Entries from November 2005 ↓

“You have embarked on a new study—anthropology. What characteristic strikes you most forcibly in connection with it? Cunning? The necklace might be where the skeleton is. Why not begin at the beginning?”

“Drop all investigation. The hands that return these jewels command it.”

“Pitted against the inherited cunning of the ages, you have no chance. I will take compassion upon you. Look in the right-hand drawer of your desk.”

“In the great scheme of things, the Supreme Ruler of the Universe divided an inheritance amongst His children. To one He gave power, to another strength, to another beauty, but to His favourites He gave cunning.”

“You will fail here as you have failed before. Better go back. There is more danger for you in this country than you dream of.”

“To Sanford Quest.

“You have escaped this time by a chance of fortune, not because your wits are keen, not because of your own shrewdness; simply because Fate willed it. It will not be for long.”

“There is not one amongst you with the wit of a Mongar child. Good-bye!”

“The Hands!”

“Fools, all of you! The cunning of the ages defeats your puny efforts at every turn.

“The Hands!”

“You have all lost again. Why not give it up? You can never win.

“The Hands.”

“Even time fights you. It loses that you may lose.

“The Hands.”

“Fools! Tongues of flame will cross Quest’s path. He will never reach the depot alive.”

“You have been a clever opponent, Sanford Quest, but even now you are to be cheated. The wisdom of the ages outreaches yours, outreaches it and triumphs.”

Not a little has been written regarding the rapid destruction of the vast white-pine forests with which nature has covered large districts of Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. It is true that this denudation has progressed at a rate with which nothing of a like character in the history of the world is comparable. It is also true, doubtless, that the clearing away of dense forest areas has been attended with some inconvenient climatic results, and particularly with some objectionable effects upon the even distribution of rainfall and the regularity of the flow of rivers. But most persons who have been alarmed at the rapidity of forest destruction in the white-pine belt have wholly overlooked the great compensating facts. It happens that the white-pine region is not especially fertile, and that for some time to come it is not likely to acquire a prosperous agriculture. But adjacent to it and beyond it there was a vast region of country which, though utterly treeless, was endowed with a marvelous richness of soil and with a climate fitted for all the staple productions of the temperate zone. This region embraced parts of Illinois, almost the whole of Iowa, southern Minnesota, Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, and parts of Montana–a region of imperial extent. Now, it happens that for every acre of pine land that has been denuded in Michigan, northern Wisconsin, and northern Minnesota there are somewhere in the great treeless region further south and west two or three new farm-houses. The railroads, pushing ahead of settlement out into the open prairie, have carried the white-pine lumber from the gigantic sawmills of the Upper Mississippi and its tributaries; and thus millions of acres of land have been brought under cultivation by farmers who could not have been housed in comfort but for the proximity of the pine forests. The rapid clearing away of timber areas in Wisconsin has simply meant the rapid settlement of North and South Dakota, western Iowa, and Nebraska.

The settlement of these treeless regions means the successful growth on every farm of at least several hundred trees. Without attempting to be statistical or exact, we might say that an acre of northern Minnesota pine trees makes it possible for a farmer in Dakota or Nebraska to have a house, farm buildings, and fences, with a holding of at least one hundred and sixty acres upon which he will successfully cultivate several acres of forest trees of different kinds. Even if the denuded pine lands of the region south and west of Lake Superior would not readily produce a second growth of dense forest–which, it should be said in passing, they certainly will–their loss would be far more than made good by the universal cultivation of forest trees in the prairie States. It is at least comforting to reflect, when the friends of scientific forestry warn us against the ruthless destruction of standing timber, that thus far at least in our Western history we have simply been cutting down trees in order to put a roof over the head of the man who was invading treeless regions for the purpose of planting and nurturing a hundred times as many trees as had been destroyed for his benefit! There is something almost inspiring in the contemplation of millions of families, all the way from Minnesota to Colorado and Texas, living in the shelter of these new pine houses and transforming the plains into a shaded and fruitful empire.

A systematic analysis of the titles of works of fiction, if undertaken in a scientific spirit, might lead to some interesting, if not positively valuable, re-suits. A collection, classification, and comparison of the products of the mental energy—we had almost said agony—expended in thinking up appropriate names for stories might possibly come within the scope of the work of the Society for Psychical Research. So serious an undertaking as a matter of scientific or philosophical speculation, however, is out of place here. But, nevertheless, it may interest the readers of this department to have called to their attention a few curiosities in the titles of recent novels which, possibly, have escaped them. To be sure, nothing of any very profound significance is disclosed, nothing more, perhaps, than a series of coincidences. The title of Mrs. Wharton’s book, “The House of Mirth,” was a striking one, though if it had not been the name of the most successful book of the winter, it might have attracted little notice of itself. But the very popularity of the book, the talk it created, put its name into the mouth of everybody, and so the reiteration of the title began to attract attention; it was even used, we believe, to describe a house in Albany dedicated to the entertainment of members of the legislature. Next appeared another popular book, “The House of a Thousand Candles,” and it is easy to see how curiosity was stimulated to discover other titles of novels with similar names. No great effort or research was required to make up this list:

• “The House of Cards,”
• “The House of Hawley,”
• “The House of Dreams,”
• “The House of Sin,”
• “The House of Fulfilment,”
• “The House of Merrilees,”
• “The House of Mystery,”
• “The House of the Black Ring,”
• “The House of Mirth,”
• “The House of a Thousand Candles,”
• “The House of a Hundred Lights,”
• “The House in the Mist.”

In the same way other names with a key word, so to speak, were suggested, hearts, for instance, being as popular as houses. Here are some of them:

• “Heart’s Haven,”
• “Heart’s Desire,”
• “Hearts and Masks,”
• “Hearts in Exile,”
• “Brave Hearts,”
• “Contrite Hearts,”
• “The Heart of Lady Anne,”
• “The Heart of a Girl,”
• “The Heart of Hope,”
• “The Heart of the World,”
• “The Heart of Happy Hollow,”
• “The Heart of Rome,”
• “Jules of the Great Heart.”

More curious than these, however, is the attraction that colors seem to have for title-makers, and in this list the degree of popularity of each color is noticeable:

• “The Black Motor-Car,”
• “The Black Barque,”
• “The House of the Black Ring,”
• “Black Friday,”
• “Black Beauty,”
• “The Black Arrow,”
• “The Black Spaniel,”
• “The Red Cravat,”
• “The Red Triangle,”
• “The Red Book of Romance.”
• “The Red Window,”
• “The White Terror and the Red,”
• “For the White Christ,”
• “White Aprons,”
• “The White Cat,”
• “The Yellow Cat,”
• “The Yellow Journalist,”
• “The Yellow Holly,”
• “Purple Peaks Remote,”
• “The Purple Parasol,”
• “Purple and Fine Linen,”
• “Green Mansions,”
• “The Green Shay,”
• “The Gray World,”
• “The Blue Cockade,”
• “The Scarlet Pimpernel,”
• “The Scarlet Empire.”

It may be considered doubtful whether “Freckles” should be included in this list, but our readers can take their choice according to their tastes.

If space permitted, this sort of thing could be carried on almost indefinitely. Flowers, fruits, and precious stones, man, woman, girl, are made to do duty, as well as all the family relatives, except “father.” Mother, daughter, and brother are to be found.

The selection of a name for a story has a good deal to do with its success, as authors and publishers know, sometimes to their cost. Just how much careful forethought is given to the problem in individual cases is indicated to some extent by the showing that these titles make.

By the death of Joseph Roberts, a California pioneer, Santa Cruz lost a genuine Robinson Crusoe, for Mr. Roberts had passed through in early manhood all the thrilling adventures and exciting life which endear Defoe’s hero to the reading boy and girl. Sixty-seven years ago, on St. Valentine’s Day, Joseph Roberts was born in Falkirk. His family for years had been seafaring people, so that as he grew up he took to the sea naturally, and while only 14 years of age, while his playmates were still cabin boys, he was made second mate of a sailing vessel. Before he was 15 he made his first long voyage from home, and followed the sea until he reached manhood. He visited many foreign countries and the islands which dot the ocean, but never landed in the United States until he sailed through the Golden Gate in 1851.

There was one of the many stories of adventure which Roberts told which never grew stale to young or old. It was the story of the months he spent on a cannibal island in the Pacific. Mr. Roberts was on a cruise among the South Sea islands on an English merchantman, and when land was sighted he went ashore, knowing that although the island was inhabited by cannibals, they were peaceable. But in his absence the captain ordered the anchor up and all sails set, and for eight months he was left alone among a lot of South Sea islanders.

The natives worshipped him as a deity, and the king shared his own palm hut with him. The natives on that island believe in feeding their god, so Mr. Roberts lived on the fat of the island. The daintiest fish, the rarest game, and the earliest and sweetest fruits were laid as offerings at his door. Five dusky girls waited on him, served him with food and wove garlands of flowers with which they crowned him. Whenever he went to the seashore he was followed by an admiring host of natives. He was the first man on the island, the divinity of the natives, the king of their king. Mr. Roberts used to say that he liked the adoration of the South Sea islanders, but as the months passed he grew homesick and longed for the sight of white faces. Civilization seemed a very desirable thing, but he accepted the situation.

At the end of eight months’ stay on the island, upon awakening one morning, he saw a ship lying at anchor in the bay. Pretending to the natives that he wished to board the vessel to trade with the sailors, they took him out to her in a canoe and he climbed up the side of an American ship. The captain and sailors were more than astonished to see a white man, and Roberts begged to be accepted as a sailor, a passenger, or anything, so he could once more reach civilization. On this ship he entered the United States for the first time, for the sailing vessel was bound for San Francisco. When the natives learned that their white god was going to leave them they put out to sea in all their boats, following the sailing vessel for miles, screaming, crying and beseeching him to jump overboard and return to them.

Four quarts chopped cabbage, two quarts green tomatoes chopped, one quart onions, one pint of peppers, four tablespoons of mustard, two tablespoons ginger ground, two tablespoons cloves, one tablespoon tumeric, one tablespoon celery seed, two pounds of sugar, handful salt, four quarts vinegar and boil one hour.–Mrs. J. Turrill.

The following incidents are narrated in the life of Rev. Dr. Wayland, just published, of his own mother:

One or two circumstances in the life of Mrs. Wayland were sufficiently remarkable to merit recital. No explanation of them is attempted. At the time of their removal to America, it was the design of Mr. Wayland and his wife to return in a few years to visit the relatives whom they had left behind, especially the mother of Mrs. W. This purpose they often spoke of to each other. But one morning, after they had been some years in the country, she said to him on waking, “I do not wish to return to England. My mother is dead.” No previous intimation of her ill health had been received. He, unknown to her, made a minute of the time of her declaration; and a subsequent arrival brought the news of the event, which had occurred at about the time at which her mind was thus impressed.

When her son–the subject of this memoir–was expected home from New York, after attending medical lectures there, during the winter of 1814-15, Mrs. W., who was sitting with her husband, suddenly walked the room in great agitation, saying “Pray for my son; Francis is in danger.” So urgent was her request that her husband joined her in prayer for his deliverance from peril. At the expected time he returned. His mother at once asked, “What has taken place?” It appeared that while coming up the North River, on a sloop, he had fallen overboard, and the sloop had passed over him. He was an athletic swimmer, and readily kept himself afloat till he could be rescued. Was it the unspeakable power of a mother’s love that imparted a vision more than natural?

A curiosity which astonishes scientists and puzzles them to account for is now on exhibition in Gould’s cabinet at Mill City. It is a perfectly formed hand, which apparently belonged to a boy about fourteen years of age. The hand is open, the fingers being slightly bent toward the palm, on which the thumb rests. The back of the hand seems to have been crushed or decomposed before it was petrified, but the palm, thumb and fingers are perfect. We were informed it was found at the sulphur beds near Rabbit Hole, by one of the men employed in shoveling crude sulphur into the refining retort, and is supposed to have been imbedded in the sulphur bank for ages. The fingers are comparatively short, a fact which indicates that it did not belong to an Indian, as the red men’s fingers are generally longer than those of whites; but the thumb is rather longer than the average. To what race the owner of the hand belongs, and how and when it was imbedded in the sulphur, will probably ever remain unknown, unless some eminent scientists should investigate the hand and the sulphur bank where it was found and explain these mysteries.–Winnemucca (Nev.) Silver State.

Then according to his promise he presented her Majesty with an English Bible, of a very fair print and richly bound; and upon that they had this discourse:–

Whitelocke. If your Majesty would be pleased to spend some time in reading this Bible, and comparing it with those in other languages, it would be a great help to your understanding of the English, if your Majesty have any further thoughts thereof.

Queen. My desire still is to gain the English tongue, and I think this which you mention will be a good way to learn it. I ask your pardon that you staid so long before you came in to me; nobody told me of your being without, and I am ashamed of this incivility.

Whitelocke. The incivility, Madam, is on my side, by interrupting your greater affairs; but I come not now as an ambassador, but as a particular servant to bring this Bible to your Majesty.

Queen. It is a noble present, and there was the less reason to make you stay for admittance with it.

Whitelocke. This book was presented to me by an English doctor, with a letter mentioning the text that the Beræans were accounted the more noble because they received the word with gladness, as I hope your Majesty will.

Queen. I receive it from you with much thankfulness, and shall gladly make use of it as the best of books.

Whitelocke. Your Majesty, by often reading it, and comparing it with other Bibles, will not only thereby gain advantage as to the language, but the highest comfort to your soul.

Queen. I have used to read much in the Bible, and take great contentment in it.

Whitelocke. Your Majesty will find more contentment and comfort in the study of this book than of all other books whatsoever, and therefore I do humbly recommend the often reading of it to your Majesty.

Queen. I doubt you have an ill opinion of me that you so earnestly persuade me to this, as if you thought me too backward in it.