DURING Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Presidency, when Wall Streetand Washington tended to be on cat-and-dog terms, perhapsno New Dealer other than That Man himself better typified theNew Deal in the eyes of Wall Street than David Eli Lilienthal.
The explanation of this estimate of him in southern Manhattanlay not in any specific anti-Wall Street acts ofLilienthal’s—indeed, the scattering of financiers, among themWendell L. Willkie, who had personal dealings with himgenerally found him to be a reasonable sort of fellow—but inwhat he had come to symbolize through his association withthe Tennessee Valley Authority, which, as a government-ownedelectric-power concern far larger than any private powercorporation in the country, embodied Wall Street’s notion ofgalloping Socialism. 南海盐步桑拿网 Because Lilienthal was a conspicuous andvigorous member of the T.V.A.’s three-man board of directorsfrom 1933 until 1941, and was its chairman from 1941 until1946, the business community of that period, in his phrase,thought he “wore horns.” In 1946, he became the firstchairman of the United States Atomic Energy Commission, andwhen he gave up that position, in February, 1950, at the ageof fifty, the Times said in a news story that he had been“perhaps the most controversial figure in Washington since theend of the war.”
What has Lilienthal been up to in the years since he left thegovernment? As a matter of public record, he has been up toa number of things, all of them, surprisingly, centered on WallStreet or on private 佛山夜生活888论坛 business, or both. For one thing, Lilienthalis listed in any number of business compendiums as theco-founder and the chairman of the board of the Development& Resources Corporation. Several years ago, I phoned D. &R.’s offices, then at 50 Broadway, New York City, anddiscovered it to be a private firm—Wall Street-backed as well as,give or take a block, Wall Street-based—that providesmanagerial, technical, business, and planning services toward thedevelopment of natural resources abroad. That is to say, D. &R.—whose other co-founder, the late Gordon R. Clapp, wasLilienthal’s successor as T.V.A. chairman—is in the business ofhelping governments set up programs more or less similar tothe T.V.A. Since its formation, in 1955, I learned, D. & R. had,at moderate but gratifying profit to itself, planned and managedthe beginnings of a vast scheme for the reclamation ofKhuzistan, an arid and poverty-stricken, though oil-rich, regionof western Iran; advised the government of Italy on thedevelopment of its backward southern provinces; helped theRepublic of Colombia set up a T.V.A.-like authority for itspotentially fertile but flood-plagued Cauca Valley; and offeredadvice to Ghana on water supply, to the Ivory Coast onmineral development, and to Puerto Rico on electric power andatomic energy.
For another thing—and when I found out about this, it struckme as considerably more astonishing, on form, than D. &R.—Lilienthal has made an authentic fortune as a corporateofficer and entrepreneur. In a proxy statement of the Minerals& Chemicals Corporation of America, dated June 24, 1960, thatfell into my hands, I found Lilienthal listed as a director of thefirm and the holder of 41,366 shares of its common stock.
These shares at the time of my investigation were being tradedon the New York Stock Exchange at something overtwenty-five dollars each, and simple multiplication revealed thatthey represented a thumping sum by most men’s standards,certainly including those of a man who had spent most of hislife on government wages, without the help of private resources.
And, for still another thing, in 1953 Harper & Brothersbrought out Lilienthal’s third book, “Big Business: A New Era.”
(His previous books were “T.V.A.: Democracy on the March”
and “This I Do Believe,” which appeared in 1944 and 1949,respectively.) In “Big Business,” Lilienthal argues that not onlythe productive and distributive superiority of the United Statesbut also its national security depends on industrial bigness; thatwe now have adequate public safeguards against abuses of bigbusiness, or know well enough how to fashion them asrequired; that big business does not tend to destroy smallbusiness, as is often supposed, but, rather, tends to promote it;and, finally, that a big-business society does not suppressindividualism, as most intellectuals believe, but actually tends toencourage it by reducing poverty, disease, and physicalinsecurity and increasing the opportunities for leisure and travel.
Fighting words, in short, from an old New Dealer.
Lilienthal is a man whose government career I, as anewspaper reader, had followed fairly closely. My interest inhim as

a government official had reached its peak in February,1947, when, in answer to a fierce attack on him by his oldenemy Senator Kenneth D. McKellar, of Tennessee, duringCongressional hearings on his fitness for the A.E.C. job, heuttered a spontaneous statement of personal democratic faiththat for many people still ranks as one of the most stirringattacks on what later came to be known as McCarthyism.
(“One of the tenets of democracy that grow out of this centralcore of a belief that the individual comes first, that all men arethe children of God and their personalities are thereforesacred,” Lilienthal said, among other things, “is a deep belief incivil liberties and their protection; and a repugnance to anyonewho would steal from a human being that which is mostprecious to him, his good name, by imputing things to him, byinnuendo, or by insinuation.”) The fragments of information Ipicked up about his new, private career left me confused.
Wondering how Wall Street and business life had affectedLilienthal, and vice versa, in their belated rapprochement, I gotin touch with him, and a day or so later, at his invitation,drove out to New Jersey to spend the afternoon with him.
LILIENTHAL and his wife, Helen Lamb Lilienthal, lived on BattleRoad, in Princeton, where they had settled in 1957, after sixyears in New York City, at first in a house on Beekman Placeand later in an apartment on Sutton Place. The Princetonhouse, which stands in a plot of less than an acre, is ofGeorgian brick with green shutters. Surrounded by otherhouses of its kind, the place is capacious yet anything butpretentious. Lilienthal, wearing gray slacks and a plaid sportsshirt, met me at the front door. At just past sixty, he was atall, trim man with a receding hairline, a slightly hawklikeprofile, and candid, piercing eyes. He led me into the livingroom, where he introduced Mrs. Lilienthal and then pointed outa couple of household treasures—a large Oriental rug in frontof the fireplace, which he said was a gift from the Shah ofIran, and, hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace, a Chinesescroll of the late nineteenth century showing four rather roguishmen, who, he told me, have a special meaning for him, sincethey are upper-middle-rank civil servants. Pointing to aparticularly enigmatic-looking fellow, he added, with a smile, thathe always thought of that one as his Oriental counterpart.
Mrs. Lilienthal went to get coffee, and while she was gone, Iasked Lilienthal to tell me something of his post-governmentlife, starting at the beginning. “All right,” he said. “Thebeginning: I left the A.E.C. for a number of reasons. In thatkind of work, I feel, a fellow is highly expendable. If you stayedtoo long, you might find yourself placating industry or themilitary, or both—building up what would amount to an atomicpork barrel. Another thing—I wanted to be allowed to speakmy mind more freely than I could as a government official. Ifelt I’d served my term. So I turned in my resignation inNovember, 1949, and it went into effect three months later. Asfor the timing, I resigned then because, for once, I wasn’tunder fire. Originally, I’d planned to do it earlier in 1949, butthen came the last Congressional attack on me—the timeHickenlooper, of Iowa, accused me of ‘incrediblemismanagement.’” I noticed that Lilienthal did not smile inreferring to the Hickenlooper affair. “I entered private life withboth trepidation and relief,” he went on. “The trepidation wasabout my ability to make a living, and it was very real. Oh, I’dbeen a practicing lawyer as a young man, in Chicago, beforegoing into government work, and made quite a lot of money atit, too. But now I didn’t want to practice law. And I wasworried about what else I could do. I was so obsessed withthe subject that I harped on it all the time, and my wife andmy friends began to kid me. That Christmas of 1949, my wifegave me a beggar’s tin cup, and one of my friends gave me aguitar to go with it. The feeling of relief—well, that was amatter of personal privacy and freedom. As a private citizen, Iwouldn’t have to be trailed around by hordes of securityofficers as I had been at the A.E.C. I wouldn’t have to answerthe charges of Congressional committees. And, above all, I’d beable to talk freely to my wife again.”
Mrs. Lilienthal had returned with the coffee as her husbandwas talking, and now she sat down with us. She comes, Iknew, from a family of pioneers who, over several generations,moved westward from New England to Ohio to Indiana toOklahoma, where she was born. She seemed to me to look thepart—that of a woman of dignity, patience, practicality, andgentle strength. “I can tell you that my husband’s resignationwas a relief to me,” she said. “Before he went with the A.E.C.,we’d always talked over all aspects of his work. When he tookthat job, we agreed between us that although we’d indulge inthe discussion of personalities as freely as we pleased, he wouldnever tell me anything about the work of the A.E.C. that Icouldn’t read in the newspapers. It was a terrible constraint tobe under.”
Lilienthal nodded. “I’d come home at night with some frightfulexperience in me,” he said. “No one who so much as touchesthe atom is ever quite the same again. Perhaps I’d have beenin a series of conferences and listened to the kind of talk thatmany military and scientific men go in for—cities full of humanbeings referred to as ‘targets,’ and that sort of thing. I nevergot used to that impersonal jargon. I’d come home sick atheart. But I couldn’t talk about it to Helen. I wasn’t allowed toget it off my chest.”
“And now there wouldn’t be any more hearings,” Mrs.
Lilienthal said. “Those terrible hearings! I’ll never forget oneWashington cocktail party we went to, for our sins. Myhusband had been going through one of the endless series ofCongressional hearings. A woman in a funny hat came gushingup to him and said something like ‘Oh, Mr. Lilienthal, I was soanxious to come to your hearings, but I just couldn’t make it.
I’m so sorry. I just love hearings, don’t you?’”
Husband and wife looked at each other, and this timeLilienthal managed a grin.
LILIENTHAL seemed glad to get on to what happened next. Atabout the time his resignation became effective, he told me, hewas approached by various men from Harvard representing thefields of history, public administration, and law, who asked himto accept an appointment to the faculty. But he decided hedidn’t want to become a professor any more than he wantedto practice law. Within the next few weeks came offers fromnumerous law firms in New York and Washington, and fromsome industrial companies. Reassured by these that he was notgoing to need the tin cup and guitar after all, Lilienthal, aftermulling over the offers, finally turned them all down andsettled, in May, 1950, for a part-time job as a consultant to thecelebrated banking firm of Lazard Frères & Co., whose seniorpartner, André Meyer, he had met through Albert Lasker, amutual friend. Lazard gave him an office in its headquarters at44 Wall, but before he could do much consulting, he was offon a lecture tour across the United States, followed by a tripto Europe that summer, with his wife, on behalf of the lateCollier’s magazine. The trip did not result in any articles,though, and on returning home in the fall he found itnecessary to get back on a full-time income-producing basis;this he did by becoming a consultant to various othercompanies, among them the Carrier Corporation and the RadioCorporation of America. To Carrier he offered advice onmanagerial problems. For R.C.A., he worked on the question ofcolor television, ultimately advising his client to concentrate ontechnical research rather than on law-court squabbles overpatents; he also helped persuade the company to press itscomputer program and to stay out of the construction ofatomic reactors. Early in 1951, he took another trip abroad forCollier’s—to India, Pakistan, Thailand, and Japan. This tripproduced an article—published in Collier’s that August—in whichhe proposed a solution to the dispute between India andPakistan over Kashmir and the headwaters of the Indus River.
Lilienthal’s idea was that the tension between the two countriescould best be lessened by a co?perative program to improveliving conditions in the whole disputed area through economicdevelopment of the Indus Basin. Nine years later, largelythrough the financial backing and moral support of Eugene R.
Black and the World Bank, the Lilienthal plan was essentiallyadopted, and an Indus treaty signed between India andPakistan. But the immediate reaction to his article was generalindifference, and Lilienthal, temporarily stymied and considerablydisillusioned, once more settled down to the humbler problemsof private business.
At this point in Lilienthal’s narrative, the doorbell rang. Mrs.
Lilienthal went to answer it, and I could hear her talking tosomeone—a gardener, evidently—about the pruning of someroses. After listening restlessly for a minute or two, Lilienthalcalled to his wife, “Helen, please tell Domenic to prune thoseroses farther back than he did last year!” Mrs. Lilienthal wentoutside with Domenic, and Lilienthal remarked, “Domenic alwaysprunes too gently, to my way of thinking. It’s a case of ourbackgrounds—Italy versus the Middle West.” Then, resumingwhere he had left off, he said that his association with LazardFrères, and more particularly with Meyer, had led him into anassociation, first as a consultant and later as an executive, witha small company called the Minerals Separation North AmericanCorporation, in which Lazard Frères had a large interest. Itwas in this undertaking that, unexpectedly, he made his fortune.
The company was in trouble, and Meyer’s notion was thatLilienthal might be the man to do something about it.
Subsequently, in the course of a series of mergers, acquisitions,and other maneuvers, the company’s name was changed to,successively, the Attapulgus Minerals & Chemicals Corporation,the Minerals & Chemicals Corporation of America, and, in 1960,the Minerals & Chemicals Philipp Corporation; meanwhile, itsannual receipts rose from about seven hundred and fiftythousand dollars, for 1952, to something over two hundred andseventy-four million, for 1960. For Lilienthal, the acceptance ofMeyer’s commission to look into the company’s affairs was thebeginning of a four-year immersion in the day-to-day problemsof managing a business; the experience, he said decisively,turned out to be one of his life’s richest, and by no meansonly in the literal sense of that word.
I HAVE reconstructed the corporate facts behind Lilienthal’sexperience partly from what he told me in Princeton, partlyfrom a subsequent study of some of the company’s publisheddocuments, and partly from talks with other persons interestedin the firm. Minerals Separation North American, which wasfounded in 1916 as an offshoot of a British firm, was a patentcompany, deriving its chief income from royalties on patents forprocesses used in refining copper ore and the ores of othernonferrous minerals. Its activities were twofold—attempting todevelop new patents in its research laboratory, and offeringtechnical services to the mining and manufacturing companiesthat leased its old ones. By 1950, although it was still netting anice annual profit, it was in a bad way. Under the direction ofits long-time president, Dr. Seth Gregory—who was then overninety but still ruled the company with an iron hand,commuting daily between his midtown apartment hotel and hisoffice, at 11 Broadway, in a regally purple Rolls-Royce—it hadcut down its research activities to almost nothing and was livingon half a dozen old patents, all of which were scheduled to gointo the public domain in from five to eight years. In effect, itwas a still healthy company living under a death sentence.
Lazard Frères, as a large stockholder, was understandablyconcerned. Dr. Gregory was persuaded to retire on ahandsome pension, and in February, 1952, after working withMinerals Separation for some time as a consultant, Lilienthalwas installed as the company’s president and a member of itsboard of directors. His first task was to find a new source ofincome to replace the fast-expiring patents, and he and theother directors agreed that the way to accomplish this wasthrough a merger; it fell to Lilienthal to participate in arrangingone between Minerals Separation and another company inwhich Lazard Frères—along with the Wall Street firm of F.
Eberstadt & Co.—had large holdings: the Attapulgus ClayCompany, of Attapulgus, Georgia, which produced a very rarekind of clay that is useful in purifying petroleum products, andwhich manufactured various household products, among them afloor cleaner called Speedi-Dri.
As a marriage broker between Minerals Separation andAttapulgus, Lilienthal had the touchy job of persuading theexecutives of the Southern company that they were not beingused as pawns by a bunch of rapacious Wall Street bankers.
Being an agent of the bankers was an unaccustomed role forLilienthal, but he evidently carried it off with aplomb, despitethe fact that his presence complicated the emotional problemsstill further by introducing into the situation a whiff of gallopingSocialism. “Dave was very effective in building up the Attapulguspeople’s morale and confidence,” another Wall Streeter has toldme. “He reconciled them to the merger, and showed them itsadvantages for them.” Lilienthal himself told me, “I felt at homein the administrative and technical parts of the job, but thefinancial part had to be done by the people from Lazard andEberstadt. Every time they began talking about spinoffs andexchanges of shares, I was lost. I didn’t even know what aspinoff was.” (As Lilienthal knows now, it is, not to get tootechnical about it, a division of a company into two or morecompanies—the opposite of a merger.) The merger took placein December, 1952, and neither the Attapulgus people nor theMinerals Separation people had any reason to regret it, becauseboth the profits and the stock price of the newly formedcompany—the Attapulgus Minerals & ChemicalsCorporation—soon began to rise. At the time of the merger,Lilienthal was made chairman of the board of directors, at anannual salary of eighteen thousand dollars. Over the next threeyears, while serving first in this position and later as chairmanof the executive committee, he had a large part not only in theconduct of the company’s routine affairs but also in its furthergrowth through a series of new mergers—one in 1954, withEdgar Brothers, a leading producer of kaolin for paper coating,and two in 1955, with a pair of limestone concerns in Ohioand Virginia. The mergers and the increased efficiency thatwent with them were not long in paying off; between 1952 and1955 the company’s net profit per share more than quintupled.
The mechanics of Lilienthal’s own rise from the comparativerags of a public servant to the riches of a successfulentrepreneur are baldly outlined in the company’s proxystatements for its annual and special stockholders’ meetings.
(There are few public documents more indiscreet than proxystatements, in which the precise private stockholdings ofdirectors must be listed.) In November, 1952, MineralsSeparation North American granted Lilienthal, as a supplementto his annual salary, a stock option.* His option entitled him tobuy as many as fifty thousand shares of the firm’s stock fromits treasury at $4.87? per share, then the going rate, any timebefore the end of 1955, and in exchange he signed a contractagreeing to serve the company as an active executivethroughout 1953, 1954, and 1955. The potential financialadvantage to him, of course, as to all other recipients of stockoptions, lay in the fact that if the price of the stock rosesubstantially, he could buy shares at the option price and thushave a holding that would immediately be worth much morethan he paid for it. Furthermore, and more important, if heshould later decide to sell his shares, the proceeds would be acapital gain, taxable at a maximum rate of 25%. Of course, ifthe stock failed to go up, the option would be worthless. But,like so many stocks of the mid-fifties, Lilienthal’s did go up,fantastically. By the end of 1954, according to the proxystatements, Lilienthal had exercised his option to the extent ofbuying twelve thousand seven hundred and fifty shares, whichwere then worth not $4.87? each but about $20. InFebruary, 1955, he sold off four thousand shares at $22.75each, bringing in ninety-one thousand dollars. This sum, lesscapital-gains tax, was then applied against further purchasesunder the option, and in August, 1955, the proxy statementsshow, Lilienthal raised his holdings to almost forty thousandshares, or close to the number he held at the time of my visitto him. By that time, the stock, which had at first been soldover the counter, not only had achieved a listing on the NewYork Stock Exchange but had become one of the Exchange’shighflying speculative favorites; its price had skyrocketed toabout forty dollars a share, and Lilienthal, obviously, was solidlyin the millionaire class. Moreover, the company was now on asound long-term basis, paying an annual cash dividend of fiftycents a share, and the Lilienthal family’s financial worries werepermanently over.
Fiscally speaking, Lilienthal told me, his symbolic moment oftriumph was the day, in June of 1955, when the shares ofMinerals & Chemicals graduated to a listing on the New YorkStock Exchange. In accordance with custom, Lilienthal, as a topofficer, was invited onto the floor to shake hands with thepresident of the Exchange and be shown around generally. “Iwent through it in a daze,” Lilienthal told me. “Until then, I’dnever been inside any stock exchange in my life. It was allmysterious and fascinating. No zoo could have seemed morestrange to me.” How the Stock Exchange felt at this stageabout having the former wearer of horns on its floor is notrecorded.
IN telling me about his experience with the company, Lilienthalhad spoken with zest and had made the whole thing soundmysterious and fascinating. I asked him what, apart from theobvious financial inducement, had led him to devote himself tothe affairs of a small firm, and how it had felt for the formerboss of T.V.A. and A.E.C. to be, in effect, peddling Attapulgite,kaolin, limestone, and Speedi-Dri. Lilienthal leaned back in hischair and stared at the ceiling. “I wanted an entrepreneurialexperience,” he said. “I found a great appeal in the idea oftaking a small and quite crippled company and trying to makesomething of it. Building. That kind of building, I thought, is thecentral thing in American free enterprise, and something I’dmissed in all my government work. I wanted to try my handat it. Now, about how it felt. Well, it felt plenty exciting. It wasfull of intellectual stimulation, and a lot of my old ideaschanged. I conceived a great new respect for financiers—menlike André Meyer. There’s a correctness about them, a certainhigh sense of honor, that I’d never had any conception of. Ifound that business life is full of creative, original minds—alongwith the usual number of second-guessers, of course.
Furthermore, I found it seductive. In fact, I was in danger ofbecoming a slave. Business has its man-eating side, and part ofthe man-eating side is that it’s so absorbing. I found that thethings you read—for instance, that acquiring money for its ownsake can become an addiction if you’re not careful—are literallytrue. Certain good friends helped keep me on the track—menlike Ferdinand Eberstadt, who became my fellow-director afterthe Attapulgus merger, and Nathan Greene, special counsel toLazard Frères, who was on the board for a while. Greene wasa kind of business father confessor to me. I remember hissaying, ‘You think you’ll make your pile and then beindependent. My friend, in Wall Street you don’t just win yourindependence at one stroke. To paraphrase Thomas Jefferson,you have to win your independence over again every day.’ Ifound that he was right about that. Oh, I had my problems. Iquestioned myself at every step. It was exhausting. You see, forso long I’d been associated with two pretty far-reachingthings—institutions. I had a feeling of identity with them; in thatkind of work you are able to lose your sense of self. Now,with myself to worry about—my personal standards as well asmy financial future—I found myself wondering all the timewhether I was making the right move. But that part’s all in myjournal, and you can read it there, if you like.” *I said I certainly would like to read it, and Lilienthal led meto his study, in the basement. It proved to be a good-sizedroom whose windows opened on window wells into whichstrands of ivy were trailing; light came in from outside, andeven a little slanting sunshine, but the tops of the window wellswere too high to permit a view of the garden or theneighborhood. Lilienthal remarked, “My neighbor RobertOppenheimer complained about the enclosed feeling when hefirst saw this room. I told him that was just the feeling Iwanted!” Then he showed me a filing cabinet, standing in acorner; it contained the journal, in rows and rows of loose-leafnotebooks, the earliest of them dating back to its author’shigh-school days. Having invited me to make myself at home,Lilienthal left me alone in his study and went back upstairs.
Taking him at his word, I went for a turn or two around theroom, looking at the pictures on the walls and finding aboutwhat might have been expected: inscribed photographs fromFranklin D. Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, Senator George Norris,Louis Brandeis; pictures of Lilienthal with Roosevelt, with Willkie,with Fiorello LaGuardia, with Nelson Rockefeller, with Nehru inIndia; a night view of the Fontana Dam, in the TennesseeValley, being built under a blaze of electricity supplied by T.V.A.
power plants. A man’s study reflects himself as he wishes to beseen publicly, but his journal, if he is honest, reflects somethingelse. I had not browsed long in Lilienthal’s journal before Irealized that it was an extraordinary document—not merely ahistorical source of unusual interest but a searching record of apublic man’s thoughts and emotions. I leafed through the yearsof his association with Minerals & Chemicals, and, scatteredamid much about family, Democratic politics, friends, tripsabroad, reflections on national policies, and hopes and fears forthe republic, I came upon the following entries having to dowith business and life in New York:
May 24, 1951: Looks as if I am in the minerals business. In a small way,that could become a big way. [He goes on to explain that he has justhad his first interview with Dr. Gregory, and is apparently acceptable to theold man as the new president of the company.]
May 31, 1951: [Starting in business] is like learning to walk after a longillness.… At first you have to think: move the right foot, move the leftfoot, etc. Then you are walking without thinking, and then walking issomething one does with unconsciousness and utter confidence. This latterstate, as to business, has yet to come, but I had the first touch of ittoday.
July 22, 1951: I recall Wendell Willkie saying to me years ago, “Living inNew York is a great experience. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. It is themost exciting, stimulating, satisfying spot in the world,” etc. I think this wasapropos of some remark I had made on a business visit to NewYork—that I was certainly glad I didn’t have to live in that madhouse ofnoise and dirt. [Last] Thursday was a day in which I shared some ofWillkie’s feeling.… There was a grandeur about the place, and adventure, asense of being in the center of a great achievement, New York City in thefifties.
October 28, 1951: What I am reaching for, perhaps, is to have my cakeand eat it, too, but in a way this is not wholly senseless nor futile. Thatis, I can have enough actual contact with the affairs of business to keep asense of reality, or develop one. How otherwise can I explain the pleasureI get in visiting a copper mine or talking to operators of an electricfurnace, or a coal-research project, or watching how André Meyer works.…But along with that I want to be free enough to think about what thesethings mean, free enough to read outside the immediate field of interest.
This requires keeping out of status (the absence of which I know makesme vaguely unhappy).
December 8, 1952: What is it that investment bankers do for theirmoney? Well, I have certainly had my eyes opened, as to the amount oftoil, sweat, frustrations, problems—yes, and tears—that has to be gonethrough.… If everyone who has something to sell in the market had to beas meticulous and detailed in his statements about what he is selling asthose who offer stock in the market are now, under the Truth inSecurities law, darn little would be sold, in time to be useful, at least.
December 20, 1952: My purpose in this Attapulgus venture is to make agood deal of money in a short time, in a way (i.e., old man capital gains)that enables me to keep three-fourths of it, instead of paying 80% ormore in income taxes.… But there is another purpose: to have had theexperience of business.… The real reason, or the chief reason, is a feelingthat my life wouldn’t be complete, living in a business period—that is, atime dominated by the business of business—unless I had been active inthat area. What I wanted was to be an observer of this fascinating activitythat so colors and affects the world’s life, not … an observer from without(as a writer, teacher) but from the arena itself. I still have this feeling, andwhen I get low and glad to chuck the whole thing (as I have from timeto time), the sustaining part is that even the bumps and sore spots areexperiences, actual experiences within the business world.…Then, too, [I wanted to be able to make] a comparison of the managersof business, the spirit, the tensions, the motivations, etc., with those ofgovernment (something I keep doing anyway)—and that needs doing tounderstand either government or business. This requires actual validexperience in the business world somewhat comparable to my long hiringout in government matters.
I don’t kid myself that I will ever be accepted as a businessman, notafter those long years when I wore horns, for all of them outside theTennessee Valley at least. And I feel less defensive—usually shown by abelligerence—on this score than I did when I rarely saw a tycoon or aWall Streeter, whereas now I live with them.…January 18, 1953: I am now definitely committed [to Minerals &Chemicals] for not less than three more years … and morally committed tosee the thing through. While I can’t conceive that this business will everseem enough, an end of itself, to make up a satisfactory life, yet thebusy-ness, the activity, the crises, the gambles, the management problems Imust face, the judgment about people, all combine to make something farfrom dull. Add to this the good chance of making a good deal of money.…My decision to try business—that seemed to so many people a bit ofromantic moonshine—makes more sense today than it did a year ago.
But there is something missing.…December 2, 1953: Crawford Greenewalt [president of du Pont] …introduced me in a speech (in Philadelphia).… He noted that I had enteredthe chemical business; bearing in mind that I had previously headed thebiggest things in America, bigger than [any] private corporations, he wasnaturally a little nervous about seeing me become a potential competitor. Itwas kidding, but it was good kidding. And it certainly gave little oleAttapulgus quite a notice.
June 30, 1954: I have found a new kind of satisfaction, and in a sense,fulfillment, in a business career. I really never felt that the “consultant”
thing was being a businessman, or engaging in the realities of a life ofbusiness. Too remote from the actual thinking process, the exercise ofjudgment and decision.… In this company, as we are evolving it, there areso many of the elements of fun.… The starting with almost nothing … thecompany depending on patents alone … acquisition, mergers, stock issues,proxy statements, the methods of financing internally and by bank loans …also the way stock prices are made, the silly and almost childlike basisupon which grown men decide that a stock should be bought, and atwhat price … the merger with Edgar, the great [subsequent] rise in theprice of their stock … the review of the price structure. The beginning ofbetter costs. The catalyst idea. The drive and energy and imagination: thenights and days (in the lab until 2 A.M. night after night) and finally thebeginning of a new business.… It is quite a story.
(Later I got a rather different perspective on Lilienthal’sreactions to the transition from government to business bytalking to the man he had described as his “business fatherconfessor,” Nathan Greene. “What happens to a man wholeaves top-level government work and comes to Wall Street asa consultant?” Greene asked me rhetorically. “Well, usually it’s abig letdown. In the government, Dave was used to a sense ofgreat authority and power—tremendous national andinternational responsibility. People wanted to be seen with him.
Foreign dignitaries sought him out. He had all sorts offacilities—rows of buttons on his desk. He pushed them, andlawyers, technicians, accountants appeared to do his bidding. Allright, now he comes to Wall Street. There’s a big welcomingreception, he meets all the partners of his new firm and theirwives, he’s given a nice office with a carpet. But there’s nothingon his desk—only one button, and all it summons is asecretary. He doesn’t have perquisites like limousines.
Furthermore, he really has no responsibility. He says to himself,‘I’m an idea man, I’ve got to have some ideas.’ He has some,but they’re not given much attention by the partners. So theoutward form of his new work is a letdown. The same with itscontent. In Washington, it had been development of naturalresources, atomic energy, or the like—world-shaking things. Nowit turns out to be some little business to make money. It allseems a bit petty.
“Then, there’s the matter of money itself. In the government,our hypothetical man didn’t need it so badly. He had all theseservices and the basic comforts supplied him at no personalcost, and besides he had a great sense of moral superiority.
He was able to sneer at people who were out making money.
He could think of somebody in his law-school class who wasmaking a pile in the Street, and say, ‘He’s sold out.’ Then ourman leaves government and goes to the Wall Street fleshpotshimself, and he says, ‘Boy, am I going to make these guys payfor my services!’ They do pay, too. He gets big fees forconsulting. Then he finds out about big income taxes, how hehas to pay most of his income to the government now insteadof getting his livelihood from it. The shoe is on the other foot.
He may—sometimes he does—begin to scream ‘Confiscation!,’
just like any old Wall Streeter.
“How did Dave handle these problems? Well, he had histroubles—after all, he was starting a second sort of life—but hehandled them just about as well as they can be handled. Hewas never bored, and he never screamed ‘Confiscation!’ Hehas a great capacity for sinking himself in something. Thesubject matter isn’t so important to him. It’s almost as if hewere able to think that what he’s doing is important, whether itis or not, simply because he’s doing it. His ability wasinvaluable to Minerals & Chemicals, and not just as anadministrator. Dave is a lawyer, after all; he knows more aboutcorporate finances than he likes to admit. He enjoys playingthe barefoot boy, but he’s hardly that. Dave is an almostperfect example of somebody who kept his independence whilegetting rich on Wall Street.”)One way and another, then—reading through these ambivalentprotestations in the journal, and later hearing Greene—I seemedto detect under the exuberance and the absorption a naggingsense of dissatisfaction, almost of compromise. For Lilienthal, theobviously genuine thrill of having a new kind of experience, andan almost unimaginably profitable one, had been, I sensed, arose with a worm in it. I went back up to the living room.
There I found Lilienthal fiat on his back on the Shah’s rugunderneath a pile of pre-school-age children. At least, it lookedat first glance like a pile; on closer inspection I found that itconsisted of just two boys. Mrs. Lilienthal, who had returnedfrom the garden, introduced them as Allen and DanielBromberger, sons of the Lilienthals’ daughter, Nancy, andSylvain Bromberger, adding that the Brombergers were livingnearby, since Sylvain was teaching philosophy at the university.


Reproof from a supposed inferior is never particularly welcome. Jack made a clutch at his sister’s doll, landed it by one leg, and proceeded to dangle it head downward before the fire.


The boy chuckled like a tyrant as Gwen, peevish 佛山桑拿哪里有 and hypersensitive, 南海桑拿按摩论坛 burst into a flood of tears. Catherine, who had turned back into the kitchen, reappeared in time to rescue the doll from being melted.

“Jack, I am ashamed of you.”

She took the doll from him, and went to the window to comfort Gwen. John Murchison, conscious of humiliation, adopted an attitude of aggressive scorn.

“Silly old doll.”

“Jack, go up to the nursery.”


His courage melted rather abruptly, however, before the look upon his mother’s face. He retreated at his leisure, climbed the stairs slowly, whistling 佛山桑拿飞机论坛网 as he went, and kicking the banisters with the toes of his boots.

A grieved voice reached Catherine from the half-dark landing.



“Why can’t we go to the pantomime?”

“Go into the nursery, dear, and don’t grumble.”

“Bert Smith’s going. I call it a beastly shame.”

“Jack, if you say another 佛山南海桑拿休闲会所 word I shall send you to bed.”佛山桑拿按摩论坛网

Five minutes had hardly elapsed before Catherine heard her husband’s footsteps on the path, and the rattle of his latch-key in the lock. In the front room he found poor Gwen still sobbing spasmodically in her mother’s arms.

The sight damped the glow on Murchison’s face.

“Hallo, what’s the matter?” and the anxious lines came back in his forehead.

“Nothing, dear, nothing.”

“Why, little one, what is it?”

Catherine surrendered her place to him. Murchison’s arms went round the child. Gwen, though struggling to be brave, broke out again into uncontrollable and helpless weeping.

“I—I’s tired, father.”

“Tired! there, there! You must not cry like this,” and the big man’s face was a study in troubled


“What has upset her, Kate?”

He looked at his wife.

“Jack has been teasing her.”

“The young 佛山桑拿洗浴中心 scoundrel.”

“The boy’s in one of his trying moods.” And she could find no more to say against her son.

Gwen grew comforted 佛山桑拿那里好in her father’s arms. Yet to this man who had learned to watch the faces of the sick, there was something ominous in the child’s half-fretful eyes, in the way she flushed, and in the hurrying of her heart. He felt her hands; they were hot and feverish.

Husband and wife looked at each other.

“Tired, little one, eh?”

“Yes, very tired.”

She lay with her head on her father’s shoulder, looking with large, languid eyes up into his face.

“By-bye time for little girls who are going to see ‘Puss in Boots’ to-morrow.”

Gwen’s eyes brightened a little; her hands held the lappets of her

father’s coat-collar.


Murchison felt in his pocket and drew out the envelope with the yellow tickets.

“So you would like 佛山桑拿飞机网 to see ‘Puss in Boots’?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

佛山桑拿哪里有 佛山桑拿那里好

“Why, whom on earth have you seen?” questioned Miss Van Tuyl. There was just the slightest suspicion of a tremour in her voice, and her eyes were apprehensive. The speaker, however, detected neither. He had, in fact, quite forgotten, if he had ever heard, that there had been an attachment between the man he had that day met on the69 terrasse of the Café de la Paix and the woman who sat at his side.

“Carey Grey, the absconder!”

The words struck her as a blow from a clenched fist. Her cheeks, which had been a trifle flushed, went suddenly white as the damask napery. Her jewelled fingers clutched the edge 佛山桑拿按摩技师网 of the table. She felt that she was falling backward, that everything was receding, and she caught the table edge to save herself.

“Carey Grey!” repeated Nicholas Van Tuyl, in amazement. “Surely you must have been mistaken!”

“Not a bit of it. I talked to him.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Edson and then apologised.

“You’d never know him,” Frothingham went on, after emptying his champagne glass; “he has bleached his hair, and he is wearing a bleached beard, too.”

“Oh, horrible!” This from Mrs. Dickie.

“Told a most remarkable story

about not knowing anything for five months; brain fever or something. I must admit he was very convincing.”

70 “I wonder if that is the man I knew?” Lady Constance broke in. “He came over with an American polo team; he was a great friend of Lord Stanniscourt’s.”

“Same man,” said Van Tuyl, with a glint 佛山夜生活 of admiration in his tone. “He was a capital polo player, and—yes, by Jove, a rattling good fellow in every way. It was a surprise to everyone when he went wrong.” He had been watching his daughter with no little anxiety. Now her colour was returning and her hands were in her lap.

“Yes, to everyone,” Mrs. Dickie volunteered, “the whole thing was simply astounding. He had a good business, hadn’t he? What do you suppose he wanted with that money?”

“Nobody was ever able to conjecture,” answered Frothingham, as he helped himself

to some caneton.

“And he is really here in Paris?” queried Edson, twirling the long stem of a fragile wineglass between thumb and finger. “Where is he stopping?”

Hope Van Tuyl unconsciously leaned forward to catch the address.

71 “I don’t know. I never thought to inquire.”

From the violins of the 佛山桑拿那里的技师好 tziganes glided the languorous strains of the “Valse Bleue,” and instantly all other sounds dwindled. Even the clatter of knives and forks seemed gradually to cease and the babble of tongues was vague and far away. Into the girl’s dark eyes came an expression of melancholy, and the corners of her red-lipped mouth drooped. The leaves of her calendar had been fluttered back a twelvemonth by the melody, and she was out under the stars with the cool breeze from the Hudson fanning her flushed cheeks. Through the open French windows of the clubhouse at her back the music was floating. Beside her, his arm girdling her waist, was the man to whom she had just promised her love and loyalty—the man whose name she would be proud to wear through all her days—Carey Grey. The ineffable joy, the blissful content of the moment were, in some 佛山桑拿网蒲友论坛 mystic manner, reborn by the chords that sang and swelled and vibrated and whispered, and yet over all, mingling with the delicious, intoxicating happiness of this reincarnated experience,72 was an overpowering sense of loss—dire, monstrous, crushing.

“Hope, dear,”—it was her father’s voice that brought her back to the present. His anxious eyes had still been upon her. “Drink your wine, girl; you aren’t ill, are you? Mr. Edson has been speaking to you and I don’t believe you’ve heard a word.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Edson,” she ejaculated, recovering herself. “I fear for the moment I was very far off. Would you mind repeating what you said?”

“I was proposing a coaching party to Versailles for Saturday, and as everybody seemed to approve I took the opportunity to ask you if you would do me the honour of occupying the box 佛山桑拿论坛0757 seat.”

“With pleasure,” she accepted, smiling bravely, though a dull, leaden pain was gripping her heart; “I think it will be simply lovely.”

The sextet had come to the restaurant crowded into Mr. Edson’s big touring car, and when at length the dinner was finished and the men had smoked their cigars and the moon had come up from behind the trees and floated like a silver boat73 in the deep blue sea of the heavens, they took their places again and went spinning at frantic speed out into the Allée de Longchamp. A quick turn to the left and in another instant the Porte Dauphine had been passed and the machine was flying smoothly down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne with the Arc de Triomphe rising massively white in the moonlight ahead.

Frothingham found himself brought very close to Hope Van Tuyl by the exigencies of the 佛山桑拿有什么服务 arrangement of six goodly sized persons in a space designed for five; and he was glad that it was so. He had seen much of her during the winter season in New York, and he had come abroad chiefly because he knew that she and her father had planned to spend the early summer in Europe. She was the type of woman he admired. She was tall and athletic, fond of sports and clever at them, but not so much of an enthusiast as to be open to the charge of having unsexed herself. She was, indeed, intensely feminine. Though she could handle a coach and four as dexterously as the average masculine whip and could drive a golf ball well on to two hundred yards, her hands were as74 delicately white and her fingers as long and taper as those of a girl whose most strenuous exertion was the execution of a Chopin nocturne. Her hair was dark, almost 南海桑拿按摩论坛 black, with glinting bronze reflections in the sunlight. Her eyes were the brown of chestnuts and her eyebrows black and perfectly arched. Frothingham had dreamed night after night of her mouth—it was so red and so tenderly curved, and her lips seemed always moist.

He had noticed her preoccupation towards the close of the dinner, and he had marvelled as to the cause. It was such an unusual mood for her. Now, as they were sweeping with exhilarating speed down the long avenue, with its double row of glittering lights that flashed by in streaks—while all the rest were laughing, shouting, shrieking in the exuberance of the moment—she was still abstracted, silent.

Frothingham ventured to place a hand over one of hers, but she drew her own away instantly, as though the contact were painful. He fancied then that he had perhaps 佛山桑拿会所美女图片 unwittingly offended her in some way, and he whispered, close to her ear:

“I hope you are not annoyed at me. Have I75 been guilty of any discourtesy? I am sure I——”

But it was very evident she was not listening, and he broke off in the middle of the sentence.

The Van Tuyls were stopping at the Ritz, and there Edson put them down. Frothingham, who had taken lodgings not far away, alighted too, and Nicholas Van Tuyl asked him in.

“I feel like a brandy and soda,” he said, “and I want company.”

Hope excused herself and went directly to her room. She was very nervous and very distraite. The story that Carey Grey was not only alive and in Paris, but had been ill, delirious and therefore unaccountable, disquieted and distressed her. She had loved him more than she knew until his crime and his flight, and, above all, his desertion without a word of explanation, revealed to her the fulness of her passion. Then she had battled with herself for a time; had grown philosophic and had reasoned, and eventually had gathered together the pages of her life that bore his name, had torn them out and, as she believed, destroyed them utterly. And now they were here before her, suddenly76 restored as a magician makes whole again the articles that he tears into bits before his auditors’ eyes.

As she entered her room her maid, who had been reading near a window, arose, took up something from her dressing-table and came toward her with it in her outstretched hand.

“A telegram for m’amselle,” she said. She was a very pretty French maid, and she had a very delicious French accent. She preferred to speak in English, though Miss Van Tuyl invariably answered her in French. “It came not ten minutes ago, m’amselle.”

Hope walked listlessly to where an electric lamp glowed under a Dresden shade, tearing open the envelope as she went. Unfolding the inclosure, she held it in the light’s glare; and then the little blue sheet dropped from her nerveless fingers, and she reeled. Had it not been for Marcelle she might have fallen; but the girl, burning with curiosity to learn the contents of the telegram—or cablegram, as it proved—had followed her mistress’s every movement, and now her arm was about her waist.

77 “Oh, m’amselle, m’amselle,” she cried in alarm; “my poor m’amselle! Is it that you hear the bad news?”

But Miss Van Tuyl made no reply. Recovering herself, she crossed the room and sat down in the chair by the window that Marcelle had just vacated. The girl stood for a moment irresolute. Then she stooped and picked up the sheet of blue paper, placing it on the table under the lamp. As she did so her quick eye took in enough to satisfy her as to its import. It was from Miss Van Tuyl’s brother in New York, and it repeated a cable just received. The words made a very deep impression on Marcelle because of one of them, of which, though it was quite as much French as it was English, she did not know the meaning.

“That he is here in Paris I can understand; and that he is alive and well, oh, yes!” she iterated and reiterated to herself; “but what is it he means by ‘in-ex-pleek-able’? ‘Conditions in-ex-pleek-able’? Oh, I fear, I fear, that is something very terrible.”
There came a gentle tap on Grey’s door; then a rap, louder and more insistent; and then repeated knocking, aggressive, commanding; and Grey, aroused suddenly from what was more stupor than sleep, sat up in bed, startled, crying:

“Come in! Entrez! Herein!”

The door opened and Johann entered.

“It is long after noon, Herr Arndt,” he said, bowing, “and the funeral is arranged for three o’clock.”


He is only twenty-two years old, but never once has been out of his Paradise, Shamboul. According to his opinion, he has no equals, consequently he has no associates. He is uneducated, because no one dare to instruct him. Such a man lives a Monarch and will die like a fool. If the Czar of Russia were to pay him a visit, he might smile with acknowledgement, but if Queen Victoria’s virtuous head would call, she could not stop in his seraglio as quick as Madame Rachel or Lolla Montez; and if General Zack Taylor called, his Pacha’s would receive him, and a General Jackson would scare him to death, as he is the most nervous man on a Throne.

As he is the descendant of Mahommed, it is admitted here that his authority to govern the people is received on all emergencies from God. He is incapable of fearing any nation on the earth, as he thinks that his is head of all. 佛山夜生活网 If some day, the news went to his palace that the Bosphorus was covered with a fleet, and that one ball had already struck the dome of the mosque St. Sophia, he would, through all his resolutions, break his haughty heart, and no doubt tremble off his divan. They are talking about a war with Russia, and I can find no man here that thinks Russia can begin to fight them.

The Sultan’s harems are numerous. While the occupants of the large are removed to two small ones, we have permission to pass through it, to see its magnificence, by paying the sum of five dollars a piece. It is a government of itself. It has a large bath room of water, and one of vapor. The girls are as pure as silvan nymphs, and some have remained in this harem until they become old, on account of the Sultan’s fancy to certain ones. They are carried to the baths 佛山桑拿一条龙多少钱 by black men, called eunuchs. They take their baths in all attitudes of pleasure, while these eunuchs lean over the large, stationary stone basins, and gaze at them in their Eve like costumes. But before these men are placed in this important position of servitude, they are privately handled to the disadvantage of displaying any demonstrations of manly pride, towards these vexed reflections that must naturally spring up in the reflective minds of virgins deprived of the luxuries of a life, built upon the confines of clandestine border thoughts of sexes.
Having seen the Sultan’s great City, mosques, ambers, sponges, perfumeries and beads, I am now passing the Custom House, on my way back to Greece.

In the front part of this vessel the cabin is all one, and whoever gets any kind of a berth 佛山桑拿按摩qq is lucky, as the passengers are numerous. The beds or berths are one over the other, like our lake boats’ second class cabin. One berth is a little higher than the other, they are three stories, and one person has to climb over another to get in bed, and even then you are too close together. The second class passengers find their own bedding, and sleep upon deck, and we have some very rich Greecian families aboard, with their bedding and food, who sleep on deck. Yesterday we passed by Smyrna, and stopped and took aboard three beautiful Albanian girls. When you see a pile of old rubbish lying about on these Dardanelle boats, there is always some owner lying under it.

These Albanian girls were dressed very different from the Turkish girls, and the pretty ones are not veiled. They had on a very pretty costume, but over it they wore a very large and coarse cloak, composed of 佛山桑拿论坛网 either camel’s hair, or wool of some ugly animal. They have a bonnet attached to it, that they can either throw back, or wear on their heads, and this cloak drags the ground. On board of our vessel was two young gentlemen from New York, trying to attract the attention of these Albanian girls, though they had their beaux with them. These young gents are very rich, their wholesale oil establishment, in New York, is said to do a business of millions of dollars per annum, and their names were Bridgers. They were seen to follow these beauties wherever they promenaded the deck, still they received no encouragement. Sometimes these girls would hide themselves in their winding sheet, and throw the bonnet part over their heads, and fall down upon the deck as singular and as natural as an apple from a tree, and then they would appear as a pile of rubbish of old sacks. At last the gay Messrs. 佛山桑拿网 Bridgers lost them, and they hunted in all directions, but could not find these fairies. They got tired hunting, and seated themselves to talk on some old piles of blankets and quilts, but before he got seated. I mean only one, he was thrown flat on his face by one of these pretty girls. In choosing a comfortable seat, he picked the covered head of the prettiest girl. He felt very bad about the mistake he had made, and I felt ashamed for him, but worst of all, he could make no amends, as she spoke nothing but Greek. He said “I wish I could apologize,” but he could’nt. She did not seem to like it at all.

The first night out we had a good deal of contention about berths. We had more passengers than the law of this company allows; they are not allowed to take one passenger more than they can accommodate.

Among the passengers on board was the first dancer of Constantinople. Those who had spoken for berths went to bed soon for 佛山桑拿实名登记 fear disputes would arise about the right of them. I made sure of mine by sitting by it and watching it. After all the berthers had taken possession of their respective places, I discovered many persons taking berths on the sofas around the cabin; there were some curtains hanging about to make screens, to dress and undress behind, and the lights always burned dimly. These sofas were on a level with the lower berths, consequently, whoever took a sofa berth, was almost sleeping with the occupant of the lower berth.

There was some choice about them, inasmuch as some were wider than others. I could see through my thin curtain that some one had picked out X 31, my own doorway. I lay like a rock to find out who it was, until I saw that everybody was in a resting attitude, after which I quietly drew back my curtain, to see what my neighbor was like. I knew it was some respectable person from the sweet smell of roses and other eastern scents which I inhaled. I could dimly see a Madonna figure of considerable size, and the figure was nearly 佛山桑拿小姐电话 touching me. I did not get scared but lay as quiet as possible. I saw plainly that sleep had sent in a regret for that night, the lamp flickered up and went down, leaving a dark twilight perceptible around the cabin, and I put my hand slowly out to see what my neighbor felt like, and I felt the veritable prima donna of Constantinople, “qu est ce que vous voulez,“ said she, ”rien,” said I, and shut my eyes and went 佛山夜生活luntan to sleep in a hurry, and slept as sound as any man could, by the side of a live Prima Donna.

When Rome had a C?sar and a Cicero, and a Cassius with a Brutus, Athens dictated the arts and sciences for her. Though she cannot claim the originality of them, she can the perfection of beautifying. The conquest of Alexander the Great, in Egypt, among the Africans, was considered the greatest triumph of conquest ever made by man, because it enabled the warlike people of Greece, to adorn their triumphs with the spoils of the vanquished. Egypt was a higher sphere of artistical science than any other nation on the earth. This will naturally convey an idea to the world that the black man was the first skillful animal on the earth, because Homer describes the Egyptians as men with wooly hair, thick lips, flat feet, and black, and we have no better authority than Homer. We know not the exact epoch of his time, but we know it was before any other authentic chronicler, save the sacred book of Moses, by the fact that he voyaged on the Nile before the pyramids were built, which we can trace three thousand years.

On the 29th of May, 1852, as the sun was going down the blue arch of the western sky, I reached the top of Mars Hill, in Athens, and seated myself in the seat where St. Paul rested from his display of power over a bigoted people, when he said, “I perceive that in all things you are too superstitious.”

When St. Paul stood on Mars Hill, Athens was a voluptuous city to look at. There was the white marble temple of Apollo, Jupiter, Minerva, Juno and Mars, besides temples to the sun and moon, and one to the “unknown god,” all of which were reared up in the most conspicuous reigns of those gods over the minds of all the inhabitants of Athens in a limited degree. As I descended Mars Hill, I turned to the right and entered the temple of Bacchus, who is described in the classical dictionary thus: “son of Jupiter and Semele, and god of wine and drunkards, nourished till a proper time of birth in his fathers thigh, after the death of his mother, whom Jupiter, at her request, visited in all his majesty. Semele, who was a mortal and unable to bear the presence of a god, was consumed to ashes.” An old man was in the temple to keep people from breaking pieces off from the beautiful temple’s treasure, which was the tomb of Bacchus, with the god carved on the sides, drinking his delight. I did not know what god’s temple this was, and enquired of the old man, he could not speak any European language, but was quite successful in conveying the information I wanted; he took an old gourd and scooped some water up from the bottom of a bucket, and drank it with great hilarity, at the same time pointing to Bacchus, as if he would say, “he drank!” I said, “You mean to say this is the temple of Bacchus, the god of wine and drunkards, do you?” he bowed towards his toes and then stood erect, and tried to make me understand that the rest of the tombs there were gods and goddesses, of which Apollo loved either sexually or valorously. There were no windows to the temple, the only inlet was the door, but though the door was shut, it was as light inside as one would wish. The marble was transparent, and when the sun shone upon its roof or walls, it forced its light through in a determined way.

As I left this veritable tomb and sepulchre of the great god of wine and drunkards, my guide pointed to an aperture from the heart of a hill, and said, that entrance goes to the cave where Socrates was poisoned. We then went up the most imposing ruins of Athens, the Acropolis. The temples there looked down upon the rest of the temples of Athens, like Jupiter would at the feast of gods, it was higher and more stupendous than all. There was the seats of solid blocks of white marble of the twelve judges. They were all in a row, and only one broke. They were solid blocks with scooping apertures, for a man to place his rotundity in comfortable quarters. Round about the ruins were balls and cannon, grape, and several bursted shells, but one half of this tremendous mass of splendid ruins stood upright, as when it first took its stand among the wonders of the world, as a temple of wisdom. This temple makes it impossible for us to pronounce ourselves the “light of all ages.”

The great god of this temple was the Ammon of the Africans, the Belus of the Babylonians and the Ossiris of the Egyptians; from him, mankind receives his blessings, and their blessings of miseries, and he is looked upon as one acquainted with everything, past, present and future. Saturn was Jupiter’s father, and conspired against his son and in consequence was banished from his kingdom. Now Jupiter became ruler of the universe and sole master of the Empire of the world, and divided with his brothers, reserving for himself the kingdom of heaven, and giving the Empires of the sea to Neptune, and that of the infernal regions to Pluto. The sea moved at his wrath, and hell burned his opposers, and he looked down from heaven at the commotion of his wrath till the men on earth considered their welfare only secured by worshipping his smile. Athens and all her superstition is gone now, and the godly man now laughs at the folly of the wisdom that all talent of old times craved for. On Mars hill where St. Paul thundered the decrees of God against gods, though nothing to designate the spot, there the Christian of to-day would rather stake his salvation than from the most sacred abode of Jupiter and Juno. But there is still weak minds in Athens, for as I descend I see on the side of a hill that celebrated stone where females used to come from all parts of Italy as well as Greece to slide down on it, as a true avoidance of barrenness. This stone is as slick as a piece of soap, so slick a lizzard could not run down it. For nearly three thousand years two and three thousand women per day have slid down it in a sitting posture. The guide books call it the “substitute rock for female barrenness.” Many a bruise has this rock given in receiving its polish. Hundreds of boys and young men are here at present, sliding down it for fun.

I see, seated about fifty feet away from it, the Tennessee negro I described at Constantinople, Frank Parish. A Scotchwoman is seated beside him, and seems to be proud of him as a beaux. She is a lady’s maid that came here yesterday from the Sublime Porte with her mistress and Frank. The Scotch lady insisted on Frank taking a slide with the young men, but for Frank it was no joke, as he was an extraordinary large man. But Frank, being as full of conspicuousness as any other man, it only required a little coaxing to get him started; at last he seated himself for a slide, but he did not much like to let go lest there would be a crash up. He anchored himself to the top and hesitated some, paused and looked like a fool. An Irish servant that was with the same family as the Scotchwoman, encouraged Frank, by saying, “be a marn,” Frank said, “if I am not a man there is none about here,” just to fill up the pause of suspense; but while Frank was looking and studying, the Irishman loosened his hands, and he went down like a colossus; seeing that he had broke no bones, he got up with a smile and felt himself all over to see if he was safe and sound. The Irishman said, “how did it feel my marn?” Frank pronounced it the most pleasant sensation he ever experienced. “Then ye never dreamed that ye were married,” said the Irishman. Frank said he had, but had forgot it. The Scotchwoman wished to know if that was a pleasant dream; the Irishman said, “it was the most pleasant dream a marn could have, and the most unpleasant was to find it a lie.”

Starting from the “female substitute for barrenness,” we met a man with a telescope, and we all wanted to take a fair view of Athens. The Irishman borrowed it from the man and took the first squint. He pointed to a fine house towards the Kings palace, and there he looked alone. When I obtained it I looked there too, and saw a beautiful Grecian maid combing her long black hair; gazing at her until she finished, I got a most ungentlemanly view of a lady, from which, in all due respect to her, I had to refrain, and took another direction in search of fair views. We went down the hill, and as we moved along the Grecian ladies’ and gentlemen’s walks, I, though mixed up in a crowd of different people, was determined to hear Frank talk to this Scotchwoman. He was telling her of his business, which was still going on in Nashville, Tennessee, and of how many improvements he intended to make in his bath house and barber shop, when he returned, with things that he had already bought in Paris. She believed it all, and Frank was in his glory. I noticed their actions particularly, and was upon the eve of hearing their loveliest words, when she stopped as if it was a great sacrifice to her to give up his company. They lingered some time, as they would fain go on, but as she was going to her mistress’ hotel, and Frank to his, they must part. Frank was well versed for the occasion, in Byron. He took her by the hand and looked her in the face affectionately, and said with emotion,
“Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart.”

As Frank was going to my hotel I thought it well to make his acquaintance; he said he saw me at Constantinople, but as I was an American, he did not deem it necessary to make my acquaintance, as I knew that he was a mere barber from Tennessee. He also told me he had been married several times, and was now engaged at home. The day after this, I was outside of Athens at what is called “the amusement grounds” of Athens, for the people repair there every evening to hear the national band play. This band comes from Bavaria, where Greece got her present king. King Otho is the son of the King of Bavaria. Here the king rides out every evening, and here Frank took another liberty with royalty. As the King and his wife rode up to the band, his horses stopped just at Frank’s elbow, and Frank walked to the carriage and offered his red hand to the king, and it was, through courtesy, accepted. Athens is to-day a small town, and the King lives here. The whole population of Greece is not quite a million. Our slaves would make four kingdoms as powerful in population as Greece. Oh, when will we be the “Freest government in the world?” We looked from the Acropolis down upon a village, but in old times we looked upon a town. “Ah! Greece, they love thee least who owe thee most.” The women are still pretty, and what is like a Grecian nose? Come, pilgrim, and see Athens in the days when it is not even a shadow of its former greatness, and ask yourself if power constitutes stability. Yes, go upon the Acropolis and gaze downward to the top of Mars’ hill, and look at the council stand of St. Paul; raise your eyes and turn them eastward, and if your imagination is as good as your sight, you will see the sea that in old times was covered over with the fleet of Alexander the Great. Further off from the shore, in the year of our Lord 1191, Richard I. of England, the lion-hearted, crusaded along with men, women, children, cattle and dogs, to put down infidelity on the sacred plains of Palestine, where Abraham, Isaac and Jacob walked as types of moral light for the salvation of mankind. Now, as you stand there on the Acropolis, as Cecrops himself has stood, be not disgusted at what you see below, of the so much written of towns, for though now you see Athens, it is true you do not see herself, but “Athens a sepulchre.”
On a little slip of land between the gulf of Lepante and Athens, we come to Corinthe; we know it not, save a few immense pillars of marble pinnacling the site of Corinthe. Artists from all parts of the world come here and sit down at their base to sketch their dimensions; then away they go, with no regretful feelings for the great founders of arts stupendous, who, perhaps, three thousand years ago, were known far and near as men of the best faculties. The greatest gem that Rome ever put in its crown, was the one that was made by imagination of the Greecian dictator when listening to Cicero, he said, “Rome has robbed us of all we possess, but our eloquence, and it seems as if that is going towards Rome.” But Rome has since fallen as low as Athens!

In the Ionian sea, between Sicily and Greece, are the Ionian islands, seven in number, and Corfu is the principal one; they now all belong to the English. Out further the East Indias, where the queen of England has 150,000,000 subjects; on the coast of Africa, at the cape of Good Hope, the West Indias, and the Canadas, is her sceptral wand waving its ambrosial food of civilization. “The sun never sets on the Queen’s domain.”

Between Asia, Macedonia, and Greece is the most celebrated archipelago in the world. Six days along the Adriatic have brought me to Trieste, in Northern Italy. It now belongs to Austria. The Austrian sceptre is waving over nearly half of Italy. It is generally believed she cannot much longer hold her Italian possessions. The army of Austria, like its eagle’s wings, is stretched to its utmost extremity of space. She could not sustain 50,000 more troops, without breaking some of her internal machinery. Like an overflowing river, she is most too high to rise any higher without damaging her union. She seems to have taken the last drop of the Italian’s patience and forbearance, while Leghorn, Lucca, Trieste, Venice, and other Italian cities, and other foreign powers, are trying to overflow her channels of power; they are perfectly willing that these troubled waters should spread across the plain of the Hapsburg policy, and turn the institution of tyranny from Hungary, Bohemia, and Italy; but the beardless, blue-eyed Emperor seems to be as undisturbed as a god of liberty, and heedless of the consequences of a rebellion of these warlike people. Five hours’ ride from Trieste is Venice, a city in the sea. More lovely cities, perhaps, have been built, but I have never seen them. As our steamer threw out her anchor about fifty yards from the city, I could see on the other side of the city, a railroad in the sea, and cars running along as the sea spray washed their sides. On all sides gondolas were racing toward us, which we went ashore in. This magnificent city is built in the sea, and it costs more to drive down piles, in Venice, to build a house, than it costs in London or Paris to build the whole house.

There is one building in this city of the sea, more beautiful inside, in its old age, than most of the best buildings of its kind, in any kingdom in the world, are in when they are new. It is the church of St. Mark. The body of St. Mark is in its cloisters, resting in his magnificent tomb, like a sleeping giant that dare not be aroused. The floor of this old gothic building is precious stones; the pillars near the alters are alabaster. The Pope, in the Doge days of Venice, put his foot upon the Emperor Alexander’s head. All the magnificent displays of state, even in these times, cannot be worthy of the notice of the people of this part of the world, unless it be the will of the Pope; he is much feared by the monarch’s of to day. It has been proven that the Napoleon of to day has been seeking the smile of Pius IX. It seems very strange to some people, but not to me, that the kings of England and France, in the eleventh century, should hold the Pope’s horse for him to alight. While walking around the church of St. Mark, I saw a beautiful figure of a woman leaning gracefully from a stool downward. I watched her to see if any miracle was about to be performed. I saw the beautiful creature move with a blush upon her cheek. She was confessing to an old father, of whom, I saw, was more partial than moral worth sanctions, for as soon as she left the box, another made application, but the priest took no notice of it, but walked into his vestry. The applicant was an old woman, and homely as a bone, which, I have no doubt, was qualifications for religion not comporting with his reverence’s sensitive taste of moral obligation, to receive confessions from so ugly a source to fill up the ranks of his beautiful herds. This poor old woman waited some time for his return, but like gifts from lips that frequent promise, he never came.

This church is attached to the palace of the great Doge of Venice, and across a canal that runs between this palace and the prison, is a bridge. When a culprit was judged and sent across this bridge, he never saw again his 25th hour. All the instruments the ingenuity of man could invent, is here found to destroy the human body. I saw one machine to put a man in, and gradually break his bones; at the crush of each bone, he would be asked “if he would confess the crime?” Another was a steel covering for a man’s head, with seven holes in it; the culprit’s head would be firmly placed in this iron case, whilst he would be seated on an iron block, one nail would gradually be driven in at a time, until all the seven holes would be filled with long nails, meeting in the centre of the head, unless he confessed his guilt when some of the nails were hammered down. Another machine was something like a brace for the loins, and each end came curve like together and left it in the shape of a hoop; it had a lock and key, and old tyrannical lords used it when they left home, to protect their wives’ virtue. He would put it around below the loins, lock it, put the key in his pocket, and go out hunting. No man could unlock it, and in those times false keys were not so easily obtained as now. When he returned he would unlock it, as he could then keep guard over her to his own satisfaction.

From this horrid place, reader, come with me down the great canal that traverses the whole town, with its branches, to where, at from ten to one o’clock every day, would meet together the “merchants of Venice.” Here their financiering would daily rock thrones, but now you see a long row of decaying old walls whose bases are wrapt in sea-weed, like climbing serpents, that now dwell in those damp, old commercial halls, now rotting away. I asked the guide for the site of Desdemona’s father’s house, but that was forgotten.

Here we find no horses, carriages, or cars, but myriads of gondolas intercept the traveler at every turn of an alley or canal. On a beautiful moonlight night, I went through the city in my gondola, and as my oar struck the salty brine fiercely, I could see myriads of lights reflected from the various built palaces, and the sea looked like a diamond lawn.
One morning, at sunrise, I was rapidly roaring towards the depot that was to carry me to Verona. All was lone and still, for the Venicians are no early risers. As still as the zephyr wind gondolas passed by me, and away the ripples flew. I left this city in the sea, and about ten o’clock arrived at Verona; a city so handsome in appearance—so magnificent in its ruins—so picturesquely situated in a plain, I felt as if I could dwell an age with it. Having obtained a cicerone we repaired to the old ruined walls of Julliete’s fathers’ house; afterwards the old man insisted on us going to see the half of her tomb, which is still preserved. No traces can be found of Romeo or his father’s house or tomb.

In Verona is many beautiful churches, the principal of which is San Zenone. San Zenone was a black man, and was the patron of Verona. He is represented as seated in a chair, with costly robes around him; his face is the picture of gloom, whilst his brow is stern and commanding. Preparations were going on for the reception of one of the oldest Bishops of Italy. The church was thrown wide open and workmen were employed in all parts of the inside of this edifice. Behind the altar, was preserved some holy water, brought from Rome for the occasion. The priest poured some out of the jug into a tin bucket and gave it to one of his boy aids to pour in the basin found at the entrance to all Catholic churches. This little priest boy returned to the vestry for more, received it, but when he returned to the basin where he had deposited the first bucket full, he discovered that the basin was minus the first bucket of water. His great amazement scared even the workmen. He returned to the priest and informed him that some unforeseen cause had deprived the church of the precious libation. The priest soon discovered the phenomenon, and pronounced it an omen unfavorable to the reception of the great bishop on his way here. It was talked about town that day, that the great bishop could not be received in the aisles of San Zenone. But I saw a thirsty boy looking in at the door, go up to the basin and drink his fill of the holy water, brought from Rome in a jug, and pronounced it not so good as he thought it was, by a jug full. I told the proprietor of the hotel that a boy drank the water, and he said, “I must be mistaken, as no one in Verona was so ignorant as to quench thirst on holy water.” Some said it was the devil thirsting for the protection of San Zenone, for no admirer that hoped for salvation by the intercession of this holy saint, would be guilty of such a rash act, as they could not expect him to intercede in behalf of the spoilers of his festivals, unless their admiration of him was so great that they felt it their duty to partake of his blessings beyond the power of their resistance, even of stealing them.

On my way to the railroad station, I passed the amphitheatre, that, in the gladiatorial days of Verona, held one hundred thousand persons in its arena, and where they saw the lion tear the man, and again where the man slew the lion. That same night I slept at Mantua, one of the most strongly fortified towns of Italy, and from here I went to Bologna and bought a sausage. This is a beautiful town so far as churches and graveyards add to the beauty of towns, and the latter is more extensive than the former. I informed the landlord of the hotel Europe that I needed a guide for at least

a day. He went in search of one and returned with a schoolmaster, who had closed his school of fifty scholars, to wait on us at the enormous sum of one ducat per day. This was a little pert man with a body twice as long as his legs. “Gentlemen,” said he, “let us be moving, there is a great deal to be seen before nightfall in Bologna.” I informed him that I wanted to see one of the sausage manufactories, but he seemed to be ignorant that Bologna was celebrated in the sausage line. He asked some wayfaring man through those old lonesome streets to tell him where sausage was made. After seeing the manufactory and the lean donkeys, he took me to see a gymnasium, and here I saw the insignia of every organized people on the earth except my own, and looking for our eagle, stars and stripes, without finding them, I asked him how it was

they could not be found. He said this institution was ten years old, to his certain knowledge, and as we were a new people and country, he supposed this was the reason. Bologna, like a candle, must soon be extinguished for want of fuel of such combustibles as will burn up the dark ignorant pile now hid from the bright light that ought to shine supreme from the temple of wisdom of the times.

Venice, with her sea bathed palaces, may survive it, as she is still in beauty the “pride of the sea,” more so than Bologna is the pride of graveyards, churches and sausage. The “Two Young Men of Verona” is better known to the world to-day than Verona or Bologna.
When we were within two hours drive of Florence, the Capitol of Tuscany and as it is also called the “Italian Capitol of fine arts,” we stopped at a hotel

to dine and feed horses. The landlord having ascertained that we might probably feel like paying something for what he called dinner, came into the sitting room with a live chicken by the neck and wished to know if I would order something to eat; I answered in the affirmative, when he gave his arm a twist and off went the chicken from his head, fluttering into nonentity. I informed mine host that the stage would hardly wait so long as was necessary to prepare the fowl, and he said he knew more about that than I did. A few moments after this he returned with the crawling flesh of the chicken, some wine and bread, as if he had done something really worth mentioning, and said, “now sir, here is some as fresh chicken as you ever eat, I am not like those town hotels that allow every thing to rot and stink before they sell it.” A beautiful Italian girl that was a passenger in the dilligence with me, was waiting to get something, and she said to me “you sir, seem to be the lucky one.” I thought it proper to give some one a small piece of the fresh chicken, but if she had not been so pretty she might have been the “unlucky one.” Up over the door of this man’s house was written, these German words, Gasthof Zum New York. It not taking as much time to dine in the Gosthof as in the stable, we took a walk to see the extraordinary phenomena of a muddy place that one can set a blazing with a match. Having arrived at Florence and hoteled myself I ascertained where the races were, and was told they would commence in thirty minutes and that my hotel window was as good a seat at the races as I could get. I looked out of the window and saw the streets clean as a floor of a log cabin, and written upon the corner “Course.” That was the name of the street. A few minutes after the heralds proclaimed “that this course must be cleared” as round at the stand the horses were on the track. This street is circular, and the horses run round, till they come to where they start from, when the race is awarded to the first that comes. No riders are allowed, but the people which makes a paling round the track, hurry each horse on. The horses don’t seem to know they are running a race, because the shouts of the populace at every window, corner and alley is so frightening they are trying all the time to get out of the track.

Before the races commence, a carriage with four greys is conveying an old man and wife up a street that comes to the course and branches off, and after the race, himself and lady is the first to ride on the street called “la course;” and after his carriage every other person has a right to enter the promenade of this man and wife, the Grand Duke, of Tuscany. In the next carriage to his was a tall lady with a beaux by her side, who, I learned, was the Princess, his daughter. Next to her carriage, was a Mr. Bullion from California, trying to pass himself off for a real American gentleman. These are the times when men who make money in the Eldorado, come home to the States to show off. He certainly had more money than brains. He had a liveried carriage. The smoke curled up in little clouds behind him, his feet were on the fore cushion of the open Calashe, and a profusion of beard adorned all the lower extremity of his face. His beard reminded me of Col. May’s the captor of La Vega. The Duke halted a moment causing all in the train to halt also, when Mr. B. rose up in his carriage and looked round the Dukes carriage and told his driver to drive on. He was informed that he could not, and he looked up very wise as if he would like to know why. A few minutes after the train moved, and he said to his driver “wait a little, I don’t want them to think I want to follow them.” The driver stopped and got himself in trouble, for the vehicle behind him told him to drive on or get out of their way. Here the Police interfeared and ordered Mr. consequence Bullion Esq., of the El Dorado to get out of the way of gentlemen and ladies. He tried to pursuade the officers to bear in mind he was talking to an American citizen; but there was as much difference as space between the Torrid and Frigid Zone. The officer gave him to understand that he might be a Florentine, but he must get out of the way of other people. Mr. B. spit a mouthful of juice in the carriage, threw his feet on the front cushion and told the driver to go on. At first my national pride was somewhat lowered, but on second thought, I gloried in knowing that Americans are not responsible for every upstart that goes abroad and violates the rules and regulations of other communities because they were not made to suit his taste, for which no body ever cared but himself. The good people of Europe know full well that there is always thistles among roses and not all good among themselves.

American people are not as selfish as Italians. Italians will hate a man for ever for a Paul or Bioca. I got acquainted with an Italian at the work shop of Hiram Powers, and this young man volunteered to show me Florence, which would of course save me the expense of a lacquey; and my old lacquey told me he wished this man was dead, as he had deprived him of a Ducat. An English writer, tells a tale on Fontenelle thus: “He once ordered some asparagus cooked in oil for his dinner, for he was passionately fond of it; in five minutes afterwards, an abbey came to see him on some church politics, and as it is usual in France to ask ones friend how he wishes his dinner cooked and name what you have, Fontenelles told the old man what he had, and the old man said he would have half of the asparagus cooked in butter. Fontenelles thought it a great sacrafice, but said nothing. Thirty minutes afterward the abbey’s valet came down in the parlor and exclaimed in great sorrow that while the abbey was washing he was taken with an apilepic fit and was dead. Fontenelles struck the youth on the shoulders and said, “run to the kitchen and tell the cook, to cook all the asparagus in oil.” ” Now this was indeed a selfish man. Sam Slick asked a country beaux “why it was that such a fine looking gentleman as himself was not married where so many pretty ladies were?” His answer was “when I offer my hand to a lady, she will be a lady!” This is another selfish man. An Irishman once drinking his neighbors wine was too selfish to testify his approbation of its merrits, by drinking a toast of such good wine to his neighbor. At last he was compelled to drink one, and he said, “here is to my wifes husband.” The French is celebrated for eating, the Yankee for his pride, and Irishmen for their toddies.
“The lads and lasses blightly bent,
To mind both soul and body,
Set round the table weel content
And steer about the toddy.”

But I have never found even wit, to justify an Italian’s selfishness, only sublimity of meanness is an Italian’s selfishness.
On my departure from Florence, I luxuriated at Lucca, the bathing resort of the Tuscans. The city is old with stout walls around it. Three hours ride in a viturino will bring you to the baths. They are beautifully located, down in a valley with craggy and fertile mountains hanging over. It was quite a place in old times, and Counts, and Dukes and other nobles used to flock here to gamble, until so much murder was committed, Lucca broke up the resort of these monied men, and until very recently it was thought to be destroyed and dead, but the Austrians, who occupy all the important places in the government of this part of Italy, wishing to resurrect something that has already been in the Italians’ mind as a pleasant dream, hotels have been built, and livery stables erected, for the accommodation of the gay portion of Florence, Pisa, Genoa, Leghorn, and even Milan. On my way from Florence to Lucca I stopped at Pisa. Pisa is well known to the world as holding up one of the seven wonders of the world, to the world’s travelers and sight seers. I have reference to the “leaning tower.” In describing the “leaning tower,” I will merely say, that the first vast and solid layer of stone is heavy enough to hold all the others laid upon it. Each layer is fastened to the one under, and though it might protrude several feet on the layers protruding side, this few feet of reaching out stone can have no power over all the rest of that same layer around this immense tower. The next layer protrudes on the same perched side of the tower, and straight over the reaching edge of its under layer; as each layer is fastened with iron spikes to its under layer, there can be no chance of even the very top falling down on the side of the tower. It leans so much on each layer as to make the top of the tower reach away over the base on the leaning side, so much so that, were it to break loose, it would fall over to the earth without touching the base or foundation of the leaning side of the tower.

The City of Pisa is well known in Italian history, by the awful contentions that used to exist among next door neighbors. Men used to fight on the top of their own houses, and go on conquering, from house to house, until they would slay as many as twenty lords, whose property would be theirs as spoils of war. One hour and a quarter’s ride from Pisa is Leghorn, a city full of hats and bonnets. The bay is dotted over with little white houses, and some miles out in the sea; and I see hundreds of small boats rowing towards bath houses. The strongest merchants here are English, who ship Leghorn hats and bonnets to foreign ports, as well as their own, but the city belongs to the Hapsburg sceptre, and thousands of Austrian soldiers stand in the by ways of public places.

Twelve hours travel through the sea from here, brought me to the “City of Palaces,” Genoa. It is a city on the side of a hill, with eight story palaces looking down on the sea. Before the fifteenth century it had the inducement for traders that Lyons to-day has. Silk was manufactured here in a way that astonished that age of pride; but since the invention of steam, all those scientific arts that this trade called for is but as nothing, and Italians look at our steam power machines, and then at all their scientific arts, and like the proud fowl that gazed downward, their feathers fall.

I must now pass over many places and their accomplishments, and hasten back to France, to prepare myself for the roughest voyage yet—Egypt, Arabia and Palestine. Here is the Pyramids, Memphis, (now Cairo) Thebes, the Nile, the Red sea, the desert of Sahara, Mount Sinai, the tomb of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Joseph, at Hebron, the city of David; and to Jerusalem, down to Jericho where the Jordan’s muddy waters slip under the briny and sulphurous liquid of the grave God dug for Sodom and Gomorrah; and to Olives, Carmel, Tabor and Calvary; and to Damascus, the Cedars of Lebanon, Nazareth, Bethel, and the temple of Balbec or Baal.

Prussia, Bavaria, Sardinia and Saxony I will pass through without comment, more than to say that I found them separate nations of one people, save in language. However, I will say, that of all the German kingdoms the most despotic is Austria; but she hates slavery more than the “freest government in the world.” Austria tyrannizes over man, but she cannot tyrannize, chattelize, and prostrate their rights with impunity, any more than Washington, Jefferson, or Henry could.


“I want you to be quite frank with me. I am ready to answer any questions. You may think my attitude unusual—”

“Not at all—not at all,” and he flicked his

handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish a lens in a tortoise-shell setting.

“I must confess, Dr. Peterson, that I have been subjected to a great deal of worry and—and doubt. My husband only returned yesterday. Of course, you know about that. Dr. Little sent for you to see Major 佛山桑拿按摩会所 Murray’s wife, I believe.”

Dr. Peterson still flourished his handkerchief.

“Has Dr. Steel expressed any opinion to you?”

“About this?”


“He told me that it was a form of eczema.”

The specialist threw a sharp, penetrating look at her face.

“That was your husband’s diagnosis?”

“I believe it to be incorrect.”


“And that he knows that he has not told me the truth.”

Both heard the rattle of a latch-key in the lock of the front door, and the sound of footsteps in the hall. Symons could 佛山夜生活约炮 be heard hurrying up the stairs from the kitchen. She spoke to some one in the hall, a tired and toneless voice answering her in curt monosyllables. It was Parker Steel.

Dr. Peterson walked up the room and back again to the window, glancing rather nervously at the clock as he passed. His attitude was that of a man who has been 佛山桑拿浴特殊服务 entangled in the meshes of a very delicate dilemma, and he was waiting to see how Betty 佛山桑拿按摩技师 Steel’s mood shaped. She was standing with one hand resting on the back of a chair, as though steadying herself for the inevitable crisis.

“Ah, good-day; I must apologize—Betty!”

He had entered with an elaborate flourish intended to suggest the brisk candor of a man much hurried in the public service. His wife’s figure, outlined against the window, brought him to a dead halt on the threshold. The blood seemed to recede from his face in an instant. The alert, confident manner became a tense effort towards naturalness and self-control.

“You will excuse us, Betty. Dr. Peterson and I have matters to discuss.”

He held the door open for her, but she did not budge.

“I am consulting Dr. Peterson, Parker.”

Her husband’s face seemed to grow thin and haggard, with the lights and shadows of the 佛山夜生活哪里好玩 hall for a checkered background. The 佛山桑拿0757n specialist stood jerking his watch-chain up and down.

“I think,” he began—

Betty turned to him with the air of a mistress of a salon.

“This is a family affair, Dr. Peterson, is it not? There are no secrets that a husband and wife cannot share. I may tell my husband what I believe your opinion to be?”

“My opinion, madam!”

His voice betrayed the rising impatience of a man irritated by finding his discretion taxed

beyond its strength. The grim touch of the tragic element banished the veneer of formalism from his face. To pose such a man as Dr. Peterson with a problem in ethics, engendered anger and impatience.

“I am not aware that I have pledged myself to any expression of opinion.”

“No,” and she smiled; “but I can ask you a blunt question, to which ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will be inevitable.”

The specialist met her eyes, and realized 佛山夜生活论坛 that the 佛山夜生活qq群 subtlety of a woman may make a man’s prudence seem ridiculous. He was a rapid thinker, and the complexities of the situation began to shape themselves in his mind. Betty Steel was not a woman whom he would care to hinder with a lie.

“You put me in a most embarrassing position—”

“Believe me, no.”

“With regard to another case I have some authority to speak.”

“Consider my case within your


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She looked at him calmly, as though considering his inmost thoughts.

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Nevertheless, little or nothing was done to make good defects in the years that followed. The dishonesty of the officers and the indiscipline of the men in Ireland was past all belief; but it was only with extreme difficulty that Elizabeth was induced to remedy the evil, which brought untold misery and oppression upon the forlorn Irish, by the simple process of paying her soldiers their wages. It was not until 1567, when the movements of Philip the Second gave the alarm of invasion, that a corps of arquebusiers, four thousand strong, was formed for the defence of the coast towns from Newcastle to Plymouth, and prizes were given for the encouragement of marksmanship with the new weapon. Even so, practice with the bow was still enjoined upon the villagers, as

though no better arm could be discovered for them.[116]

Then came the rebellion, which but narrowly missed a most serious character, of the Catholic nobility in the North. Disloyalty was widespread in Yorkshire, and it was proverbial that the Yorkshire levies would not move without pay; but Elizabeth was too economical to send the train-bands from London to nip the insurrection in the bud, and only at the last moment consented to provide money for the payment of the troops on the spot. The difficulties of the commanders were frightful. The numbers that came to muster were far short of the true complement; horsemen were hardly to be obtained by any shift, and the footmen that presented themselves came with bows and bills only, there being but sixty firearms, and not a single pike, among two thousand five hundred infantry.

The[133] rebels, on the other hand, were very well equipped, and had a force of cavalry armed after the newest pattern of the Reiters. “If we had but a thousand horse with pistols and lances, five hundred pikes and as many arquebuses,” wrote Elizabeth’s commanders, “we should soon despatch the matter”; but even so trifling a contingent as this could not be produced except after infinite difficulty and delay.[117]

For all this Elizabeth was responsible; but the peril was so great that it stirred even her avaricious soul. From this year bows and bills began slowly to make way for pikes and firearms; and a manuscript treatise in the State Papers shows that the reform was brought under the immediate notice of the Royal Council.[118]

An alarm of invasion by the French in the following year led also to a general stirring of the sluggish forces of the shire. The French ambassador reported that one hundred and twenty thousand men could take the field in different parts of the country; and the muster-rolls showed the incredible total of close on six hundred thousand men. Yet when we look into these muster-rolls we find simply a list of able-bodied men and of serviceable arms in each shire without attempt at organisation. In truth, throughout the long reign of Elizabeth we feel that in military matters one effort and one only is at work, namely, in Carlyle’s words, to stretch the old formula to cover the new fact, to botch and patch and strain the antiquated web woven by the Statute of Winchester and newly dyed by the Statute of Philip and Mary to some semblance of the pattern given by the armies of France and Spain.

But when we turn from the Queen to the people we perceive the energy of a very different force. The [134]English army indeed was not created by a sovereign or a minister; it created itself in despite of them. The superior equipment of the northern rebels over that of the forces of the Queen was typical of the whole course of English military progress in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The army was conceived in rebellion, born in rebellion, nurtured in rebellion. Protestantism all over Europe went hand in hand with rebellion; and Elizabeth, always irresolute and incapable of conviction, was distracted between a political preference for Protestantism and a natural abhorrence of disloyalty. For years she struggled by the most contemptible trickery to be true to both these opposing principles, and for a time, by the help of extraordinary good fortune, she attained the success which only a false woman could compass. But long before she could make up her mind, the people had taken matters into their own hands, and thereby begun the creation of our present army. It was on May Day 1572, four years later than the first rising of the Low Countries against Spain, that the army took its birth from a review of Londoners before the Queen at Greenwich. In the ranks that day were many captains and soldiers who had served in Scotland, Ireland, and France, and were now adrift without employment on the world. Subscriptions were raised by sympathetic Protestants in the city, and three hundred of them were organised into a company and sent to fight for the Dutch under Captain Thomas Morgan. From this beginning we must presently trace the history of the English regiments in the Low Countries to the eve of the Civil War; and for the next seventy years therefore our story must flow in two distinct streams—the slender thread that runs through England itself, and the broader flood which glides on with ever-increasing volume in the Low Countries, on the Neckar, and even in distant Pomerania. And since at every great national crisis the two streams for a time unite, the lesser tributary may be dismissed forthwith by a brief review of the[135] progress of the military art in England to the close of the sixteenth century.

London as usual led the van of military improvement. In the year following the departure of Morgan’s company, three thousand men of the train-bands were formed into a special corps, which was mustered three times a week for exercise, and having been armed with weapons of the newest pattern was regularly drilled by experienced officers on the once famous ground at Mile End. William Shakespeare, it is evident, was one of the spectators that went from time to time to see them, and no doubt laughed his fill at the failings of the recruits. These were sometimes not a little serious. Thus one caliverman left his scouring-stick in the barrel, and accidentally shot it into the side of a comrade, whereof the comrade died; so that the whole body of calivermen gained the enjoyment of a military funeral in St. Paul’s Churchyard, whither they followed the corpse with trailing pikes and solemn countenances, and at the close of the ceremony fired their pieces over the grave.[119]

Something therefore had at least been learned from the landsknechts, and other changes were coming fast. The old white coat and red cross seems to have disappeared abruptly at the beginning of the reign, and coats, or, as they were called, cassocks,[120] generally red or blue, were provided by shires and boroughs in their stead. Once, indeed, these bright hues are found condemned as too conspicuous for active service in Ireland, and some dark or sad colour, such as russet, is recommended in its stead,—a curious anticipation of our modern khaki.[121] Again, to turn to smaller changes, the word petty captain had dropped out of use since 1563, to yield place to the title of lieutenant, and the word ensign seems to have been accepted generally at about the same time. Sergeant had been the title of the expert at drill since 1528, but [136]in 1585 there is a distinct order that the men appointed to instruct the bands of the shires shall be called corporals.[122] Two years later we find officers of higher rank asking for a new denomination, and proposing that they may bear the title of colonel and the officers next below them that of sergeant-major, or, as we now call it, major. It was indeed time, for the word regiment came likewise into use at the same period, and a regiment without a colonel is naught. Before the end of the century the term infantry had also passed into the language, while the flags of the infantry, from their diversity of hues, had gained the name of colours.[123]

But far more striking than these superficial changes is the sudden deluge of military pamphlets which burst over England from the year 1587 onwards. The earliest military treatise, so far as I have been able to discover, that was delivered to the English in the vulgar tongue is The Ordering of Souldiours in battelray, by Peter Whitehorn, which was published in 1560. This book produced, no doubt, some effect in its time, but it is of small import compared with those that follow. The earliest written by an Englishman, though not published until four years after his death, was 佛山桑拿论坛浦友 the work of one William Garrard, gentleman, who had served with the King of Spain for fourteen years and died in 1587. It is a remorseless criticism of the existing English military system. The author sweeps away bows and bills in a single contemptuous sentence, and lays it down for a dogma that there are but two weapons, for the tall man the pike and for the little nimble man the arquebus. But in the matter of equipment, he notes that the English are lamentably deficient. As good an arquebus could be made in England as in any country, but the armourers had already learned to make cheap and nasty weapons for common sale to the poor men of the shire. [137]Again, other nations carried their powder in flasks or metal cartridges, but the English actually carried theirs loose in their pockets, ready to be kindled by the first spark or spoiled by the first shower, and in any case 广州佛山桑拿论坛 certain to suffer from waste. Such slovenliness, says the indignant Garrard, is fit only “for wanton skirmish before ladies”; it is impossible for such arquebusiers to attain to the desirable consummation of “a violent, speedy, and thundering discharge.” The pikemen, again, instead of a light poniard carried “monstrous daggers like a cutler’s shop,” fitter for ornament than use. Moreover, the dress of both was open to objection. Colour was a matter of indifference, though some fine hue such as scarlet was preferable for the honour of the military profession, but all military garments should be profitable and commodious, whereas nothing could hamper the limbs more than the great bolstered and bombasted hose that were then in fashion. I cannot resist the temptation of transcribing Garrard’s picture of the march of the ideal soldier, and the delicate appeal to the soldier’s 佛山桑拿一条龙 vanity.

“Let the pikeman march with a good grace, holding up his head gallantly, his face full of gravity and state and such as is fit for his person; and let his body be straight and as much upright as possible; and that which most important is that they have their eyes always upon their companions which are in rank with them and before them, going just one with another, and keeping perfect distance without committing the least error in pace or step. And every pace and motion with one accord and consent they ought to make at one instant of time. And in this sort all the ranks ought to go sometimes softly, sometimes fast, according to the stroke of the drum…. So shall they go just and even with a gallant and sumptuous pace; for by doing so they shall be esteemed, honoured and commended of the lookers on, who shall take wonderful delight to behold them.”

Earlier in appearance though not earlier composed[138] than Garrard’s was a 佛山桑拿上门服务电话 shorter work by one Barnaby Rich, which appeared in 1587, and wherein the writer had the courage to condemn the practice of emptying the gaols into the ranks; but the great military book of the year was a translation from the French of La Noue, one of the noblest and ablest of the Huguenot commanders. Though written of course for Frenchmen, the soundness of doctrine in respect of discipline and equipment and the commendations of the Spanish system were of value to all; while of still greater import to England was the impassioned advocacy of the missile tactics of the Reiters for cavalry. But perhaps most striking of all in the light of later events is the deep note of Puritanism to which every page of the treatise is attuned. In La Noue’s Huguenot regiments there were no cards, no dice, no swearing, no women, no leaving the colours for plunder or even for forage, but stern discipline at all times and public prayers morning and evening. It is difficult to suppress the conjecture that this book had been read and digested by Oliver 佛山桑拿按摩一条龙服务 Cromwell.

The strong opinions expressed in these books of course provoked controversy. Sir John Smyth, knight, an officer of some repute, boldly took up the cudgels on the other side, and undertook to prove even in 1591 that the archer was more formidable than the arquebusier and the arrow than the bullet, which was an argument only too welcome to old-fashioned insular Englishmen. On the other hand, he enters minutely 佛山桑拿按摩论坛07 and intelligently into points of drill and man?uvre, condemns the bombasted hose as vehemently as Garrard himself, and prescribes a more serviceable dress for the soldier. From him we learn our first knowledge of the manual exercise of the pike, how it should be advanced and how shouldered with comely and soldierlike grace, and how men should always step off with the right foot. From him also we obtain sound instruction for the shock attack of cavalry, and some mention of the Hungarian light horsemen, called “ussarons”; and from him finally we gather information of the extraordinary inefficiency[139] even at the close of the reign of the shire-levies of England, of the neglect of the arms and the corruption of the muster-masters.

Roger Williams, whom I have already quoted, also entered the lists at this time with an account 佛山桑拿会所上门服务 of the Spanish organisation, and combated warmly for the superiority of the lance over the pistol as the weapon of cavalry; and a translation by Sir Edward Hoby from the Spanish of Mendoza (1597) also upheld the cause of shock-action. Hard upon these followed a version of the striking work of Martin du Bellay, with its complete scheme for what we now call the short-service system; and in the same year (1598) appeared a dialogue by one Barret, which sought to close the whole controversy. A conservative gentleman who upholds bows and bills is utterly demolished by a captain who pleads for pike and musket, would abolish the shire-levies bodily as useless, and would substitute a reorganised force on the favourite model, already once adopted in France, of the Roman legion. But Barret knew his countrymen and expected little. “Such as have followed the wars,” he says, “are despised of every man until a very pinch of need doth come”; and military reform then as now could not be pushed forward except under pressure of a scare of war.

So matters drifted on to the close of the sixteenth century and beyond it. The military spirit was abroad, and the military pen busy beyond precedent. The character of the old soldier became a favourite with beggars and vagabonds, and was rewarded so freely at the hands of the charitable that it was necessary to suppress the imposture by special statute. Yet in spite of all this simmering and seething nothing was done in England for the English army. Soldiers who wished to learn their profession sought service elsewhere than with the Queen; even in Ireland the value of a company sank to fifty pounds;[124] and the most conspicuous type of warrior that was to be found at home was the worst.[140] Shakespeare, who saw everything and into the heart of everything, marked these impostors and reproduced them with such genial satire, such incomparable humour, that in our delight in the dramatist we overlook the military historian. Yet he is as truly the painter of the English army in his own day as was Marryat of the navy in later years. Falstaff the fraudulent captain, Pistol the swaggering ensign, Bardolph the rascally corporal, Nym the impostor who affects military brevity, Parolles, “the damnable both sides rogue,” nay, even Fluellen, a brave and honest man but a pedant, soaked in classical affectations and seeking his model for everything in Pompey’s camp—all these had their counterparts in every shire of England and were probably to be seen daily on the drill ground at the Mile End. Not in these poor pages but in Shakespeare’s must the military student read the history of the Elizabethan soldier.
The arrival of the first English volunteers, under Thomas Morgan, in the Low Countries was, as fate willed it, most happily timed to synchronise with the movement that laid the foundation of Dutch Independence. In April 1572 an audacious enterprise of the fleet of Dutch privateers under the Count de la Marek had led to the surprise and capture of the town of Brill, a success which at once fired the train of revolt in the seven provinces north of the Waal and shook the hand of Spain from town after town first in Holland and Zealand, and later in Friesland, Gelderland, Utrecht, and Overyssel. The incident, which time was to prove so far reaching in its results, was a curious commentary on the latest phase of Elizabeth’s policy. She had just reconciled herself with Alva and forbidden De la Marck’s privateers to enter English ports: the sea-rover’s reply was to beard Alva in his own stronghold and deal Elizabeth’s friend a blow from which he never recovered. The whole island of Walcheren, excepting Middelburg, fell into the hands of the insurgents, and Alva, who was a splendid soldier, whatever his other failings, lost no time in attempting to recover the port of Flushing. By the irony of fate Morgan’s volunteers arrived in the very nick of time to save it, and in the sally which brought them first face to face with the dreaded troops of Spain they made a brilliant beginning for the new British Army. Of the three hundred, fifty were killed outright in this action, the first of fifty thousand or twice fifty thousand who were to lay their bones in Holland during the next seventy years.

Morgan, having rescued Flushing, at once wrote letters to England to point out the importance of the town which he held and to beg for reinforcements. In the autumn accordingly appeared Colonel Sir Humphrey Gilbert, with a regiment, the first of many English regiments that were to enter the Dutch service, of ten companies and fourteen hundred men, raw troops under a raw leader. Morgan would have been the better commander, but he was a modest unambitious man; Gilbert, on the other hand, suffered from fatal ignorance of his own incapacity. Sir Humphrey at once launched out boldly into complicated operations which he was utterly incompetent to direct, was outwitted and outman?uvred, fell back on swearing when things went wrong, and not only lost his own head but completely broke the spirit of his men. The new regiment in fact behaved very far from well. “I am to blame to judge their minds,” wrote Roger Williams, the ablest of Morgan’s officers, after Gilbert’s first defeat, “but let me speak truth. I believe they were afraid.” He adds elsewhere a gentle but telling criticism, that lays the blame on the right shoulders. “A commander that enters the enemy’s countries ought to know the places that he doth attempt: if not he ought to be furnished with guides.” So ignorant were even educated Englishmen of the alphabet of war. Gilbert, however, did not learn his lesson quickly. A slight success, wherein the English displayed conspicuous gallantry, heated his ambition once more to boiling-point; he essayed another adventure in the grand manner, failed utterly, and sailed home with the scanty remnant of his regiment, a sadder and wiser man.

Morgan meanwhile had gone home and raised ten more companies, with which however he could do very little. The men were not paid on their disembarkation in Holland, as William of Nassau had promised them, and they became discontented and insubordinate. Morgan naturally took their part, and the result was, that after some few petty engagements against the[143] Spaniards, he took his departure in dudgeon and sailed with the seven hundred men that were left to him to England. He had done good work, and his name deserves to be remembered; for he was the first man who made perfect arquebusiers of the English, and the first who taught them to love the musket. Fifty years had flown since the Spaniards had shown the way, and the English were only just beginning to follow. Roger Williams on Morgan’s retirement took service with the Spaniards for a time, in order to learn his duty the better, and presently returned, without reproach, to wield the knowledge that he had gained against themselves. To such shifts were British officers reduced who wished to master their profession.
January 29.

To follow the actions of sundry other corps of volunteers during the succeeding years would be tedious. I pass at once to the landing in July 1577 of a company of three hundred Englishmen under the command of John Norris, one of the first and most eminent of the new school of officers who were the fathers of our Army. He had learned his work first in Ireland, and later in France under a great disciplinarian, the Admiral Coligny. He too arrived at a critical time. A few months after his disembarkation, while he was still in garrison at Antwerp, Don John of Austria surprised the Army of the States at Gemblours, and not only defeated it but shattered it to fragments. Six months later Don John attempted to repeat the blow against a second Army of the States, a heterogeneous force of English, Scotch, and Flemings, under the command of the veteran Huguenot, De la Noue. Having but fourteen thousand men against thirty thousand of the finest troops in Europe, De la Noue took up a strong position at Rymenant, near Malines, and stood on the defensive. After trying in vain to draw him from his entrenchments Don John finally launched a desperate attack on the quarter held by the English and Scotch under Norris. Four companies of Scots bore the first brunt of the assault, but were presently reinforced, just[144] in time, by Norris’s eleven companies of English; and then the struggle became as desperate as ever was fought by British soldiers. The Spanish troops were the flower of the army, the Old Regiment,[125] which had not its peer in Europe; but with all their magnificent training and discipline they could not carry the position. Three times they forced the British back, and three times when success seemed assured they were met by a resistance that would not be broken, and were hurled back in their turn. The day was intensely hot, and the British, scorning all armour, fought in their shirt-sleeves, but they fought hard, and not only hard but, thanks to John Norris, in good order. Norris himself, always in the thickest of the fight, had three horses killed under him in succession, but never lost hold of his men; and at last the famous infantry of Spain drew back, beaten, and Don John abandoned the attack. It was a great day for old “Bras de fer” De la Noue, but a still greater for John Norris and his British. They had, by general admission, not only saved the day, but they had repulsed the most formidable troops in the world.

During the years that follow Norris and his companies were incessantly engaged, generally victorious, though once at least defeated with heavy loss; their gallant leader, though frequently wounded, reappearing always whenever work was to be done. Their highest trial was when they encountered the greatest General of the day, Alexander of Parma, and the whole Spanish army with him, in a rearguard action, and beat them off with such persistent bravery that the French volunteers after the engagement crowded to their colours and begged to be allowed to serve under them. Norris indeed was the Moore of the sixteenth century, alike as a teacher in the camp and as a General in the field.
July 10.

Nevertheless, brilliant as his service was, he could not stay the victorious advance of the Spaniards. After ten years of fighting the Dutch States had lost almost the whole of Spanish Flanders except a few large towns and[145] the sea-coast from Dunkirk to Ostend, and still Elizabeth would not move to help the Dutch insurgents in a task, no less vital to England than to them, which lay beyond their strength. At last the assassination of William the Silent forced her to make up her uncertain mind to the inevitable rupture with Spain. The United Provinces were in the utmost need; the strong hand of Alexander of Parma was at the throat of Antwerp, and unless its grip could be relaxed the city must inevitably fall. The States threw themselves upon the English Queen, entreating her even to make them a part of her realm, and at last, after much paltry haggling, Elizabeth consented to send them four or five thousand men, taking over the towns of Brill, Flushing, Rammekins, and Ostend as security for their obligations towards her. Elizabeth was always careful to look after the money.

This agreement being at last concluded the press-gang[126] was at once set to work in England; four thousand men were raised and dressed in red coats, and within a fortnight after the signing of the Treaty they had crossed the North Sea, only to find that Antwerp was already in Parma’s hands and that they had come too late. Norris, however, at once took the force in hand, and was carrying on active operations with brilliant success when he was stopped by a peremptory rebuke from the Queen; the troops had been transported for the relief of Antwerp, and she would not have them employed on any other service. The States, naturally exasperated by this contemptible double-dealing, received the troops reluctantly into the cautionary towns and left them with no very good grace to take care of themselves. Elizabeth, as her nature was, had refused to send a penny of money or an ounce of supplies, and the soldiers, ill-fed, ill-clothed, and ill-lodged, began to melt away by hundreds through death and desertion.

In December, however, Robert, Earl of Leicester, was sent out as Commander-in-Chief of the forces in the Low Countries, and as he brought with him a reinforcement of cavalry, and also money sufficient to pay the arrears of the soldiers’ wages, it was hoped that matters would be placed on a better footing. But it was not to be. Elizabeth was not yet in earnest in breaking with Spain, and Leicester, gathering an inkling of her intentions from her refusal to provide him with additional funds, went very unwillingly to take up his command. On arriving in Holland he found things even worse than he had anticipated. The men were in a shocking state, dying fast of cold and hunger; they had not a penny wherewith to supply themselves; and their clothing was so deficient that for very nakedness they were ashamed to appear in public. Leicester with all his faults had evidently a genuine tenderness for his unfortunate soldiers; he wrote letter after letter pressing vehemently for money, but Elizabeth would not give a farthing. The natural consequences followed. By February half the men were dead, and the half that remained alive were in a state of suppressed mutiny. No good officer would accept a command in the army on such terms, and the companies fell into the hands of unscrupulous swindlers who sent their men out to plunder and did not omit to take their own share, rejoicing over every soldier who died or deserted for the money that would pass into their pockets when the long-deferred pay-day should come. There have been many sovereigns and many ministers in England who have neglected and betrayed their soldiers, but none more wantonly, wilfully, and scandalously than Elizabeth.

Nevertheless, as the spring of 1586 approached, it behoved Leicester to open a campaign of some kind. Parma was advancing along the line of the Maas, evidently bent on taking every fortified town on the river, and it was necessary if possible to check him. The Generals, however, were ill-matched; Parma easily brushed aside Leicester’s feeble opposition, and having[147] secured the line of the Maas turned next to that of the Rhine. Meanwhile a large reinforcement of men, unarmed and untrained, had been sent from England; and Leicester concentrated his forces, summoning all the garrisons of the cautionary towns to join him at Arnheim. Philip Sidney came from his government at Flushing, Lord Willoughby came from Bergen-op-Zoom, John Norris and his brother Henry hurried up likewise, the veteran Roger Williams joined them, and lastly, in the retinue of Lord Willoughby, came a young man of greater promise than any, named Francis Vere. The plan of operations was soon determined; since Parma could not be checked on the Rhine, he must be called away from it by a diversion in the north on the Yssel, where the Spaniards still held the towns of Doesburg and Zutphen.

All turned out as had been expected. Doesburg was easily captured, and Parma no sooner heard that Leicester was before Zutphen than he abandoned his operations on the Rhine and marched north to relieve it. Halting on the evening of the 21st of September at some distance from the town, he sent forward a convoy of supplies towards it, protected by an escort of three thousand men under the command of the Marquis of Pescayra.[127] The convoy was to start at midnight, and it was reckoned that it would be within a mile and a half of Zutphen by daybreak. Pescayra was then to halt at an appointed place, send a messenger into the town and concert arrangements with the Governor for a sortie to facilitate the entrance of the convoy.
Sept. 22
Oct. 2.

Intelligence of Parma’s design was duly brought to Leicester, who, calling John Norris, ordered him to take two hundred horse and three hundred foot and lie with them in ambuscade by the road by which the convoy was expected to arrive. Norris readily picked out two hundred horse, ordered Sir William Stanley to follow them with three hundred pikemen, and before dawn of the 22nd had successfully taken up the position[148] assigned to him. No force appears to have been detailed by Leicester to support the ambushed party, and no scouts to have been sent forward by Norris to give warning of the enemy’s approach. The morning broke with dense impenetrable fog, amid which the English could hear a distant sound of rumbling waggons and tramping men. Presently Norris was joined by all the adventurous gentlemen—Lord Essex, Lord Audley, Lord North, and many others—who were to be found in Leicester’s camp: they had not been able to resist the temptation of an action, and came galloping up with their retinue at their heels to see the sport. The sounds of the approaching convoy became more distinct, but nothing could be seen till the fog suddenly rolled away and revealed straight before them the three thousand Spaniards, horse and foot, marching by their waggons in beautiful order.

The English gentlemen threw all discipline to the winds at the sight: they never dreamed of anything but a direct attack, and one and all went at once, each in his own way, to work. Young Lord Essex called on his squadron of troopers to follow him, and couching his lance flew straight upon the enemy’s cavalry, overthrew the foremost man and horse, flung away his broken lance for his curtel-axe, and with his handful of men hard after him burst into a heavy Spanish column and shivered it to pieces. The routed Spaniards fled in disorder to the shelter of their musketeers, with Essex still spurring at their heels; and then Spanish discipline told. The musketeers fired a volley which brought down many of the English horses and compelled the rest to wheel about. Then the action became simply a series of furious personal combats. Sir Philip Sidney’s horse was killed under him at the first charge, but he mounted another and plunged into the hottest of the fight. Lord North, unable owing to a recent wound to draw on more than one boot, dashed in half-booted as he was and fought as busily as any. Sir William Russell swung his curtel-axe so murderously that the[149] Spaniards vowed he was a devil and no man. Lord Willoughby was so beset with enemies that only great good fortune and immense personal strength served to pluck him out. Sir William Stanley’s horse was struck by seven bullets but found strength to carry him safe out of action. And meanwhile the drivers of the waggons had fled, and English and Spanish soldiers were tugging the heads of the teams this way and that with oaths and yells and curses; but still Spanish discipline told, and still the convoy moved slowly forward. Again and again the Spanish horsemen shrank before the English cavaliers, but the firm ranks of the musketeers always gave them shelter, and, charge as the English might, the waggons crept on and on till they fairly entered the town. Nothing was gained by the action. The attack, if supported, might have been fatal to Pescayra, but no support could be looked for from Leicester, and there was so little intelligence in the onslaught that no one seems to have attempted even to hamstring the waggon-horses. Zutphen therefore remains no more than one of the maddest of the many mad exploits performed by English officers of cavalry, and is remembered chiefly through the death of one of the noblest of them. Before the action, Philip Sidney had given the thigh-pieces of his armour to the Lord Marshal, Sir William Pelham; at its close he was seen riding painfully back, with the unprotected thigh shattered by a musket bullet. He lingered in agony for some days and then died. His body was brought back to England to be followed to St. Paul’s Churchyard by the London train-bands and laid to rest, as befitted a good and gallant soldier, under the smoke of their volleys.[128]

Yet another scene of desperate valour was witnessed at Zutphen before the campaign came to an end. One principal protection of the town was an external[150] sconce,[129] which on a former occasion had resisted the troops of the States for a whole year, and was now carried by the English by assault. The breach was barely practicable, the footing on the treacherous sandy soil being so uncertain that the storming party could hardly mount it. Their leader, Edward Stanley, however, was not to be turned back. Dashing alone into the breach he caught the head of a Spanish soldier’s pike that was thrust out against him and tried to wrench the weapon from his grasp. Both men struggled hard for a time, while a dozen pikes were broken against Stanley’s cuirass and a score of bullets whistled about his ears. At last Stanley, without quitting his hold, allowed the Spaniard to raise the pike, used the purchase so gained to help him up the wall, scrambled over the parapet and leaped down alone into the press of the enemy with his sword. His men, redoubling their efforts, hoisted each other up the breach after him and the sconce was won. Stanley, marvellous to say, escaped unhurt, and received not only warm commendation in Leicester’s despatches, but a pension for life from Leicester’s own pocket, for the most daring act that is recorded of the whole of that long war.

The plot of the Spanish Armada now began to thicken, and the scene must be shifted for a moment to England. In the Low Countries Parma was looking about for a port of embarkation from which to ship his men across the North Sea. He fixed upon Sluys, and in spite of a desperate resistance from a handful of gallant Englishmen, led by Roger Williams, he succeeded in capturing it after a siege of three months. At the end of 1587 Leicester resigned his command and returned to England; and in the following year all the best officers, and many of the English companies, were gathered together in the camp at Tilbury. Leicester was in chief command, with John[151] Norris for his second, and Roger Williams among others for assistant, but these officers were not on very friendly terms with each other; and, indeed, the less said of Tilbury Camp as a whole the better. Contemporary writers indeed aver that it was a pleasant sight to see the soldiers march in from the various shires, “with cheerful countenances, courageous words and gestures, leaping and dancing”;[130] but such a display was a better indication of loyalty than of discipline, and sadly different from the pace, full of gravity and state, which had been enjoined by the best authorities. There was, moreover, great disorder and deformity of apparel; most of the men wore their armour very uncomely, and the whole army refused point-blank to use the headpieces issued from the Tower. Ammunition again was short, provisions were scanty, organisation was extremely defective, and the general confusion incredible. Four thousand men who had marched, pursuant to orders, twenty miles into Tilbury, found that they must go that distance from the camp again before they could find a loaf of bread or a barrel of beer. A thousand Londoners who were likewise in the march were ordered to halt unless they could bring their own provisions with them. Leicester might safely remark that “great dilatory wants are found upon all sudden hurly-burlies,”[131] but there was no excuse for such chaos after the incessant warnings of the past thirty years. Elizabeth must bear the chief share of the blame. The woman who in her imbecile parsimony starved the fleet that went forth to fight the Armada could not be expected to show better feeling towards the army. It was no thanks to the Queen that the Spanish invasion was repelled.

I shall not follow the veterans John Norris and Lord Willoughby on their expeditions to Corunna and Brittany in the following year. Far more important to us is the rise of a great leader, and the opening of a new era in the war of the Low Countries. [152]On Leicester’s resignation of the chief command, there was appointed to succeed him a man whose name must ever be venerated in the British Army, Prince Maurice of Nassau,[132] second son of William the Silent. Though but twenty years of age when selected as Governor and Commander-in-Chief of the United Provinces, he had already made up his mind that if the War of Independence were to end in victory it must be fought not, as heretofore, with a mob of irregular levies, but with a trained, disciplined, and organised army. His own natural bent lay chiefly towards mathematics, which he cultivated as a means to the mastery of military engineering, and eventually reduced to practice by so sedulous a use of the spade in all military operations as to provoke many a sneer from soldiers of a more primitive type. But Maurice knew his own mind, and was not to be deterred by sneers. His principal assistant was his cousin, Louis William, Stadtholder of Friesland, an industrious student of classical antiquity with the rare faculty of adapting old systems to modern requirements. To his diligence was due the instruction of the army in drill and discipline, and to his influence must be ascribed Maurice’s admiration for the Tactics of ?lian.[133] His new and elaborate man?uvres also elicited the scorn of the old school of officers,[134] but he too was not easily discouraged; and the two cousins worked hand-in-hand, the one at the broader principles, the other at the hardly less important details, of their profession, until they raised up an army which supplanted the Spanish as the model for Europe. Not the least [153]weighty of Maurice’s reforms was the regular payment of the men, and the stern repression of fraudulent practices among the officers. In a word, he appreciated the value of sound administration no less that of pure military skill and training in the conduct of a war.

The tactical organisation of the new army was not so perfect as, with the Spanish model before us, we might with reason have expected. The tactical unit of infantry was the company, and the regiment still consisted of an uncertain number of companies temporarily united under the command of a colonel. The composition of the companies again was uncertain. The normal strength was one hundred and thirteen men, which was later reduced to eighty, but colonels had double companies—some even double regiments—and there appears to have been no very great exactitude, probably because men could only be persuaded to serve under the captain of their choice. The officers of a company were of course captain, lieutenant, and ensign; the non-commissioned officers included two sergeants and three corporals, as well as a “gentleman of the arms,” who was responsible for the condition of the weapons. Lastly, there were two drummers, who, it should be noted, like the trumpeters in the cavalry, were not the mere signal-makers that they now are, but the men regularly employed in all communications with the enemy, and as such expected to possess not only discretion but some skill in languages. They received far higher pay than the common soldier, and if they did a tithe of that which was expected of them they were worth every penny of it.

Every company was divided into three corporalships, each of which was the peculiar care of one of the three corporals and of one of the three officers. In equipment there were at first three descriptions of arms—halberds, pikes, and muskets—of which however the halberds soon disappeared, leaving pikes and shot in equal numbers, but with an ever-growing tendency towards preponderance of shot. The normal formation of a company was[154] in ten ranks; and the men were never less than three feet apart from each other, such open order being essential to the execution of the prescribed evolutions. To increase the front, the ranks were doubled by moving the even ranks into the intervals of the odd; to diminish the front, the files were doubled by the converse process.[135] To take ground to flank or rear every man turned to right or left or about on his own ground, and it is worth remarking that the best men were always stationed in the front rank and the next best in the tenth, and that while the captain was posted in front of his company, the lieutenant, except in a charge, remained always in the rear.

The musketeers were usually drawn up in two divisions, one on either flank of the pikes; and the problem that eternally confronted the captain was how to handle the two elements in effective combination and yet contrive never to confuse them. In action the musketeers generally moved in advance of the pikes, firing by ranks in succession, according to Pescayra’s method, and filing to the rear to reload. Sometimes they were extended across the front of the pikes, but more often they kept their place on the flanks. Meanwhile the pikemen, heavily weighted by helmet, corselet, and tassets (thigh-pieces), moved stolidly on: as they drew nearer the enemy the musketeers fell back until they were first aligned with them, and then abreast of the fifth or sixth rank. If neither side gave way, matters came to push of pike and a general charge, wherein the musketeers ceased firing and fell in with the butt, a method of fighting which was peculiarly favoured by the English. To resist cavalry the musketeers fled for shelter under the pikes, generally in considerable disorder, and the[155] outer ranks of pikemen, lunging forward, stayed the butts of their pikes against the hollow of the left foot.

The cavalry was divided at first into lancers and carbineers, the former being fully covered with armour to the knee; but the lance, in deference to the fashion of the Reiters, was soon[136] discarded for the pistol. The carbineers carried a carbine[137] with a wheel-lock, and were trained to shoot from the saddle, the ranks firing in succession according to Pescayra’s system. The tactical unit was the troop or cornet, which, after many changes, was finally fixed at a strength of one hundred and twenty men, and divided, like the company, into three corporalships. Captain, lieutenant and cornet, three corporals, a trumpeter, a farrier, and a quartermaster made up the higher ranks of the troop, no such title as a sergeant appearing in the cavalry. Of artillery I shall say nothing, since the Dutch organisation was in this respect peculiar, and could not serve like that of the infantry and cavalry as a model for the English.

Concurrently with the rise of Maurice as Commander-in-Chief must be noted that of a new English General, whose name is bound up for ever with the actions of his countrymen in the Low Countries. Francis Vere came of the old fighting stock of the Earls of Oxford. The seventh Earl had fought with the Black Prince at Cre?y and Poitiers, the twelfth with King Harry at Agincourt, and succeeding holders of the title had distinguished themselves on the Lancastrian side in the Wars of the Roses. Francis, grandson of the fifteenth Earl, was born about 1560, came to Holland with Leicester in 1585, and after brilliant service at the defence of Sluys and elsewhere rose to be sergeant-major of infantry, a sure proof that he was not only a gallant man but an adept in his profession. Finally, in August 1589 he was appointed sergeant-major-general of the Queen’s forces [156]in the Low Countries, where he was joined by two gallant brothers, Horace and Robert, who worthily upheld the honour of the name.

His task, as that of every officer who had to do with such a woman as Elizabeth, was at first no easy one. His force being very small required constant reinforcement, and was accordingly strengthened by five hundred of the “very scum of the world,” such being the description of recruit that Elizabeth preferred to supply. He took care, however, to procure for himself better material, and at the opening of 1591 had no fewer than eight thousand men under his command. But as fast as he trained them into soldiers Elizabeth required their services for her own purposes, and frittered them away in petty meaningless operations in France, filling their place with some more of the very scum of the world, which could be swept out of the gaols and taverns at a moment’s notice. The system was in fact that of drafting, in its most vicious form. Vere for a time bore it in silence, but at last he protested, and like all of Elizabeth’s best men was soundly abused for his pains. Still the Queen knew his value well enough to withdraw not only his troops but himself from the expedition to Cadiz, and the disastrous island-voyage to the Azores.

A far more serious difficulty was the corruption of departments and contractors at home and the vicious system of paying the men. The wages of a private at eightpence a day were reckoned for the year at £12 : 13 : 4, of which £4 : 2 : 6 was deducted for two suits of summer and winter clothing,[138] £6 : 18 : 6 paid in imprests at the rate of 2s. 8d. a week, and the balance, £1 : 2 : 6, alone made over in money. Even in theory the allowance does not sound liberal, but in practice it was ruinous. The men drew their pay and clothing from their captains, and the captains received the money in uncertain instalments, the balance due to[157] them being made good at the close of every six months. This in itself was wasteful, since it enabled the captain to put in his own pocket the wages of soldiers who had died or had been discharged in the interval. But apart from this the captains frequently withheld the clothing altogether, or served out material of uncertain quality, charging the men treble the just price for the same; or again they would make their own contract for victualling the men, of course to their own profit, in lieu of paying to them the weekly 2s. 8d. which was due to them for subsistence. How widely the practice may have obtained among officers it is difficult to say, but the system was presently altered to the advantage alike of the State and the soldier by the officials in London. The officers also had their complaints, not a whit less sweeping, against those officials, and they preferred them in uncompromising terms. Such representations were not likely to meet with encouragement. Elizabeth was not friendly to soldiers, and hated to be troubled with obligations towards men who had faithfully served her. An Act had been passed in 1593 throwing the relief of crippled or destitute soldiers on their parishes, and she could not see what more they could want. Bloody Mary had shown them compassion; not so would Good Queen Bess; she would not be pestered with the sight of the “miserable creatures.” As to the complaints of officers, she had heard enough of their ways, and would take the word of the Treasurer of the Forces against theirs. Still Vere and his captains persisted, and at last the shameful truth was revealed that the Treasurer himself was the culprit, and had for years been cheating alike his Queen, her officers, and her men.

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“I don’t want to have my performance picked to pieces in that knowing sort of way. I play for my own amusement, and I don’t want to be criticised, and applauded, and patronised.”

“But how can people help applauding when you play? Lady Seely says you play exquisitely.”

“Did she tell you to ask me to play?”

“Not exactly. But she said I might ask you.”

At this moment General Dormer came up, and said, with 佛山夜生活约炮 his most benevolent smile, “Won’t you give us a little music, Miss Kilfinane? Some Beethoven, now! I see a volume of his sonatas on the piano.”

“I hate Beethoven,” returned Miss Kilfinane.

“Hate Beethoven! No, no, you don’t. It’s quite impossible! A pianist like you! Oh no, Miss Kilfinane, it is out of the question.”

“Yes, I do. I hate all classical music, and the sort of stuff that people talk about it.”

The general smiled again, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away.

“Miss Kilfinane, you are ferociously cruel!” said Algernon under his breath as General Dormer turned his back on them. The little fear he had had of Castalia’s chilly manner and ungracious tongue had quite vanished. Algernon was not apt to be in awe of anyone; and he certainly was not in awe of Castalia Kilfinane. “Why did you tell the 佛山桑拿qq群 general that you hated Beethoven?” he went on saucily. “I’m quite sure you don’t hate Beethoven!”

“I hate all the kind of professional jargon which the Dormers affect about music. Music is all very well, but it isn’t our business, any more than tailoring or millinery is our business. To hear the Dormers talk, you would think it the most important matter in the world to decide whether this fiddler is better than that fiddler, or what is the right time to play a fugue of Bach’s in.”

“I’m such an ignoramus that I’m afraid I don’t even know with any precision what a fugue of Bach’s is!” said Algernon, ingenuously. He thought he had learned to understand Miss Castalia. Nevertheless, when, later in the evening, Lady Harriet asked him in her pretty silver tones, “And do you, too, hate classical music, Mr. Errington?” he professed the 佛山桑拿0757 most unbounded love and reverence for the great masters. “I have had few opportunities of hearing fine music, Lady Harriet,” said he; “but it is the thing I have longed for all my life.” Whereupon Lady Harriet, much pleased at the prospect of such a disciple, invited him to go to her house every Saturday morning, when he would hear some of the best performers in London execute some of the best music. “I only ask real listeners,” said Lady Harriet. “We are just a few music-lovers who take the thing very much au sérieux.”

On the whole, when Algernon thought over his evening, sitting over the fire in his bedroom at the inn, he acknowledged to himself that he had been successful. “Lady Seely is the toughest customer, though! What a fish-wife she looks beside that elegant Lady Harriet! But she can put on airs of a great lady too, 佛山桑拿体验报告 when she likes. It’s a very fine line that divides dignity from impudence. Take her wig off, wash her face, and clothe her in a short cotton gown with a white apron, and how many people would know that Belinda, Lady Seely, had ever been anything but a cook, or the landlady of a public-house? Well, I think I am cleverer than any of ’em. And, after all, that’s a great point.” With which comfortable reflection Algernon Ancram Errington went to bed, and to sleep.
On the day following the dinner at Lord Seely’s, Algernon received a card, importing that Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs would be at home that evening.

Of the lady he knew nothing, except that she was an elder sister of young Pawkins, of Pudcombe Hall; and that her family, who were people of consideration in Whitford and its neighbourhood, thought Jemima to have made a good match in marrying Mr. Machyn-Stubbs. In giving him the letter of introduction, Orlando Pawkins had let fall a word or two as to the position his sister held in London society.

“I can’t send anybody and everybody to the Machyn-Stubbses,” said young Pawkins. “In their position, it wouldn’t be fair to inflict our bucolic magnates on them. But I’m sure Jemima will be very glad to make your acquaintance, old fellow.”

Algernon was quite free from arrogance. He would have been well enough contented to dine with Mr. Machyn-Stubbs, had that gentleman been a grocer or a cheesemonger. And, in that case, he would probably have

derived a good deal of amusement from any little vulgarities which might have marked the manners of his host, and would have entertained his genteeler friends by a humorous imitation of the same. But he was not in the least overawed by the prospect of meeting Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs, and was quite aware that he probably owed his introduction to her, to young Pawkins’s knowledge of the fact that he was Lady Seely’s relation.

Algernon betook himself to the house of Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs, in the fashionable neighbourhood before mentioned, about half-past ten o’clock, and found the small reception-rooms already fuller than was agreeable. Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs received him very graciously. She was a pretty woman, with a smooth fair face and light hair, and she was dressed with as much good taste as was compatible with the extreme of the prevailing fashion. She smiled a good deal, and was quite destitute of any sense of humour.

“So glad to see you, Mr. Errington,” said she, when Algernon had made his bow. “You and Orlando are great friends, are you not? You must let me make you acquainted with my husband.” Then she handed Algernon over to a stout, red-faced, white-haired gentleman, much older than herself, who shook hands with him, said, “How d’ye do?” and “How long have you been in town?” and then appeared to consider that he had done all that could be expected of him in the way of conversation.

“I suppose you don’t know many people here, Mr. Errington?” said Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs, seeing that Algernon was standing silent in the shadow of her husband.

“Not any. You know I have never been in London before.”

“Haven’t you, really? But perhaps we may have some mutual acquaintances notwithstanding. Let me see who is here!” said the lady, looking round her rooms.

“Are you acquainted with the Dormers, Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs?”

“The Dormers? Let me see——”

“General and Lady Harriet Dormer.”

“Oh! no; I don’t think I am. Of course I must have met them. In the course of the season, sooner or later, one meets everybody.”

“Do you know Miss Kilfinane?”

“Miss Kilfinane? I—I can’t recall at this moment——”

“She is a sort of connection of mine; not a relation, for she is Lord Seely’s niece, not my lady’s.”

“Oh, to be sure! You are a cousin of Lady Seely. Yes, yes; I had forgotten. But Orlando did mention it.”

In truth, the fact of Algernon’s relationship to 佛山桑拿0757n Lady Seely was the only one concerning him which had dwelt in Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs’s memory. Presently she resumed:

“I should like to introduce you to a great friend of ours—the most delightful creature! I hope he will come to-night, but he is very difficult to catch. He is a son of Lord Mullingar.”

“What, Jack Price?”

“Oh, you know him, do you?”

“Only by reputation. He was to have dined at Lord Seely’s last night, when I was there. But he didn’t show.”

“Oh, I know he’s dreadfully uncertain. But I must say, however, that he is generally very good about coming to me. It’s quite wonderful. I’m sure I don’t know why I am so favoured!”

Then Algernon was presented to a rather awful dowager, with two stiff daughters, to whom he talked as well as he could; and the nicest looking of whom he took into the tea-room, where there was 佛山桑拿按摩一条龙 a great crush, and where people trod on each other’s toes, and poked their elbows into each other’s ribs, to procure a cup of hay-coloured tea and a biscuit that had seen better days.

“Upon my word,” thought Algernon, “if this is London society, I think Whitford society better fun.” But then he reflected that Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs was not a real leader of fashionable society. She was not quite a rose herself, although she lived near enough to the roses for their scent to cling, more or less faintly, about her garments. He was not bored, for his quick powers of perception, and lively appreciation of the ludicrous, enabled him to gather considerable amusement from the scene. Especially did he feel amused and in his element when, on an allusion to his cousinship to Lady Seely, thrown out in the airiest, most haphazard way, the 佛山夜网狼女 awful dowager and the stiff daughters unbent, and became as gracious as temperament in the one case, and painfully tight stays in the other, permitted.

“He’s a very agreeable person, your young friend, Mr. Ancram Errington,” said the dowager, later on in the evening, to Mrs. Machyn-Stubbs.

“Oh yes; he’s very nice indeed. He is a great favourite with my people. He half lives at our place, I believe, when Orlando is at home.”

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The commission assembled that night.

On the 13th October, at six o’clock in the morning, Captain Stratti came into the king’s prison; he was sound asleep. Stratti was going away again, when he stumbled against a chair; the noise awoke Murat.

“What do you want with me, captain?” asked the king.

Stratti tried to speak, but his voice failed him.

“Ah ha!” said Murat, “you must have had news from Naples.”

“Yes, sire,” muttered Stratti.

“What are they?” said Murat.

“Your trial, sire.”

“And by whose order will sentence be pronounced, if you please? Where will they find peers to judge me? 佛山桑拿夜生活论坛 If they consider me as a king, I must have a tribunal of kings; if I am a marshal of France, I must have a court of marshals; if I am a general, and that is the least I can be, I must have a jury of generals.”

“Sire, you are declared a public enemy, and as such you are liable to be judged by court-martial: that is the law which you instituted yourself for rebels.”

“That law was made for brigands, and not for crowned heads, sir,” said Murat scornfully. “I am ready; let them butcher me if they like. I did not think King Ferdinand capable of such an action.”

“Sire, will you not hear the names of your judges?”

“Yes, sir, I will. It must be a curious list. Read it: I am listening.”

Captain Stratti read out the names that we have enumerated. Murat listened with a disdainful smile.

“Ah,” he said, as the captain finished, 佛山桑拿按摩一条龙那里好 “it seems that every precaution has been taken.”

“How, sire?”

“Yes. Don’t you know 佛山桑拿按摩论坛07 that all these men, with the exception of Francesco Froio, the reporter; owe their promotion to me? They will be afraid of being accused of sparing me out of gratitude, and save one voice, perhaps, the sentence will be unanimous.”

“Sire, suppose you were to appear before the court, to plead your own cause?”

“Silence, sir, silence!” said Murat. “I could, not officially recognise the judges you have named without tearing too many pages of history. Such tribunal is quite incompetent; I should be disgraced if I appeared

before it. I know I could not save my life, let me at least preserve my royal dignity.”

At this moment Lieutenant Francesco Froio came in to interrogate the prisoner, asking his name, his age, and his nationality. Hearing these questions, Murat rose with an expression of sublime dignity.

“I am Joachim 佛山桑拿一条龙服务 Napoleon, King of the Two Sicilies,” he answered, “and I order you to leave me.”

The registrar obeyed.

Then Murat partially dressed himself, and asked Stratti if he could write a farewell to his wife and children. The Captain no longer able to speak, answered by an affirmative sign; then Joachim sat down to the table and wrote this letter:

“DEAR CAROLINE OF MY HEART,—The fatal moment has come: I am to suffer the death penalty. In an hour you will be a widow, our children will be fatherless: remember me; never

forget my memory. I die innocent; my life is taken from me unjustly.

“Good-bye, Achilles good-bye, Laetitia; goodbye, Lucien; good-bye, Louise.

“Show yourselves worthy of me; I leave you in a world and in a kingdom full of my enemies. Show yourselves superior to adversity, and remember never to think yourselves 佛山桑拿一条龙 better than you are, remembering what you have been.

“Farewell. I bless you all. Never curse my memory. Remember that the worst pang of my agony is in dying far from my children, far from my wife, without a friend to close my eyes. Farewell, my own Caroline. Farewell, my children. I send you my blessing, my most tender tears, my last kisses. Farewell, farewell. Never forget your unhappy father,

“Pizzo, Oct. 13, 1815”

[We can guarantee the authenticity of this letter, having copied it ourselves at Pizzo, from the Lavaliere Alcala’s copy of the original]

Then he cut off a lock of his hair and put it in his letter. Just then General Nunziante came in; Murat went to him and held out his hand.

“General,” he said, “you are a father, you are a husband, one day you will know what it is to part from your wife and sons. Swear to 佛山桑拿蒲友网 me that this letter shall be delivered.”

“On my epaulettes,” said the general, wiping his eyes. [Madame Murat never received this letter.]

“Come, come, courage, general,” said Murat; “we are soldiers, we know how to face death. One favour—you will let me give the order to fire, will you not?”

The general signed acquiescence: just then the registrar came in with the king’s sentence in his hand.

Murat guessed what it was.

“Read, sir,” he said coldly; “I am listening.”

The registrar obeyed. Murat was right.

The sentence of death had been carried with only one dissentient voice.

When the reading was finished, the king turned again to Nunziante.

“General,” he said, “believe that I distinguish in my mind the instrument which strikes me and the hand that wields that instrument. I should never have thought that 佛山桑拿兼职qm女 Ferdinand would have had me shot like a dog; he does not hesitate apparently before such infamy. Very well. We will say no more about it. I have challenged my judges, but not my executioners. What time have you fixed for my execution?”


I was somewhat disappointed at this different ending to the narrative of Peppino, but it was very extraordinary that my adventure and that of the Frate should be so similar. It was broad day, I had overcome my superstitious fancies, yet the whole affair was so strange that I could not help feeling a qualm of fear, which I tried to laugh off, a proceeding which mightily offended Peppino.

“Signore, it is the truth I tell.”

“Suppose I prove it, Peppino. This is the month of May, and no doubt the feast takes place every night. You will show me the palace, and I will watch at the door of the secret room.”

“Dio! do not think of it, Illustrious,” cried Peppino in

alarm; “the Frate himself, a holy priest, was nearly killed, and you, Signore, you are a heretic.”

“And, therefore, liable to be carried off by his Satanic Majesty. You are complimentary, Peppino. Nevertheless, to-morrow you must show me the palace.”

“The Illustrious must excuse me.”

“And watch with me for this feast of ghosts.”

“Dio? the Signore jests!”

“No, indeed, Peppino! I am in sober earnest. We will go to the Palazzo Morone to-morrow; and now drive back to my hotel, as I feel very tired. Your story has been very entertaining, nevertheless.”

“Ah! the Signor does not believe me?” said Peppino, getting on the box again.

“Yes, I do, Peppino; but I believe your ghostly party can be explained away.”
The bruises I had received during my nocturnal adventure turned out to be worse than I

expected, especially one on the left knee-cap, which quite incapacitated me from walking; therefore I was forced to remain in the house all day. This was somewhat annoying, as I was anxious to find out the Palazzo Morone, and see the chamber of Donna Renata during daylight. I thought also that as the palace bore such an evil reputation, my lady of the sepulchre would think herself safe in leaving the dead body of the young man lying in the room, and if I discovered the corpse I intended to give notice to the authorities of the crime I had seen committed.

Unluckily, however, I had to remain in bed most of the day, and when Peppino came in to say that his fiacre was at the door I was obliged to send him away, much to his gratification, as he was by no means anxious to guide me to the haunted palace. The curious resemblance between

my own experience and the legend related by Peppino had rather startled me; but, being certain that I had to deal with the natural, and not the supernatural, I was firmly resolved to unravel this mystery before leaving Verona. To do this every moment was of value, and I bitterly regretted that my stiff knee kept me confined to the house. Everything, however, is for the best, 佛山桑拿0757n and before I saw the Palazzo Morone, fresh light was thrown upon the events of the night in a most unexpected manner.

After my one day of enforced idleness I was fully determined to seek the conclusion of my adventure the next, when on the following morning I received a note from Maestro Angello, asking me to be sure and come to my lesson. As the Maestro was always annoyed at the non-appearance of a pupil, I judged it wise to go, and arranged with Peppino to search for the Palazzo Morone in the afternoon. The lesson would only last an hour, and I would thus have plenty of time to carry out my intention, as Peppino, knowing the palazzo, would be able to take me there direct.

I felt much better this second day after my adventure, as the pain had quite left my knee, so having thus arranged my plans for the afternoon, I started 佛山夜生活无忧 in a very contented frame of mind for the Casa Angello.

It was a dreary day, for there are dreary days even in Italy, and at intervals there fell heavy showers, which made me feel somewhat depressed. Pedestrians were hurrying along with large umbrellas of the Gamp species, red being the prevailing colour; and what with the sloppy streets, the gloomy houses, and the absence of the chattering Italian populace, the whole place looked infinitely melancholy, so in order to keep up my spirits I hummed the weird air I had heard in the Palazzo Morone.

Maestro Angello lived in a narrow street more like a drain than anything else, and I entered into a damp courtyard through a dismal little tunnel barred by an iron gate. The portinaia, who lived in a glass-fronted room as if she were a unique specimen of the human race preserved 佛山桑拿0757 in a case, nodded her head to intimate that the Maestro was at home, so I climbed up the evil-smelling stone stairs which went up the side of the courtyard, and soon arrived at Angello’s door. Ringing a little bell which tinkled in a most irritating manner, I was admitted into the dingy ante-chamber by Petronella, a short, fat, good-natured woman who managed the whole household, and made a great deal of noise over doing so. She was dressed in an untidy print gown, with a bright red shawl over her shoulders, and wore wooden clogs which clattered noisily on the terra-cotta floor. Her plenteous hair was roughly twisted into a knot and stuck through with large brass pins, which gave her a spiky appearance about the head. This curious apparition saluted me with a jolly smile in a gruff voice, with the usual familiarity of Italian 佛山桑拿体验 servants,–

“Sta bene! Signore. Ah, the Maestro! povero Maestro!”

“What’s the matter with him, Petronella?”

“Eh! Signore, he cannot live much longer.”

As Angello was considerably over eighty years of age I thought this highly probable, but was about to condole with Petronella over his illness, when she saved me the trouble of a reply by bursting out into a long speech delivered with much dramatic effect:–

“It is nothing but trouble, Signore. Such a fine young man, and the piccola loved him so! It will surely place the Maestro among the saints. Four masses for his soul, Signore; and those priests are such thieves. I said ‘No lesson,’ but the Maestro is a mule for having his own way. Let him teach, say I; it will divert his mind! There, Signore, go in with you! But I always thought it would come; four times I heard the cock 佛山桑拿网论坛 crowing, a bad sign, as Saint Peter knew. There, there! the Madonna aid us!”

Not understanding in the least what Petronella was talking about, I allowed myself to be pushed mechanically into the inner room in a state of bewilderment. The Maestro, seated in his usual chair, was waiting for me, and his granddaughter, Bianca, who assisted him in his lessons, was looking out of the window at the falling rain. An atmosphere of sadness seemed to pervade the dull, grey room, and as Bianca advanced to meet me I saw that her eyes were red with crying, while old Angello stared at her in a listless, indifferent manner, being so old as to be past all sympathetic feelings.

He was a mere mummy, this old man who had been celebrated as a teacher of singing in the days of Pasta and Malibran; a faint shadow of his former self, only kept 佛山桑拿按摩一条龙服务 alive by the mechanical exercise of his art. Yet, in spite of his great age, his ear was wonderfully keen and true; the sense of hearing, from continuous cultivation, being the only one which had survived the wreck of his faculties, and with the assistance of Bianca, he was still enabled to teach his wonderful system in an intelligible manner. Many of his pupils had been European, celebrities on the operatic stage during the past fifty years, and his rooms in Milan were crowded with souvenirs of famous artists of undying fame. His children, and, with the exception of Bianca, his grandchildren, were all dead; his friends and acquaintances and the generation that knew him had all passed away; but this Nestor of lyrical art still survived, alone and sad, amid the ruins of his past. White-haired, wrinkled, blear-eyed, silent, he sat 佛山夜网狼女 daily in his great armchair, taking but little notice of the life around him, save to ask childish questions or talk about some dead-and-gone singer whose fame had once filled the world; but place a baton in his hand, strike the piano, lift the voice, and this apparent corpse awoke to life. He beat time, he corrected the least false note, he explained the necessary instructions in a faltering voice, and, during the lesson, bore at least some semblance of life; but when all was finished, the baton fell from his withered hand as he relapsed into his former apathy. One would have thought that he would have been glad to rest in his old age, but such was his love for his art that he insisted upon teaching still, and it was this alone which kept him alive. His granddaughter, Bianca, trained in the family traditions, was enabled to interpret his words, and, as his system of singing was unique, in spite of his apparent uselessness, he had many pupils.

Bianca herself was a charming Italian girl of twenty, more like a graceful white lily in appearance than anything else, so fragile, so delicate, so pallid did she seem. Her mournful eyes, dark and soft as those of a gazelle, seemed too large for her pale, oval face; and her figure, small and slender, always put me in mind of that of a fairy. Indeed, in sport, I sometimes called her the Fairy of Midnight, after some poet-fancy that haunted my brain, for all her strength seemed to have gone into those glorious masses of raven-black hair, coiled so smoothly round her small head. This portraiture seems to give the idea that Bianca was a melancholy young person, yet such was not the case, for I have seen her as gay as a bird on bright days, or when she received a letter from her lover.

Yes! she had a lover to whom she was engaged to be married, but, curiously enough, I knew nothing about this lover, not being intimate enough with Bianca to be the confidant of her tender little secret. This unknown lover was always away in other parts of Italy, and when he did visit Bianca it was during my absence, so I used to joke with the Signorina about this visionary being. But she, with one delicate finger on her lip and an arch smile of glee, would tell me that he–she never mentioned his name–that he had an actual existence, and some day I would see him in person at Verona. Well, here was Verona, here was Bianca, but the lover had not appeared, so I would have jestingly asked this Fairy of Midnight the reasons of his absence, had not the real grief expressed on her face deterred me.

“Signorina, are you in trouble?”

“Yes, yes! Signore, great trouble; but you cannot help me. No one can help me.”

“But perhaps I—-”

“No, Signore, it is useless. Come, you must have the lesson at once. The Maestro is dull to-day, he needs amusement; so come, the lesson.”

“It is very cruel of you to make a joke of my lesson, Signorina.”

Bianca made no reply to my jesting remark, but heaving a little sigh, placed the ivory baton in the hand of the Maestro and sat down at the piano. The mummy, finding his services required, woke up and had a little conversation with me before beginning the lesson.

“Eh! Signor Inglése,” he croaked–this being his name for me–“London is dark!”

He had a fearful prejudice against London, which he had once visited at a foggy season, and always made the above remark to his English pupils, which no one ever thought of contradicting.

“Yes, yes!” he said, nodding his old head like a Chinese mandarin; “London is always dark.”

“Yes, Maestro.”

“You’ve not been working?”

“Indeed I have, Maestro.”

“Come then, Signor Inglése, we will see,” and the lesson commenced.

Oh, those lessons! what agonies I suffered during them, trying to attain the impossible! To how many fits of despair have I given way in failing time after time to manage my breathing! It was all breathing–a deep drawing in, a slow letting out–the exercise of internal muscles of which I had never heard even the name–the weariness of incessantly practising notes in a still, small voice hardly audible,–it was enough to discourage the most persevering. Some of the female pupils, I believe, cried with vexation when not able to do what was required by the severe Maestro, who denied the existence of the word “impossible” in connection with singing; but I, not being a woman, was reduced to swearing, which certainly relieved my feelings after a battle with a particularly aggravating exercise.