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which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

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which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

weakness

How many times the word 'weakness' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

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which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

nephew

How many times the word 'nephew' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

went

How many times the word 'went' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

for

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which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

bien

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which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

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which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

he

How many times the word 'he' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

extacy

How many times the word 'extacy' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

maids

How many times the word 'maids' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

mistress

How many times the word 'mistress' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

quite

How many times the word 'quite' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

gracious

How many times the word 'gracious' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

ship

How many times the word 'ship' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

shore

How many times the word 'shore' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

hardly

How many times the word 'hardly' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

eats

How many times the word 'eats' appears in the text?

which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

we

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which had increased his disgust to that way of life so much, that he rather chose to go to service on shore, than enter himself on board of any other ship. Before I took possession of my new place, she gave me a sketch of my mistress's character, that I might know better how to regulate my conduct. Your lady, said she, is a maiden of forty years, not so remarkable for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge that she neglects her person even to a degree of sluttishness; this negligence, together with her contempt of the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no great concern, as by these means he will probably keep her fortune, which is considerable in the family. He therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance from the other inhabited parts of the house; and consists of a dining-room, bedchamber, and study; she keeps a cook maid, a waiting-woman, and footman, of her own, and seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her aunt often to the prejudice of her own health by sitting up with her whole nights together; for your mistress is too much of a philosopher to be swayed by the custom of the world, and never sleeps nor eats like other people. Among other odd notions, she professes the principles of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is possible for the human species to entertain correspondence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living chaste. As she hopes one day to be admitted into an acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me and my cat, than she paid me a visit, with a view, as she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar; and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed in her expectation. Being by this visionary turn of mind abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot advert to the common occurrences of life; and therefore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange mistakes and extravagancies, which you will do well to rectify and repair, as your prudence shall suggest. CHAPTER XXXIX My Reception by that Lady--I become enamoured of Narcissa--recount the particulars of my last misfortune--acquire the good opinion of my Mistress--an Account of the young Squire--I am made acquainted with more particulars of Narcissa's Situation--conceive a mortal hatred against Sir Timothy--examine my Lady's library and performances--her extravagant behaviour Fraught with these useful instructions, I repaired to the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one foot on the ground, and the other upon a high stool at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung down, in a disorder I cannot call beautiful, from her head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of a pen in the other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled; her eyes were large, gray, and prominent; her nose was long, and aquiline: her mouth of vast capacity, her visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like a shoemaker's paring knife; her upper lip contained a large quantity of plain Spanish, which, by continual falling, had embroidered her neck, that was not naturally very white, and the breast of her gown, that flowed loose about her with a negligence that was truly poetic, discovering linen that was very fine, and, to all appearance, never washed but in Castalian streams. Around her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes, and other learned apparatus; her snuff-box stood at her right hand: at her left hand lay her handkerchief, sufficiently used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one side of her chair. She being in a reverie when we entered, the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time she bit the quill several times, altered her position, made many wry faces, and, at length, with an air of triumph, repeated aloud: Nor dare th'immortal gods my rage oppose! Having committed her success to paper, she turned towards the door, and perceiving us, cried, What's the matter? Here's the young man, replied my conductress, whom Mrs. Sagely recommended as a footman to your ladyship. On this information she stared in my face for a considerable time, and then asked my name, which I thought proper to conceal under that of John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curious eye, she broke out into, O! ay, thou wast shipwrecked, I remember. Whether didst thou come on shore on the back of a whale or a dolphin? To this I answered, I had swam ashore without any assistance. Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the Hellespont, and swam from Sestos to Abydos. I replied in the negative; upon which she bade the maid order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in the articles of my duty: so she spit in her snuff-box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the table, instead of a handkerchief. We returned to the kitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed to vie with each other in expressing their regard for me; and from them I understood, that my business consisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth, waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my lady when she went abroad. There was a very good suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my predecessor deceased, and it fitted me exactly; so that there was no occasion for employing a tailor on my account. I had not been long equipped in this manner, when my lady's bell rung; upon which, I ran up stairs, and found her stalking about the room in her shift and under petticoat only; I would immediately have retired as became me, but she bade me come in, and air a clean shift for her; which operation I having performed with some backwardness, she put it on before me without any ceremony, and I verily believe was ignorant of my sex all that time, as being quite absorbed in contemplation. About four o'clock in the afternoon I was ordered to lay the cloth, and place two covers, which I understood were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not as yet seen. Though I was not very dexterous at this work, I performed it pretty well for a beginner, and, when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress approach, accompanied by the young lady, whose name for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness appeared in the countenance and carriage of this amiable apparition, that my heart was captivated at first sight, and while dinner lasted, I gazed upon her without intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet; her arched eyebrows of the same colour; her eyes piercing, yet tender; her lips of the consistence and hue of cherries; her complexion clear, delicate and healthy; her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane; and the whole person so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible for any creature endued with sensibility, to see without admiring, and admire without loving her to excess. I began to curse the servile station that placed me so far beneath the regard of this idol of my adoration! and yet I blessed my fate, that enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfection! When she spoke I listened with pleasure; but when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an extacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to be the subject of their conversation; for Narcissa, having observed me, said to her aunt, I see your new footman is come. Then addressing herself to me, asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had satisfied her in this; she expressed a desire of knowing the other particulars of my fortune, both before and since my being shipwrecked: hereupon (as Mrs. Sagely had counselled me) I told her that I had been bound apprentice to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination, which ship had foundered at sea; that I and four more, who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made shift to swim to the shore, when my companions, after having overpowered me, stripped me to the shirt, and left me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received in my own defence. Then I related the circumstances of being found in a barn, with the inhuman treatment I met with from the country people and parson; the description of which, I perceived, drew tears from the charming creature's eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mistress, said, Ma foi! le garcon est bien fait! To which opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my understanding, in the same language, that flattered my vanity extremely. The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under the title of the Savage; and was informed by her niece that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last night's debauch, and recruiting strength and spirits to undergo a fox chase to-morrow morning, in company with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, and a great many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had invited on that occasion! so that by daybreak the whole house would be in an uproar. This was a very disagreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the more sound, that she might not be disturbed and distracted by the clamour of the brutes. When their dinner was over, I and my fellow servants sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that Sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neighbourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had been projected by her brother, who promised at the same time to espouse Sir Timothy's sister; by which means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be never the poorer; but that the ladies did not concur in the scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt for the person allotted to her for a husband by this agreement. This information begat in me a mortal aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption. Next morning, by daybreak, being awakened by the noise of the hunters and hounds, I rose to view the cavalcade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accomplishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to Narcissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew's company, that she did not rise till five o'clock in the afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining her study at leisure, to which examination I was strongly prompted by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve, and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or capacity to bring to any degree of composition: but, what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there was not the least mention made of love in any of her performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies, the titles of which were The Stern Philosopher, The Double, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of Lucifer, and The Last Day. From whence I gathered, that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination delighted with objects of horror. Her library was composed of the best English historians, poets, and philosophers; of all the French critics and poets, and of a few books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these, translations of the classics into French, but not one book in Greek or Latin; a circumstance that discovered her ignorance in these languages. After having taken a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset by the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch for breakfast. When I expressed my surprise in this unaccountable imagination she gave me to understand that her lady was very much subject to whims of this nature; sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a piece of furniture, during which conceited transformations it was very dangerous to come near her, especially when she represented a beast; for that lately, in the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched her face in a terrible manner: that some months ago, she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand, and nothing would be able to quench it but her water, which therefore she kept so long, that her life was in danger, and she must needs have died of the retention, had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate, by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window and persuading her that the house was in flames: upon which, with great deliberation, she bade them bring all the tubs and vessels they could find to be filled for the preservation of the house, into one of which she immediately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was also informed that nothing contributed so much to the recovery of her reason as music, which was always administered on those occasions by Narcissa, who played perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt's disorder. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned by the bell to my lady's chamber, where I found her sitting squat on her hands on the floor, in the manner of puss when she listens to the outcries of her pursuers. When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look, and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me, whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirsting after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion, I retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Narcissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of my mistress; she said not a word, but smiling with unspeakable grace, went into her aunt's apartment, and in a little time my ears were ravished with the efforts of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my mistress which composed to peace and sober reflection. About seven o'clock, the hunters arrived with the skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them as trophies of their success; and when they were about to sit down to dinner (or supper) Sir Timothy Thicket desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her presence; but this request, notwithstanding her brother's threats and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending her aunt, who was indisposed; so I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this disappointment made no great impression on him, who consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole company became so enamoured that, after a most horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened on my contemplation every day more and more. Inglorious as my station was, I became blind to my own unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day enjoying this amiable creature, whose, affability greatly encouraged these presumptuous thoughts. CHAPTER XL My mistress is surprised at my learning--communicates her performances to me--I impart some of mine to her--am mortified at her faint praise--Narcissa approves of my conduct--I gain an involuntary conquest over the cookwench and dairymaid--their mutual resentment and insinuations--the jealousy of their lovers During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse, which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced several small performances on the subject of my flame. But as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered in my character and sentiments, I was under a necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining my works to my own perusal and applause. In the meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time I was at least a favourite servant; and frequently enjoyed the satisfaction of hearing myself mentioned in French and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise by the dear object of all my wishes, as a person who had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like a common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were not long proof against these bewitching compliments. One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation turned upon a knotty passage of Tasso's Gierusalem, which, it seems, had puzzled them both: after a great many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking the book out of her pocket, turned up the place in question, and read the sentence over and over without success; at length, despairing of finding the author's meaning, she turned to me, saying, Come hither, Bruno; let us see what fortune will do for us: I will interpret to thee what goes before, and what follows this obscure paragraph, the particular words of which I will also explain, that thou mayst, by comparing one with another, guess the sense of that which perplexes us. I was too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my talents; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the utter astonishment of both. Narcissa's face and lovely neck were overspread with blushes, from which I drew a favourable opinion, while her aunt, after having stared at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed, In the name of heaven who art thou? I told her I had picked up a smattering of Italian, during a voyage up the Straits. At this explanation she shook her head, and observed that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then desired to know if I understood French. To which question I answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was acquainted with the Latin and Greek? I replied, A little. Oho! continued she, and with philosophy and mathematics, I suppose? I owned I knew something of each. Then she repeated her stare and interrogation. I began to repent of my vanity, and in order to repair the fault I committed, said, it was not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education, for learning was so cheap in my country, that every peasant was a scholar; but, I hoped her Ladyship would think my understanding no exception to my character. No, no, God forbid. But during the rest of the time they sat at table, they behaved with remarkable reserve. This alteration gave me great uneasiness; and I passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflections on the vanity of young men, which prompts them to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of profiting by this self-condemnation, I yielded still more to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to chastise, and if fortune had not befriended me more than prudence could expect, I should have been treated with the contempt it deserved. After breakfast my lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into the study, where she expressed herself thus: Since you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; therefore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know that I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be, the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated, the regicide will harangue the people with the bloody dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a speech, which, I think, will suit the character extremely. Here it is. Then, taking up a scrap of paper, she read, with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows:-- Thus have I sent the simple King to hell, Without or coffin, shroud, or passing bell: To me what are divine and human laws? I court no sanction but my own applause! Rapes, robberies, treasons, yield my soul delight, And human carnage gratifies my sight: I drag the parent by the hoary hair, And toss the sprawling infant on the spear, While the fond mother's cries regale my ear. I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes; Nor dare the immortal gods my rage oppose. Though I did great violence to my understanding in praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame; and besought her ladyship to bless the world with the fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency, and encouraged by the incense I had offered, communicated all her poetical works which I applauded, one by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first. Satiated with my flattery, which I hope my situation justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an opportunity of shining in my turn: and, therefore, after a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, observed, that doubtless I must have produced something in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was temptation I could by no means resist. I owned that while I was at college I wrote some detached pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love; and at her request repeated the following verses, which indeed my love for Narcissa had inspired:-- On Celia, Playing on the harpsichord and singing. When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire: And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away. But had the nymph possessed with these Thy softer, chaster, power to please; Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth; The worm of grief had never preyed On the forsaken love-sick maid: Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame. My mistress paid me a cold compliment on the versification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but, the subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who by this time had joined us, for her approbation; but she declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge of these matters; so that I was forced to retire very much balked in my expectation, which was generally a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed her approbation of my performance with great warmth, and desired her to procure a copy of it as for herself, that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to peruse it at pleasure. I was elated to an extravagant pitch at this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a fair copy of my Ode, which was carried to the dear charmer, together with another on the same subject, as follows:-- Thy fatal shaft unerring move; I bow before thine altar, Love! I feel thou soft resistless flame Glide swift through all my vital frame! For while I gaze my bosom glows, My blood in tides impetuous flows; Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll, And floods of transports 'whelm my soul! My faltering tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs. Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die! Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I could not learn from her behaviour, which, though always benevolent to me was henceforth more reserved and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a conquest of the cookwench and dairymaid, who became so jealous of each other that, if their sentiments had been refined by education, it is probable one or other of them would have had recourse to poison or steel to be avenged of her rival; but, as their minds were happily adapted to their humble station, their mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fistcuffs, in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good fortune did not long remain a secret; for it was disclosed by the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no decorum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener, who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his respective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and the former, having been educated at the academy at Tottenham Court, undertook to challenge me to single combat. He accordingly, with many opprobrious invectives, bade me defiance, and offered to box me for twenty guineas. I told him that, although I believed myself a match for him even at that work I would not descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to fight like a porter; but if he had anything to say to me, I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword, hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle; nay, I swore, that should he give his tongue any more saucy liberties at my expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony. This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my antagonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave his friend an account of his reception. The story, taking air among the servants, procured for me the title of Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured, even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been informed of the whole affair by the chambermaid. In the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion by all the ways in their power: the cook entertained me with choice bits, the dairymaid with strokings: the first would often encourage me to declare myself, by complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and observing, that if she had a husband like me, to maintain order and keep accounts, she could make a great deal of money, by setting up an eating-house in London for gentlemen's servants on board wages. The other courted my affection by showing her own importance, and telling me that many a substantial farmer in the neighbourhood would be glad to marry her, but she was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her heart. Then she would launch out into the praise of my proper person, and say, she was sure I would make a good husband, for I was very good-natured. I began to be uneasy at the importunities of these inamoratas, whom, at another time perhaps, I might have pleased without the disagreeable sauce of matrimony, but, at present, my whole soul was engrossed by Narcissa; and I could not bear the thoughts of doing anything derogatory to the passion I entertained for her. CHAPTER XLI Narcissa being in danger from the brutality of Sir Timothy, is rescued by me, who revenge myself on my rival--I declare my passion, and retreat to the seaside--am surrounded by smugglers, and carried to Boulogne--find my Uncle Lieutenant Bowling in great distress, and relieve him--our conversation At certain intervals my ambition would revive; I would despise myself for my tame resignation to my sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for assuming the character of a gentleman, to which I thought myself entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless suggestions time stole away unperceived, and I had already remained eight months in the station of a footman, when an accident happened that put an end to my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes of succeeding in my love. Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who lived with her brother within less than a mile of our house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who, having a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by the solitariness of a field through which they passed. The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour for which she reproached him

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which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

plans

How many times the word 'plans' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

laughs--

How many times the word 'laughs--' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

without

How many times the word 'without' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

open

How many times the word 'open' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

merival

How many times the word 'merival' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

detested

How many times the word 'detested' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

alas

How many times the word 'alas' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

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which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

through

How many times the word 'through' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

hold

How many times the word 'hold' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

match

How many times the word 'match' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

white

How many times the word 'white' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

events

How many times the word 'events' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

norman

How many times the word 'norman' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

much

How many times the word 'much' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

went

How many times the word 'went' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

eyes

How many times the word 'eyes' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

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How many times the word 'sar' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

livelihood

How many times the word 'livelihood' appears in the text?

which he left to build New strength, to disentangle, on the trip. The rumor goes that Tom was full of drink, Thus lost his life. But if our Elenor Murray Had not been found beside the river, what Had happened? If the coroner had been there, And run the engine, steered the boat beside The drowning man, and Wilbur Horne--what drink Had caused the death of Norman? Or again, Perhaps the death of Elenor saved the life Of Merival, by keeping him at home And safe from boats and waters. Anyway, As Elenor Murray's body has no marks, And shows no cause of death, the coroner Sends out for Dr. Trace and talks to him Of things that end us, says to Dr. Trace Perform the autopsy on Elenor Murray. And while the autopsy was being made By Dr. Trace, he calls the witnesses The father first of Elenor Murray, who Tells Merival this story: HENRY MURRAY Henry Murray, father of Elenor Murray, Willing to tell the coroner Merival All things about himself, about his wife, All things as well about his daughter, touching Her growth, and home life, if the coroner Would hear him privately, save on such things Strictly relating to the inquest, went To Coroner Merival's office and thus spoke: I was born here some sixty years ago, Was nurtured in these common schools, too poor To satisfy a longing for a college. Felt myself gifted with some gifts of mind, Some fineness of perception, thought, began By twenty years to gather books and read Some history, philosophy and science. Had vague ambitions, analyzed perhaps, To learn, be wise. Now if you study me, Look at my face, you'll see some trace of her: My brow is hers, my mouth is hers, my eyes Of lighter color are yet hers, this way I have of laughing, as I saw inside The matter deeper cause for laughter, hers. And my jaw hers betokening a will, Hers too, with chin that mitigates the will, Shading to softness as hers did. Our minds Had something too in common: first this will Which tempted fate to bend it, break it too-- I know not why in her case or in mine. But when my will is bent I grow morose, And when it's broken, I become a scourge To all around me. Yes, I've visited A life-time's wrath upon my wife. This daughter When finding will subdued did not give up, But took the will for something else--went on By ways more prosperous; but alas! poor me! I hold on when defeated, and lie down When I am beaten, growling, ruminate Upon my failure, think of nothing else. But truth to tell, while we two were opposed, This daughter and myself, while temperaments Kept us at sword's points, while I saw in her Traits of myself I liked not, also traits Of the child's mother which I loathe, because They have undone me, helped at least--no less I see this child as better than myself, And better than her mother, so admire. Also I never trusted her; as a child She would rush in relating lying wonders; She feigned emotions, purposes and moods; She was a little actress from the first, And all her high resolves from first to last Seemed but a robe with flowing sleeves in which Her hands could hide some theft, some secret spoil. When she was fourteen I could see in her The passionate nature of her mother--well You know a father's feelings when he sees His daughter sensed by youths and lusty men As one of the kind for capture. It's a theme A father cannot talk of with his daughter. He may say, "have a care," or "I forbid Your strolling, riding with these boys at night." But if the daughter stands and eyes the father, As she did me with flaming eyes, then goes Her way in secret, lies about her ways, The father can but wonder, watch or brood, Or switch her maybe, for I switched her once, And found it did no good. I needed here The mother's aid, but no, her mother saw Herself in the girl, and said she knew the girl, That I was too suspicious, out of touch With a young girl's life, desire for happiness. But when this Alma Bell affair came up, And the school principal took pains to say My daughter was too reckless of her name In strolling and in riding, then my wife Howled at me like a tigress: whip that man! And as my daughter cried, and my wife screeched, And called me coward if I let him go, I rushed out to the street and finding him Beat up his face, though almost dropping dead From my exertion. Well, the aftermath Was worse for me, not only by the talk, But in my mind who saw no gratitude In daughter or in mother for my deed. The daughter from that day took up a course More secret from my eyes, more variant From any wish I had. We stood apart, And grew apart thereafter. And from that day My wife grew worse in temper, worse in nerves. And though the people say she is my slave, That I alone, of all who live, have conquered Her spirit, still what despotism works Free of reprisals, or of breakings-forth When hands are here, not there? But to return: One takes up something for a livelihood, And dreams he'll leave it later, when in time His plans mature; and as he earns and lives, With some time for his plans, hopes for the day When he may step forth from his olden life Into a new life made thus gradually, I hoped to be a lawyer; but to live I started as a drug clerk--look to-day I own that little drug store--here I am With drugs my years through, drugged myself at last. And as a clerk I met my wife--went mad About her, and I see in Elenor Her mother's gift for making fools of men. Why, I can scarce explain it, it's the flesh, But then it's spirit too. Such flaming up As came from flames like ours, but more of hers Burned in the children. Yes, it might be well For theorists in heredity to think About the matter. Well, but how about The flames that make the children? For this woman Too surely ruined me and sapped my life. You hear much of the vampire, but what wife Has not more chance for eating up a man? She has him daily, has him fast for years. A man can shake a vampire off, but how To shake a wife off, when the children come, And you must leave your place, your livelihood To shake her off? And if you shake her off Where do you go? what do you do? and how? You see 'twas love that caught me, yet even so I had resisted love had I not seen A chance to rise through marriage. It was this: You know, of course, my wife was Elenor Fouche, Daughter of Arthur, thought to be so rich. And I had hopes to patch my fortunes up In this alliance, and become a lawyer. What happened? Why they helped me not at all. The children came, and I was chained to work, To clothe and feed a family--all the while My soul combusted with this aspiration, And my good nature went to ashes, dampened By secret tears which filtered through as lye. Then finally, when my wife's father died, After our marriage, twenty years or so, His fortune came to nothing, all she got Went to that little house we live in here-- It needs paint now, the porch has rotten boards-- And I was forced to see these children learn What public schools could teach, and even as I Left school half taught, and never went to college, So did these children, saving Elenor, Who saw two years of college--earned herself By teaching. I choke up, just wait a minute! What depths of calmness may a man come to As father, who can think of this and be Quiet about his heart? His heart will hurt, Move, as it were, as a worm does with its pain. And these days now, when trembling hands and head Foretell decline, or worse, and make me think As face to face with God, most earnestly, Most eager for the truth, I wonder much If I misjudged this daughter, canvass her Myself to see if I had power to do A better part by her. That is the way This daughter has got in my soul. At first She incubates in me as force unknown, A spirit strange yet kindred, in my life; And we are hostile and yet drawn together; But when we're drawn together see and feel These oppositions. Next she's in my life-- The second stage of the fever--as dislike, Repugnance, and I wish her out of sight, Out of my life. Then comes these ugly things, Like Alma Bell, and rumors from away Where she is teaching, and I put her out Of life and thought the more, and wonder why I fathered such a nature, whence it came. Well, then the fever goes and I am weak, Repentant it may be, delirious visions That haunted me in fever plague me yet, Even while I think them visions, nothing else. So I grow pitiful and blame myself For any part I had in her mistakes, Sorrows and struggles, and I curse myself That I was powerless to help her more-- Thus is she like a fever in my life. Well, then the child grows up. But as a child She dances, laughs and sings. At three years springs For minutes and for minutes on her toes, Like skipping rope, clapping her hands the while, Her blue eyes twinkling, and her milk-white teeth Glistening as she gurgled, shouted, laughed-- There never was such vital strength. I give The pictures as my memory took them. Next I see her looking side-ways at me, as if She studied me, avoided me. The child Is now ten years of age; and now I know She smelled the rats that made the family hearth A place for scampering; the horrors of our home. She thought I brought the rats and kept them there, These rats of bickering, anger, strife at home. I knew she blamed me for her mother's moods Who dragged about the kitchen day by day, Sad faced and silent. So the upshot was I had two enemies in the house, where once I had but one, her mother. This made worse The state for both, and worse the state for me. And so it goes. Then next there's Alma Bell. The following year my daughter finished up The High School--and we sit--my wife and I To see the exercises. And that summer Elenor, Now eighteen and a woman, goes about-- I don't know what she does, sometimes I see Some young man with her walking. But at home, When I come in, the mother and the daughter Put pedals on their talk, or change the theme-- I am shut out. And in the fall I learn From some outsider that she's teaching school, And later people laugh and talk to me About her feat of cowing certain Czechs, Who broke her discipline in school. Well, then Two years go on that have no memory, Just like sick days in bed when you lie there And wake and sleep and wait. But finally Her mother says: "To-night our Elenor Leaves for Los Angeles." And then the mother, To hide a sob, coughs nervously and leaves The room where I am, for the kitchen--I Sit with the evening paper, let it fall, Then hold it up to read again and try To say to self, "All right, what if she goes?" The evening meal goes hard, for Elenor Shines forth in kindness for me, talks and laughs-- I choke again.... She says to me if God Had meant her for a better youth, then God Had given her a better youth; she thanks me For making High School possible to her, And says all will be well--she will earn money To go to college, that she will gain strength By helping self--Just think, my friend, to hear Such words, which in their kindness proved my failure, When I had hoped, aspired, when I had given My very soul, whether I liked this daughter, Or liked her not, out of a generous hand, Large hearted in its carelessness to give A daughter of such mind a place in life, And schooling for the place. The meal was over. We stood there silent; then her face grew wet With tears, as wet as blossoms soaked with rain. She took my hand and took her mother's hand, And put our hands together--then she said: "Be friends, be friends," and hurried from the room, Her mother following. I stepped out-doors, And stood what seemed a minute, entered again, Walked to the front room, from the window saw Elenor and her mother in the street. The girl was gone! How could I follow them? They had not asked me. So I stood and saw The canvas telescope her mother carried. They disappeared. I went back to my store, Came back at nine o'clock, lighted a match And saw my wife in bed, cloths on her eyes. She turned her face to the wall, and didn't speak. Next morning at the breakfast table she, Complaining of a stiff arm, said: "that satchel Was weighted down with books, my arm is stiff-- Elenor took French books to study French. When she can pay a teacher, she will learn How to pronounce the words, but by herself She'll learn the grammar, how to read." She knew How words like that would hurt! I merely said: "A happy home is better than knowing French," And went off to my store. But coroner, Search for the men in her life. When she came Back from the West after three years, I knew By look of her eyes that some one filled her life, Had taken her life and body. What if I Had failed as father in the way I failed? And what if our home was not home to her? She could have married--why not? If a girl Can fascinate the men--I know she could-- She can have marriage, if she wants to marry. Unless she runs to men already married, And if she does so, don't you make her out As loose and bad? Well, what is more to tell? She learned French, seemed to know the ways of the world, Knew books, knew how to dress, gave evidence Of contact with refinements; letters came When she was here at intervals inscribed In writing of elite ones, gifted maybe. And she was filial and kind to me, Most kind toward her mother, gave us things At Christmas time. But still her way was such That I as well had been familiar with her As with some formal lady visiting. She came back here before she went to France, Staid two days with us. Once upon the porch She turned to me and said: "I wish to honor Mother and you by serving in the war. You must rejoice that I can serve--you must! But most I wish to honor America, This land of promise, of fulfillment, too, Which proves to all the world that men and women Are born alike of God, at least that riches And classes formed in pride have neither hearts, Nor minds above the souls of those who work. This land that reared me is my dearest love, I go to serve the country." Pardon me! A man of my age in an hour like this Must cry a little--wait till I can say The last words that she said to me. She put Her arms about me, then she said to me: "I am so glad my life and place in life Were such that I was forced to rise or sink, To strive or fail. God has been good to me, Who gifted me with spirit to aspire." I go back to my store now. In these days, Last days, of course, I try to be a husband, Try to be kinder to the mother of Elenor. Death is not far off, and that makes us think. We may be over soft or penitent; Forgive where we should hate still, being soft; And fade off from the wrongs, we brooded on; And cease to care life has been badly lived, From first to last. But none the less our vision Seems clearer as we end this trivial life. And so I try to be a kinder husband To Elenor's mother. So spoke Henry Murray To Merival; a stenographer took down His words, and they were written out and shown The jury. Afterward the mother came And told her story to the coroner, Also reported, written out, and shown The jury. But it happened thus with her: She waited in the coroner's outer room Until her husband told his story, then With eyes upon the floor, passing her husband, The two in silence passing, as he left The coroner's office, spoke amid her sighs, Her breath long drawn at intervals, looking down The while she spoke: MRS. MURRAY I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it. Coroner Merival, Even the children in this neighborhood Know something of my husband and of me, Our struggle and unhappiness, even the children Hear Alma Bell's name mentioned with a look. And if you went about here to inquire About my Elenor, you'd find them saying She was a wonder girl, or this or that. But then you'd feel a closing up of speech, As if a door closed softly, just a way To indicate that something else was there, Somewhere in the person's room of thoughts. This is the truth, since I was told a man Came here to ask about her, when she asked To serve in France, the matter of Alma Bell Traced down and probed. It being true, therefore, That you and all the rest know of my life, Our life at home, it matters nothing then That I go on and tell you what I think Made sorrow for us, what our waste was, tell you How the yarn knotted as we took the skein And wound it to a ball, and made the ball So hardly knotted that the yarn held fast Would not unwind for knitting. Well, you know My father Arthur Fouche, my mother too. They reared me with the greatest care. You know They sent me to St. Mary's, where I learned Fine things, to be a lady--learned to dance, To play on the piano, sing a little; Learned French, Italian, learned to know good books, The beauty of a poem or a tale; Learned elegance of manners, how to walk, Stand, breathe, keep well, be radiant and strong, And so in all to make life beautiful, Become the helpful wife of some strong man, The mother of fine children. Well, at school We girls were guarded from the men, and so We went to town surrounded by our teachers, And only saw the boys when some girl's brother Came to the school to visit, perhaps a girl Consent had of her parents to receive A beau sometimes. But then I had no beau; And had I had my father would have kept him Away from me at school. For truth to tell When I had finished school, came back to home They kept the men away, there was no man Quite good enough to call. Now here begins My fate, as you will see; their very care To make me what they wished, to have my life Grow safely, prosperously, was my undoing. I had a sister named Corinne who suffered Because of that; my father guarded me Against all strolling lovers, unknown men. But here was Henry Murray, whom they knew, And trusted too; and though they never dreamed I'd marry him, they trusted him to call. He seemed a quiet, diligent young man, Aspiring in the world. And so they thought They'd solve my loneliness and restless spirits By opening the door to him. My fate! They let him call upon me twice a month. He was in love with me before this started, That's why he tried to call. But as for me, He was a man, that's all, a being only In the world to talk to, help my loneliness. I had no love for him, no more than I Had love for father's tenant on the farm. And what I knew of marriage, what it means Was what a child knows. If you'll credit me I thought a man and woman slept together, Lay side by side, and somehow, I don't know, That children came. But then I was so vital, Rebellious, hungering for freedom, that No chance was too indifferent to put by What offered freedom from the prison home, The watchfulness of father and of mother, The rigor of my discipline. And in truth No other man came by, no prospect showed Of going on a visit, finding life Some other place. And so it came about, After I knew this man two months, one night I made a rope of sheets, down from my window Descended to his arms, eloped in short, And married Henry Murray, and found out What marriage is, believe me. Well, I think The time will come when marriage will be known Before the parties tie themselves for life. How do you know a man, or know a woman Until the flesh instructs you? Do you know A man until you see him face to face? Or know what texture is his hand until You touch his hand? Well, lastly no one knows Whether a man is mate for you before You mate with him. I hope to see the day When men and women, to try out their souls Will live together, learning A. B. C.'s Of life before they write their fates for life. Our story started then. To sate their rage My father and my mother cut me off, And so we had bread problems from the first. He made but little clerking in the store, Besides his mind was on the law and books. These were the early tangles of our yarn. And I grew worried as the children came, Two sons at first, and I was far from well, One died at five years, and I almost died For grief at this. But down below all things, Far down below all tune or scheme of sound, Where no rests were, but only ceaseless dirge, Was my heart's _de profundis_, crying out My thirst for love, not thirst for his, but thirst For love that quenched it. But the only water That passed my lips was desert water, poisoned By arsenic from his rocks. My soul grew bitter, Then sweetened under the cross, grew bitter again. My life lay raving on the desert sands. To speak more plainly, sleep deserted me. I could not sleep for thought, and for a will That could not bend, but hoped that death or something Would take him from me, bring me love before My face was withered, as it is to-day. At last the doctor found me growing mad For lack of sleep. Why was I so, he asked. You must give up this psychic work and quit This psychic writing, let the spirits go. Well, it was true that years before I found I heard and saw with higher power, received Deep messages from spirits, from my boy Who passed away. And as to this, who knows?-- Surely no doctor--of this psychic power. You may be called neurotic, what is that? Perhaps it is the soul become so fine It leaves the body, or shakes down the body With energy too subtle for the body. But I was sleepless for these years, at last The secret lost of sleep, for seven days And seven nights could find no sleep, until I lay upon the lawn and pushed my head, As a dog does around, around, around. There was a devil in me, at one with me, And neither to be put out, nor yet subdued By help outside, and nothing to be done Except to find escape by knife, or pistol, And thus get sleep. Escape! Oh, that's the word! There's something in the soul that says escape! Fly, fly from something, and in truth, my friend, Life's restlessness, however healthful it be, Is motived by this urge to fly, escape: Well, to go on, they gave me everything, At last they gave me chloral, but no sleep! And finally I closed my eyes and quick The secret came to me, as one might find, After forgetting how, to swim, or walk, After a sickness, and for just two minutes I slept, and then I got the secret back, And later slept. So I possessed myself. But for these years sleep but two hours or so. Why do I wake? The spirits let me sleep. Oh, no it is my longing that will rest not, These thoughts of him that rest not, and this love That never has been satisfied, this heart So empty all these years; the bitterness Of living face to face with one you loathe, Yet pity, while you hate yourself for feeling Such bitterness toward another soul, As wretched as your own. But then as well I could not sleep for Elenor, for her fate, Never to have a chance in life. I saw Our poverty made surer; year by year Slip by with chances slipping. Oh, that child! When I first felt her lips that sucked my breasts My heart went muffled like a bird that tries To pour its whole song in one note and fails Out of its very ecstasy. A daughter, A little daughter at my breast, a soul Of a woman to be! I knew her spirit then, Felt all my love and longing in her lips, Felt all my passion, purity of desire In those sweet lips that sucked my breasts. Oh, rapture, Oh highest rapture God had given me To see her roll upon my arm and smile, Full fed, the milk that gurgled from her lips! Such blue eyes--oh, my child! My child! my child! I have no hope now of this life--no hope Except to take you to my breast again. God will be good and give you to me, or God will bring sleep to me,

laughs

How many times the word 'laughs' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

attempts

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

whose

How many times the word 'whose' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

hotspurs

How many times the word 'hotspurs' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

aid

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

mild

How many times the word 'mild' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

assertions

How many times the word 'assertions' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

hereditary

How many times the word 'hereditary' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

off

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

maintain

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

sooner

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

individuality

How many times the word 'individuality' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

nature

How many times the word 'nature' appears in the text?

which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which the people were yet standing; and the Consuls having generally required names in vain, to put it to something, required the name of one that was in their eye particularly; on whom, when he moved not, they commanded a lictor to lay hands, but the people, thronging about the party summoned, forbade the lictor, who durst not touch him; at which the hotspurs that came with the consuls, enraged by the affront, descended from the throne to the aid of the lictor; from whom in so doing they turned the indignation of the people upon themselves with such heat that the Consuls interposing, thought fit, by remitting the assembly, to appease the tumult; in which, nevertheless, there had been nothing but noise. Nor was there less in the Senate, being suddenly rallied upon this occasion, where they that received the repulse, with others whose heads were as addled as their own, fell upon the business as if it had been to be determined by clamor till the Consuls, upbraiding the Senate that it differed not from the market-place, reduced the house to orders. "And the fathers, having been consulted accordingly, there were three opinions: Publius Virginius conceived that the consideration to be had upon the matter in question, or aid of the indebted and imprisoned people, was not to be further extended than to such as had engaged upon the promise made by Servilius; Titus Largius, that it was no time to think it enough, if men's merits were acknowledged, while the whole people, sunk under the weight of their debts, could not emerge without some common aid, which to restrain, by putting some into a better condition than others, would rather more inflame the discord than extinguish it; Appius Claudius (still upon the old haunt) would have it that the people were rather wanton than fierce; it was not oppression that necessitated, but their power that invited them to these freaks; the empire of the Consuls since the appeal to the people (whereby a plebeian might ask his fellows if he were a thief) being but a mere scarecrow. 'Go to,' says he, 'let us create the dictator, from whom there is no appeal, and then let me see more of this work, or him that shall forbid my lictor.' "The advice of Appius was abhorred by many; and to introduce a general recision of debts with Largius, was to violate all faith; that of Virginius, as the most moderate, would have passed best, but that there were private interests, that constant bane of the public, which withstood it. So they concluded with Appius, who also had been dictator, if the Consuls and some of the graver sort had not thought it altogether unseasonable, at a time when the Volsci and the Sabines were up again, to venture so far upon alienation of the people: for which cause Valerius, being descended from the Publicolas, the most popular family, as also in his own person of a mild nature, was rather trusted with so rigid a magistracy. Whence it happened that the people, though they knew well enough against whom the Dictator was created, feared nothing from Valerius; but upon a new promise made to the same effect with that of Servilius, hoped better another time, and throwing away all disputes, gave their names roundly, went out, and, to be brief, came home again as victorious as in the former action, the Dictator entering the city in triumph. Nevertheless, when he came to press the Senate to make good his promise, and do something for the ease of the people, they regarded him no more as to that point than they had done Servilius. Whereupon the Dictator, in disdain to be made a stale, abdicated his magistracy, and went home. Here, then, was a victorious army without a captain, and a Senate pulling it by the beard in their gowns. What is it (if you have read the story, for there is not such another) that must follow? Can any man imagine that such only should be the opportunity upon which this people could run away? "Alas, poor men, the AEqui and the Volsci and the Sabines were nothing, but the fathers invincible! There they sat, some 300 of them armed all in robes, and thundering with their tongues, without any hopes in the earth to reduce them to any tolerable conditions. Wherefore, not thinking it convenient to abide long so near them, away marches the army, and encamps in the fields. This retreat of the people is called the secession of Mount Aventin, where they lodged, very sad at their condition, but not letting fall so much as a word of murmur against the fathers. The Senate by this time were great lords, had the whole city to themselves; but certain neighbors were upon the way that might come to speak with them, not asking leave of the porter. Wherefore their minds became troubled, and an orator was posted to the people to make as good conditions with them as he could; but, whatever the terms were, to bring them home, and with all speed. And here it was covenanted between the Senate and the people, that these should have magistrates of their own election, called the tribunes, upon which they returned. "To hold you no longer, the Senate having done this upon necessity, made frequent attempts to retract it again, while the tribunes, on the other side, to defend what they had got, instituted their Tributa Comitia, or council of the people; where they came in time, and, as disputes increased, to make laws without the authority of the Senate, called plebiscita. Now to conclude in the point at which I drive: such were the steps whereby the people of Rome came to assume debate, nor is it in art or nature to debar a people of the like effect, where there is the like cause. For Romulus, having in the election of his Senate squared out a nobility for the support of a throne, by making that of the patricians a distinct and hereditary order, planted the commonwealth upon two contrary interests or roots, which, shooting forth, in time produced two commonwealths, the one oligarchical in the nobility, the other a mere anarchy of the people, and ever after caused a perpetual feud and enmity between the Senate and the people, even to death. "There is not a more noble or useful question in the politics than that which is started by Machiavel, whether means were to be found whereby the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome could have been removed? Nor is there any other in which we, on the present occasion, are so much concerned, particularly in relation to this author; forasmuch as his judgment in the determination of the question standing, our commonwealth falls. And he that will erect a commonwealth against the judgment of Machiavel, is obliged to give such reasons for his enterprise as must not go a-begging. Wherefore to repeat the politician very honestly, but somewhat more briefly, he disputes thus: "'There be two sorts of commonwealths, the one for preservation, as Lacedaemon and Venice; the other for increase, as Rome. "'Lacedaemon, being governed by a King and a small Senate, could maintain itself a long time in that condition, because the inhabitants, being few, having put a bar upon the reception of strangers, and living in a strict observation of the laws of Lycurgus, which now had got reputation, and taken away all occasion of tumults, might well continue long in tranquillity. For the laws of Lycurgus introduced a greater equality in estates, and a less equality in honors, whence there was equal poverty; and the plebeians were less ambitious, because the honors or magistracies of the city could extend but to a few and were not communicable to the people, nor did the nobility by using them ill ever give them a desire to participate of the same. This proceeded from the kings, whose principality, being placed in the midst of the nobility, had no greater means whereby to support itself than to shield the people from all injury; whence the people, not fearing empire, desired it not; and so all occasion of enmity between the Senate and the people was taken away. But this union happened especially from two causes: the one that the inhabitants of Lacedaemon being few, could be governed by the few; the other, that, not receiving strangers into their commonwealth, they did not corrupt it, nor increase it to such a proportion as was not governable by the few. "'Venice has not divided with her plebeians, but all are called gentlemen that be in administration of the government; for which government she is more beholden to chance than the wisdom of her law-makers; for many retiring to those islands, where that city is now built, from the inundations of barbarians that overwhelmed the Roman Empire, when they were increased to such a number that to live together it was necessary to have laws, they ordained a form of government, whereby assembling often in council upon affairs, and finding their number sufficient for government, they put a bar upon all such as repairing afterward to their city should become inhabitants, excluding them from participation of power. Whence they that were included in the administration had right, and they that were excluded, coming afterward, and being received upon no other conditions to be inhabitants, had no wrong, and therefore had no occasion, nor (being never trusted with arms) any means to be tumultuous. Wherefore this commonwealth might very well maintain itself in tranquillity. "'These things considered, it is plain that the Roman legislators, to have introduced a quiet state, must have done one of these two things: either shut out strangers, as the Lacedemonians; or, as the Venetians, not allowed the people to bear arms. But they did neither. By which means the people, having power and increase, were in perpetual tumult. Nor is this to be helped in a commonwealth for increase, seeing if Rome had cut off the occasion of her tumults, she must have cut off the means of her increase, and by consequence of her greatness. "'Wherefore let a legislator consider with himself whether he would make his commonwealth for preservation, in which case she may be free from tumults; or for increase, in which case she must be infested with them. "'If he makes her for preservation, she may be quiet at home, but will be in danger abroad. First, because her foundation must be narrow, and therefore weak, as that of Lacedaemon, which lay but upon 30,000 citizens; or that of Venice, which lies but upon 3,000. Secondly, such a commonwealth must either be in peace, or war; if she be in peace, the few are soonest effeminated and corrupted and so obnoxious also to faction. If in war, succeeding ill, she is an easy prey; or succeeding well, ruined by increase: a weight which her foundation is not able to bear. For Lacedaemon, when she had made herself mistress upon the matter of all Greece, through a slight accident, the rebellion of Thebes, occasioned by the conspiracy of Pelopidas discovering this infirmity of her nature, the rest of her conquered cities immediately fell off, and in the turn as it were of a hand reduced her from the fullest tide to the lowest ebb of her fortune. And Venice having possessed herself of a great part of Italy by her purse, was no sooner in defence of it put to the trial of arms than she lost all in one battle. "'Whence I conclude that in the ordination of a commonwealth a legislator is to think upon that which is most honorable, and, laying aside models for preservation, to follow the example of Rome conniving at, and temporizing with, the enmity between the Senate and the people, as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. For that any man should find out a balance that may take in the conveniences and shut out the inconveniences of both, I do not think it possible.' These are the words of the author, though the method be somewhat altered, to the end that I may the better turn them to my purpose. "My lords, I do not know how you hearken to this sound; but to hear the greatest artist in the modern world giving sentence against our commonwealth is that with which I am nearly concerned. Wherefore, with all honor due to the prince of politicians, let us examine his reasoning with the same liberty which he has asserted to be the right of a free people. But we shall never come up to him, except by taking the business a little lower, we descend from effects to their causes. The causes of commotion in a commonwealth are either external or internal. External are from enemies, from subjects, or from servants. To dispute then what was the cause why Rome was infested by the Italian, or by the servile wars; why the slaves took the capitol; why the Lacedaemonians were near as frequently troubled with their helots as Rome with all those; or why Venice, whose situation is not trusted to the faith of men, has as good or better quarter with them whom she governs, than Rome had with the Latins; were to dispute upon external causes. The question put by Machiavel is of internal causes; whether the enmity that Was between the Senate and the people of Rome might have been removed. And to determine otherwise of this question than he does, I must lay down other principles than he has done. To which end I affirm that a commonwealth, internally considered, is either equal or unequal. A commonwealth that is internally equal, has no internal cause of commotion, and therefore can have no such effect but from without. A commonwealth internally unequal has no internal cause of quiet, and therefore can have no such effect but by diversion. "To prove my assertions, I shall at this time make use of no other than his examples. Lacedaemon was externally unquiet, because she was externally unequal, that is as to her helots; and she was internally at rest, because she was equal in herself, both in root and branch; in the root by her agrarian, and in branch by the Senate, inasmuch as no man was thereto qualified but by election of the people. Which institution of Lycurgus is mentioned by Aristotle, where he says that rendering his citizens emulous (not careless) of that honor, he assigned to the people the election of the Senate. Wherefore Machiavel in this, as in other places, having his eye upon the division of patrician and plebeian families as they were in Rome, has quite mistaken the orders of this commonwealth, where there was no such thing. Nor did the quiet of it derive from the power of the kings, who were so far from shielding the people from the injury of the nobility, of which there was none in his sense but the Senate, that one declared end of the Senate at the institution was to shield the people from the kings, who from that time had but single votes. Neither did it proceed from the straitness of the Senate, or their keeping the people excluded from the government, that they were quiet, but from the equality of their administration, seeing the Senate (as is plain by the oracle, their fundamental law) had no more than the debate, and the result of the commonwealth belonged to the people. "Wherefore when Theopompus and Polydorus, Kings of Lacedaemon, would have kept the people excluded from the government by adding to the ancient law this clause, 'If the determination of the people be faulty, it shall be lawful for the Senate to resume the debate,' the people immediately became unquiet, and resumed that debate, which ended not till they had set up their ephors, and caused that magistracy to be confirmed by their kings." For when Theopompus first ordained that the ephori or overseers should be created at Lacedaemon, to be such a restraint upon the kings there as the tribunes were upon the consuls at Rome, the Queen complained to him, that by this means he transmitted the royal authority greatly diminished to his children: "I leave indeed less," answered he, "but more lasting." And this was excellently said; for that power only is safe which is limited from doing hurt. Theopompus therefore, by confining the kingly power within the bounds of the laws, did recommend it by so much to the people's affection as he removed it from being arbitrary.' By which it may appear that a commonwealth for preservation, if she comes to be unequal, is as obnoxious to enmity between the Senate and the people as a commonwealth for increase; and that the tranquillity of Lacedaemon was derived from no other cause than her equality. "For Venice, to say that she is quiet because she disarms her subjects, is to forget that Lacedaemon disarmed her helots, and yet could not in their regard be quiet; wherefore if Venice be defended from external causes of commotion, it is first through her situation, in which respect her subjects have no hope (and this indeed may be attributed to her fortune); and, secondly, through her exquisite justice, whence they have no will to invade her. But this can be attributed to no other cause than her prudence, which will appear to be greater, as we look nearer; for the effects that proceed from fortune, if there be any such thing, are like their cause, inconstant. But there never happened to any other commonwealth so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in herself as are in that of Venice; wherefore this must proceed from some other cause than chance. And we see that as she is of all others the most quiet, so the most equal commonwealth. Her body consists of one order, and her Senate is like a rolling stone, as was said, which never did, nor, while it continues upon that rotation, never shall gather the moss of a divided or ambitious interest, much less such a one as that which grasped the people of Rome in the talons of their own eagles. And if Machiavel, averse from doing this commonwealth right, had considered her orders, as his reader shall easily perceive he never did, he must have been so far from attributing the prudence of them to chance, that he would have touched up his admirable work to that perfection which, as to the civil part, has no pattern in the universal world but this of Venice. "Rome, secure by her potent and victorious arms from all external causes of commotion, was either beholden for her peace at home to her enemies abroad, or could never rest her head. My lords, you that are parents of a commonwealth, and so freer agents than such as are merely natural, have a care. For, as no man shall show me a commonwealth born straight that ever became crooked, so no man shall show me a commonwealth born crooked that ever became straight. Rome was crooked in her birth, or rather prodigious. Her twins, the patrician and plebeian orders, came, as was shown by the foregoing story, into the world, one body but two heads, or rather two bellies; for, notwithstanding the fable out of AEsop, whereby Menenius Agrippa, the orator that was sent from the Senate to the people at Mount Aventin, showed the fathers to be the belly, and the people to be the arms and the legs (which except that, how slothful soever it might seem, they were nourished, not these only, but the whole body must languish and be dissolved), it is plain that the fathers were a distinct belly, such a one as took the meat indeed out of the people's mouths, but abhorring the agrarian, returned it not in the due and necessary nutrition of a commonwealth. Nevertheless, as the people that live about the cataracts of Nilus are said not to hear the noise, so neither the Roman writers, nor Machiavel the most conversant with them, seem among so many of the tribunitian storms to hear their natural voice; for though they could not miss of it so far as to attribute them to the strife of the people for participation in magistracy, or, in which Machiavel more particularly joins, to that about the agrarian, this was to take the business short, and the remedy for the disease. "A people, when they are reduced to misery and despair, become their own politicians, as certain beasts, when they are sick, become their own physicians, and are carried by a natural instinct to the desire of such herbs as are their proper cure; but the people, for the greater part, are beneath the beasts in the use of them. Thus the people of Rome, though in their misery they had recourse by instinct, as it were, to the two main fundamentals of a commonwealth, participation of magistracy and the agrarian, did but taste and spit at them, not (which is necessary in physic) drink down the potion, and in that their healths. For when they had obtained participation of magistracy it was but lamely, not to a full and equal rotation in all elections; nor did they greatly regard it in what they had got. And when they had attained to the agrarian, they neglected it so far as to suffer the law to grow obsolete; but if you do not take the due dose of your medicines (as there be slight tastes which a man may have of philosophy that incline to atheism) it may chance to be poison, there being a like taste of the politics that inclines to confusion, as appears in the institution of the Roman tribunes, by which magistracy and no more the people were so far from attaining to peace, that they in getting but so much, got but heads for an eternal feud; whereas if they had attained in perfection either to the agrarian, they had introduced the equality and calm of Lacedaemon, or to rotation, and they had introduced that of Venice: and so there could have been no more enmity between the Senate and the people of Rome than there was between those orders in Lacedaemon, or is now in Venice. Wherefore Machiavel seems to me, in attributing the peace of Venice more to her luck than her prudence, of the whole stable to have saddled the wrong horse; for though Rome in her military part could beat it better, beyond all comparison, upon the sounding hoof, Venice for the civil part has plainly had the wings of Pegasus. "The whole question then will come upon this point, whether the people of Rome could have obtained these orders? And first, to say that they could not have obtained them without altering the commonwealth, is no argument; seeing neither could they, without altering the commonwealth, have obtained their tribunes, which nevertheless were obtained. And if a man considers the posture that the people were in when they obtained their tribunes, they might as well, and with as great ease (forasmuch as the reason why the nobility yielded to the tribunes was no other than that there was no remedy) have obtained anything else. And for experience, it was in the like case that the Lacedaemonians did set up their ephors, and the Athenians, after the battle of Plataea, bowed the Senate (so hard a thing it is for a commonwealth that was born crooked to become straight) as much the other way. Nor, if it be objected that this must have ruined the nobility (and in that deprived the commonwealth of the greatness which she acquired by them), is this opinion holding, but confuted by the sequel of the story, showing plainly that the nobility, through the defect of such orders (that is to say, of rotation and the agrarian), came to eat up the people; and battening themselves in luxury, to be, as Sallust speaks of them, 'a most sluggish and lazy nobility, in whom, besides the name, there was no more than in a statue;' and to bring so mighty a commonwealth, and of so huge a glory, to so deplorable an end. Wherefore means might have been found to remove the enmity that was between the Senate and the people of Rome. "My lords, if I have argued well, I have given you the comfort and assurance that, notwithstanding the judgment of Machiavel, your commonwealth is both safe and sound; but if I have not argued well, then take the comfort and assurance which he gives you while he is firm, that a legislator is to lay aside all other examples, and follow that of Rome only, conniving and temporizing with the enmity between the Senate and the people as a necessary step to the Roman greatness. Whence it follows that your commonwealth, at the worst, is that which he has given you his word is the best. "I have held your lordships long, but upon an account of no small importance, which I can now sum up in these few words: where there is a liquorishness in a popular assembly to debate, it proceeds not from the constitution of the people, but of the commonwealth. Now that your commonwealth is of such a constitution as is naturally free from this kind of intemperance, is that which, to make good, I must divide the remainder of my discourse into two parts: "The first, showing the several constitutions of the assemblies of the people in other commonwealths; "The second, comparing our assembly of the people with theirs; and showing how it excludes the inconveniences and embraces the conveniences of them all. "In the beginning of the first part I must take notice, that among the popular errors of our days it is no small one that men imagine the ancient governments of this kind to have consisted for the most part of one city that is, of one town; whereas by what we have learned of my 'lords that owned them, it appears that there was not any considerable one of such a Constitution but Carthage, till this in our days of Venice. "For to begin with Israel, it consisted of the twelve tribes, locally spread or quartered throughout the whole territory, and these being called together by trumpets, constituted the Church or assembly of the people. The vastness of this weight, as also the slowness thence unavoidable, became a great cause (as has been shown at large by my Lord Phosphorus) of the breaking that commonwealth; notwithstanding that the Temple, and those religious ceremonies for which the people were at least annually obliged to repair thither, were no small ligament of the tribes, otherwise but slightly tacked together. "Athens consisted of four tribes, taking in the whole people, both of the city and of the territory; not so gathered by Theseus into one town, as to exclude the country, but to the end that there might be some capital of the commonwealth: though true it be, that the congregation, consisting of the inhabitants within the walls, was sufficient to all intents and purposes, without those of the country. These also being exceeding numerous, became burdensome to themselves and dangerous to the commonwealth; the more for their ill-education, as is observed by Xenophon and Polybius, who compare them to mariners that in a calm are perpetually disputing and swaggering one with another, and never lay their hands to the common tackling or safety till they be all endangered by some storm. Which caused Thucydides, when he saw this people through the purchase of their misery become so much wiser as to reduce their Comitia or assemblies to 5,000, to say in his eighth book: 'And now, at least in my time, the Athenians seem to have ordered their State aright, consisting of a moderate tempor both of the few (by which he means the Senate of the Bean) and of the many,' or the 5,000. And he does not only give you his judgment, but the best proof of it; for 'this,' says he, 'was the first thing that, after so many misfortunes past, made the city again to raise her head.' The place I would desire your lordships to note, as the first example that I find, or think is to be found, of a popular assembly by way of representative. "Lacedaemon consisted of 30,000 citizens dispersed throughout Laconia, one of the greatest provinces in all Greece, and divided, as by some authors is probable, into six tribes. Of the whole body of these, being gathered, consisted the great Church or assembly, which had the legislative power; the little church, gathered sometimes for matters of concern within the city, consisted of the Spartans only. These happened, like that of Venice, to be good constitutions of a congregation, but from an ill-cause the infirmity of a commonwealth, which through her paucity was oligarchical. "Wherefore, go which way you will, it should seem that without a representative of the people, your commonwealth, consisting of a whole nation, can never avoid falling either into oligarchy or confusion. "This was seen by the Romans, whose rustic tribes, extending themselves from the river Arno to the Vulturnus, that is, from Fesulae or Florence to Capua, invented a way of representative by lots: the tribe upon which the first fell being the prerogative, and some two or three more that had the rest, the jure vocatoe. These gave the suffrage of the commonwealth in two meetings; the prerogative at the first assembly, and the jure vocatoe at a second. "Now to make the parallel: all the inconveniences that you have observed in these assemblies are shut out, and all

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which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

went

How many times the word 'went' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

clerks

How many times the word 'clerks' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

philanthropy

How many times the word 'philanthropy' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

about

How many times the word 'about' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

something

How many times the word 'something' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

button

How many times the word 'button' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

lunch

How many times the word 'lunch' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

advice

How many times the word 'advice' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

has

How many times the word 'has' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

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which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

persecution

How many times the word 'persecution' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

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which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

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which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

bank

How many times the word 'bank' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

extinguishing

How many times the word 'extinguishing' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

eager

How many times the word 'eager' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

course

How many times the word 'course' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

necklace

How many times the word 'necklace' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

taken

How many times the word 'taken' appears in the text?

which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Part 5 In the beginning of December Ann Veronica began to speculate privately upon the procedure of pawning. She had decided that she would begin with her pearl necklace. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening--it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father's house in Morningside Park--thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter's jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. These things illuminated her situation extremely. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls' heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "But this is a surprise!" said Ramage. "This is wonderful! I've been feeling that you had vanished from my world. Have you been away from Morningside Park?" "I'm not interrupting you?" "You are. Splendidly. Business exists for such interruptions. There you are, the best client's chair." Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage's eager eyes feasted on her. "I've been looking out for you," he said. "I confess it." She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. "I want some advice," said Ann Veronica. "Yes?" "You remember once, how we talked--at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living." "Yes, yes." "Well, you see, something has happened at home." She paused. "Nothing has happened to Mr. Stanley?" "I've fallen out with my father. It was about--a question of what I might do or might not do. He--In fact, he--he locked me in my room. Practically." Her breath left her for a moment. "I SAY!" said Mr. Ramage. "I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved." "And why shouldn't you?" "I felt that sort of thing couldn't go on. So I packed up and came to London next day." "To a friend?" "To lodgings--alone." "I say, you know, you have some pluck. You did it on your own?" Ann Veronica smiled. "Quite on my own," she said. "It's magnificent!" He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "By Jove!" he said, "there is something direct about you. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I'd been your father. Luckily I'm not. And you started out forthwith to fight the world and be a citizen on your own basis?" He came forward again and folded his hands under him on his desk. "How has the world taken it?" he asked. "If I was the world I think I should have put down a crimson carpet, and asked you to say what you wanted, and generally walk over me. But the world didn't do that." "Not exactly." "It presented a large impenetrable back, and went on thinking about something else." "It offered from fifteen to two-and-twenty shillings a week--for drudgery." "The world has no sense of what is due to youth and courage. It never has had." "Yes," said Ann Veronica. "But the thing is, I want a job." "Exactly! And so you came along to me. And you see, I don't turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe." "And what do you think I ought to do?" "Exactly!" He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. "What ought you to do?" "I've hunted up all sorts of things." "The point to note is that fundamentally you don't want particularly to do it." "I don't understand." "You want to be free and so forth, yes. But you don't particularly want to do the job that sets you free--for its own sake. I mean that it doesn't interest you in itself." "I suppose not." "That's one of our differences. We men are like children. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. That's really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. But women--women as a rule don't throw themselves into things like that. As a matter of fact it isn't their affair. And as a natural consequence, they don't do so well, and they don't get on--and so the world doesn't pay them. They don't catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its--its outer aspects. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman's independent career so much more difficult than a clever man's." "She doesn't develop a specialty." Ann Veronica was doing her best to follow him. "She has one, that's why. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex--and love." He pronounced this with an air of profound conviction and with his eyes on Ann Veronica's face. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She colored faintly. "That doesn't touch the question I asked you," she said. "It may be true, but it isn't quite what I have in mind." "Of course not," said Ramage, as one who rouses himself from deep preoccupations And he began to question her in a business-like way upon the steps she had taken and the inquiries she had made. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. "You see," he said, "from my point of view you're grown up--you're as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. But from the--the economic point of view you're a very young and altogether inexperienced person." He returned to and developed that idea. "You're still," he said, "in the educational years. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you're unripe and half-educated. If you had taken your degree, for example." He spoke of secretarial work, but even there she would need to be able to do typing and shorthand. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. "You see," he said, "you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. You're splendid stuff, you know, but you've got nothing ready to sell. That's the flat business situation." He thought. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. "Look here," he said, protruding his eyes; "why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. Go on with your studies at the Imperial College, for example, get a degree, and make yourself good value. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert." "But I can't do that." "Why not?" "You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing--" "Don't go home." "Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?" "Easily. Easily.... Borrow.... From me." "I couldn't do that," said Ann Veronica, sharply. "I see no reason why you shouldn't." "It's impossible." "As one friend to another. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man--" "No, it's absolutely out of the question, Mr. Ramage." And Ann Veronica's face was hot. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. "Well anyhow--I don't see the force of your objection, you know. That's my advice to you. Here I am. Consider you've got resources deposited with me. Perhaps at the first blush--it strikes you as odd. People are brought up to be so shy about money. As though it was indelicate--it's just a sort of shyness. But here I am to draw upon. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work--or going home." "It's very kind of you--" began Ann Veronica. "Not a bit. Just a friendly polite suggestion. I don't suggest any philanthropy. I shall charge you five per cent., you know, fair and square." Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. But the five per cent. certainly did seem to improve the aspect of Ramage's suggestion. "Well, anyhow, consider it open." He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. "And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn't it--wasn't it rather in some respects--rather a lark? It's one of my regrets for my lost youth. I never ran away from anywhere with anybody anywhen. And now--I suppose I should be considered too old. I don't feel it.... Didn't you feel rather EVENTFUL--in the train--coming up to Waterloo?" Part 6 Before Christmas Ann Veronica had gone to Ramage again and accepted this offer she had at first declined. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. She had been forced to buy herself that pair of boots and a walking-skirt, and the pearl necklace at the pawnbrokers' had yielded very disappointingly. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was--the sensible thing to do. There it was--to be borrowed. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. He was in a position to help her. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. "Can you spare me forty pounds?" she said. Mr. Ramage controlled his expression and thought very quickly. "Agreed," he said, "certainly," and drew a checkbook toward him. "It's best," he said, "to make it a good round sum. "I won't give you a check though--Yes, I will. I'll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by.... You'd better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the post-office and draw it out a fiver at a time. That won't involve references, as a bank account would--and all that sort of thing. The money will last longer, and--it won't bother you." He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. "It's jolly," he said, "to feel you have come to me. It's a sort of guarantee of confidence. Last time--you made me feel snubbed." He hesitated, and went off at a tangent. "There's no end of things I'd like to talk over with you. It's just upon my lunch-time. Come and have lunch with me." Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. "I don't want to take up your time." "We won't go to any of these City places. They're just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. But I know a little place where we'll get a little quiet talk." Ann Veronica for some indefinable reason did not want to lunch with him, a reason indeed so indefinable that she dismissed it, and Ramage went through the outer office with her, alert and attentive, to the vivid interest of the three clerks. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. "Ritter's!" said Ramage to the driver, "Dean Street." It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She admitted her pleasure to Ramage. And Ritter's, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage's orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. Ritter sold better food than most of his compatriots, and cooked it better, and Ramage, with a fine perception of a feminine palate, ordered Vero Capri. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica's affairs. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman's outlook. He seemed to know a great deal about life. He gave glimpses of possibilities. He roused curiosities. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.... But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER," it ran,--"Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. This roof is still open to you. You will not be taunted if you return and everything that can be done will be done to make you happy. "Indeed, I must implore you to return. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. We fail altogether to understand your motives in doing what you are doing, or, indeed, how you are managing to do it, or what you are managing on. If you will think only of one trifling aspect--the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence--I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. I need hardly say that your aunt joins with me very heartily in this request. "Please come home. You will not find me unreasonable with you. "Your affectionate "FATHER." Ann Veronica sat over her fire with her father's note in her hand. "Queer letters he writes," she said. "I suppose most people's letters are queer. Roof open--like a Noah's Ark. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. It's odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels." "I wonder how he treated Gwen." Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "I ought to look up Gwen," she said. "I wonder what happened." Then she fell to thinking about her aunt. "I would like to go home," she cried, "to please her. She has been a dear. Considering how little he lets her have." The truth prevailed. "The unaccountable thing is that I wouldn't go home to please her. She is, in her way, a dear. One OUGHT to want to please her. And I don't. I don't care. I can't even make myself care." Presently, as if for comparison with her father's letter, she got out Ramage's check from the box that contained her papers. For so far she had kept it uncashed. She had not even endorsed it. "Suppose I chuck it," she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand--"suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! "Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come-- "I could still go home!" She held Ramage's check as if to tear it across. "No," she said at last; "I'm a human being--not a timid female. What could I do at home? The other's a crumple-up--just surrender. Funk! I'll see it out." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH BIOLOGY Part 1 January found Ann Veronica a student in the biological laboratory of the Central Imperial College that towers up from among the back streets in the angle between Euston Road and Great Portland Street. She was working very steadily at the Advanced Course in Comparative Anatomy, wonderfully relieved to have her mind engaged upon one methodically developing theme in the place of the discursive uncertainties of the previous two months, and doing her utmost to keep right in the back of her mind and out of sight the facts, firstly, that she had achieved this haven of satisfactory activity by incurring a debt to Ramage of forty pounds, and, secondly, that her present position was necessarily temporary and her outlook quite uncertain. The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent's Park. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, well-ventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. The whole place and everything in it aimed at one thing--to illustrate, to elaborate, to criticise and illuminate, and make ever plainer and plainer the significance of animal and vegetable structure. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. Contrasted with the confused movement and presences of a Fabian meeting, or the inexplicable enthusiasm behind the suffrage demand, with the speeches that were partly egotistical displays, partly artful manoeuvres, and partly incoherent cries for unsoundly formulated ends, compared with the comings and goings of audiences and supporters that were like the eddy-driven drift of paper in the street, this long, quiet, methodical chamber shone like a star seen through clouds. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. There was a couple of blackboards at each end of the aisle of tables, and at these Capes, with quick and nervous speech that contrasted vividly with Russell's slow, definitive articulation, directed the dissection and made illuminating comments on the structures under examination. Then he would come along the laboratory, sitting down by each student in turn, checking the work and discussing its difficulties, and answering questions arising out of Russell's lecture. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Capes was rather a discovery. Capes was something superadded. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. It numbered nine, and four of these were women students. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o'clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice's most skilful attempts to draw him out. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Ann Veronica's experiences of men had been among more stable types--Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. And Ramage too--about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. The five men students were a mixed company. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell's manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were "fairish," or "very fairish indeed," or "high above the normal female standard," hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. There were two school-mistresses, one of whom--Miss Klegg--might have been a first cousin to Miss Miniver, she had so many Miniver traits; there was a preoccupied girl whose name Ann Veronica never learned, but who worked remarkably well; and Miss Garvice, who began by attracting her very greatly--she moved so beautifully--and ended by giving her the impression that moving beautifully was the beginning and end of her being. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. The advanced work at the Central Imperial College was in the closest touch with living interests and current controversies; it drew its illustrations and material from Russell's two great researches--upon the relation of the brachiopods to the echinodermata, and upon the secondary and tertiary mammalian and pseudo-mammalian factors in the free larval forms of various marine organisms. Moreover, a vigorous fire of mutual criticism was going on now between the Imperial College and the Cambridge Mendelians and echoed in the lectures. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. But the influence of the science radiated far beyond its own special field--beyond those beautiful but highly technical problems with which we do not propose for a moment to trouble the naturally terrified reader. Biology is an extraordinarily digestive science. It throws out a number of broad experimental generalizations, and then sets out to bring into harmony or relation with these an infinitely multifarious collection of phenomena. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock--ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. And now Ann Veronica's evenings were also becoming very busy. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. They went to various central and local Fabian gatherings, and to a number of suffrage meetings. Teddy Widgett hovered on the fringe of all these gatherings, blinking at Ann Veronica and occasionally making a wildly friendly dash at her, and carrying her and Miss Miniver off to drink cocoa with a choice diversity of other youthful and congenial Fabians after the meetings. Then Mr.

outside

How many times the word 'outside' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

overhead

How many times the word 'overhead' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

balance

How many times the word 'balance' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

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while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

haul

How many times the word 'haul' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

strong

How many times the word 'strong' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

these

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while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

observed

How many times the word 'observed' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

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while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

incredulous

How many times the word 'incredulous' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

years

How many times the word 'years' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

health

How many times the word 'health' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

paid

How many times the word 'paid' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

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while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

drink

How many times the word 'drink' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

passages

How many times the word 'passages' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

cutter

How many times the word 'cutter' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

pearl

How many times the word 'pearl' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

supercargo

How many times the word 'supercargo' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

windows

How many times the word 'windows' appears in the text?

while. They had him strait-jacketed in the Colonial Club two days----" "His wife's uncle, an old Paumotan, cut him out of the jacket and turned him loose," the supercargo corroborated. "And then old Parlay proceeded to eat things up," Grief went on. "Pumped three bullets into the scalawag of a lieutenant----" "Who lay in sick bay for three months," Captain Warfield contributed. "Flung a glass of wine in the Governor's face; fought a duel with the port doctor; beat up his native servants; wrecked the hospital; broke two ribs and the collarbone of a man nurse, and escaped; and went down to his schooner, a gun in each hand, daring the chief of police and all the gendarmes to arrest him, and sailed for Hikihoho. And they say he's never left the island since." The supercargo nodded. "That was fifteen years ago, and he's never budged." "And added to his pearls," said the captain. "He's a blithering old lunatic. Makes my flesh creep. He's a regular Finn." "What's that?" Mulhall inquired. "Bosses the weather--that's what the natives believe, at any rate. Ask Tai-Hotauri there. Hey, Tai-Hotauri! what you think old Parlay do along weather?" "Just the same one big weather devil," came the Kanaka's answer. "I know. He want big blow, he make big blow. He want no wind, no wind come." "A regular old Warlock," said Mulhall. "No good luck them pearl," Tai-Hotauri blurted out, rolling his head ominously. "He say he sell. Plenty schooner come. Then he make big hurricane, everybody finish, you see. All native men say so." "It's hurricane season now," Captain War-field laughed morosely. "They're not far wrong. It's making for something right now, and I'd feel better if the _Malahini_ was a thousand miles away from here." "He is a bit mad," Grief concluded. "I've tried to get his point of view. It's--well, it's mixed. For eighteen years he'd centred everything on Armande. Half the time he believes she's still alive, not yet come back from France. That's one of the reasons he held on to the pearls. And all the time he hates white men. He never forgets they killed her, though a great deal of the time he forgets she's dead. Hello! Where's your wind?" The sails bellied emptily overhead, and Captain Warfield grunted his disgust. Intolerable as the heat had been, in the absence of wind it was almost overpowering. The sweat oozed out on all their faces, and now one, and again another, drew deep breaths, involuntarily questing for more air. "Here she comes again--an eight point haul! Boom-tackles across! Jump!" The Kanakas sprang to the captain's orders, and for five minutes the schooner laid directly into the passage and even gained on the current. Again the breeze fell flat, then puffed from the old quarter, compelling a shift back of sheets and tackles. "Here comes the _Nuhiva_" Grief said. "She's got her engine on. Look at her skim." "All ready?" the captain asked the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, whose head and shoulders protruded from the small hatch just for'ard of the cabin, and who wiped the sweat from his face with a bunch of greasy waste. "Sure," he replied. "Then let her go." The engineer disappeared into his den, and a moment later the exhaust muffler coughed and spluttered overside. But the schooner could not hold her lead. The little cutter made three feet to her two and was quickly alongside and forging ahead. Only natives were on her deck, and the man steering waved his hand in derisive greeting and farewell. "That's Narii Herring," Grief told Mulhall. "The big fellow at the wheel--the nerviest and most conscienceless scoundrel in the Paumotus." Five minutes later a cry of joy from their own Kanakas centred all eyes on the _Nuhiva_. Her engine had broken down and they were overtaking her. The _Malahini's_ sailors sprang into the rigging and jeered as they went by; the little cutter heeled over by the wind with a bone in her teeth, going backward on the tide. "Some engine that of ours," Grief approved, as the lagoon opened before them and the course was changed across it to the anchorage. Captain Warfield was visibly cheered, though he merely grunted, "It'll pay for itself, never fear." The _Malahini_ ran well into the centre of the little fleet ere she found swinging room to anchor. "There's Isaacs on the _Dolly_," Grief observed, with a hand wave of greeting. "And Peter Gee's on the _Roberta_. Couldn't keep him away from a pearl sale like this. And there's Francini on the _Cactus_. They're all here, all the buyers. Old Parlay will surely get a price." "They haven't repaired the engine yet," Captain Warfield grumbled gleefully. He was looking across the lagoon to where the _Nuhiva's_ sails showed through the sparse cocoa-nuts. II The house of Parlay was a big two-story frame affair, built of California lumber, with a galvanized iron roof. So disproportionate was it to the slender ring of the atoll that it showed out upon the sand-strip and above it like some monstrous excrescence. They of the _Malahini_ paid the courtesy visit ashore immediately after anchoring. Other captains and buyers were in the big room examining the pearls that were to be auctioned next day. Paumotan servants, natives of Hikihoho, and relatives of the owner, moved about dispensing whiskey and absinthe. And through the curious company moved Parlay himself, cackling and sneering, the withered wreck of what had once been a tall and powerful man. His eyes were deep sunken and feverish, his cheeks fallen in and cavernous. The hair of his head seemed to have come out in patches, and his mustache and imperial had shed in the same lopsided way. "Jove!" Mulhall muttered under his breath. "A long-legged Napoleon the Third, but burnt out, baked, and fire-crackled. And mangy! No wonder he crooks his head to one side. He's got to keep the balance." "Goin' to have a blow," was the old man's greeting to Grief. "You must think a lot of pearls to come a day like this." "They're worth going to inferno for," Grief laughed genially back, running his eyes over the surface of the table covered by the display. "Other men have already made that journey for them," old Parlay cackled. "See this one!" He pointed to a large, perfect pearl the size of a small walnut that lay apart on a piece of chamois. "They offered me sixty thousand francs for it in Tahiti. They'll bid as much and more for it to-morrow, if they aren't blown away. Well, that pearl, it was found by my cousin, my cousin by marriage. He was a native, you see. Also, he was a thief. He hid it. It was mine. His cousin, who was also my cousin--we're all related here--killed him for it and fled away in a cutter to Noo-Nau. I pursued, but the chief of Noo-Nau had killed him for it before I got there. Oh, yes, there are many dead men represented on the table there. Have a drink, Captain. Your face is not familiar. You are new in the islands?" "It's Captain Robinson of the _Roberta_," Grief said, introducing them. In the meantime Mulhall had shaken hands with Peter Gee. "I never fancied there were so many pearls in the world," Mulhall said. "Nor have I ever seen so many together at one time," Peter Gee admitted. "What ought they to be worth?" "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds--and that's to us buyers. In Paris----" He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows at the incommunicableness of the sum. Mulhall wiped the sweat from his eyes. All were sweating profusely and breathing hard. There was no ice in the drink that was served, and whiskey and absinthe went down lukewarm. "Yes, yes," Parlay was cackling. "Many dead men lie on the table there. I know those pearls, all of them. You see those three! Perfectly matched, aren't they? A diver from Easter Island got them for me inside a week. Next week a shark got him; took his arm off and blood poison did the business. And that big baroque there--nothing much--if I'm offered twenty francs for it to-morrow I'll be in luck; it came out of twenty-two fathoms of water. The man was from Raratonga. He broke all diving records. He got it out of twenty-two fathoms. I saw him. And he burst his lungs at the same time, or got the 'bends,' for he died in two hours. He died screaming. They could hear him for miles. He was the most powerful native I ever saw. Half a dozen of my divers have died of the bends. And more men will die, more men will die." "Oh, hush your croaking, Parlay," chided one of the captains. "It ain't going to blow." "If I was a strong man, I couldn't get up hook and get out fast enough," the old man retorted in the falsetto of age. "Not if I was a strong man with the taste for wine yet in my mouth. But not you. You'll all stay, I wouldn't advise you if I thought you'd go, You can't drive buzzards away from the carrion. Have another drink, my brave sailor-men. Well, well, what men will dare for a few little oyster drops! There they are, the beauties! Auction to-morrow, at ten sharp. Old Parlay's selling out, and the buzzards are gathering--old Parlay who was a stronger man in his day than any of them and who will see most of them dead yet." "If he isn't a vile old beast!" the supercargo of the _Malahini_ whispered to Peter Gee. "What if she does blow?" said the captain of the _Dolly_. "Hikihoho's never been swept." "The more reason she will be, then," Captain Warfield answered back. "I wouldn't trust her." "Who's croaking now?" Grief reproved. "I'd hate to lose that new engine before it paid for itself," Captain Warfield replied gloomily. Parlay skipped with astonishing nimbleness across the crowded room to the barometer on the wall. "Take a look, my brave sailormen!" he cried exultantly. The man nearest read the glass. The sobering effect showed plainly on his face. "It's dropped ten," was all he said, yet every face went anxious, and there was a look as if every man desired immediately to start for the door. "Listen!" Parlay commanded. In the silence the outer surf seemed to have become unusually loud. There was a great rumbling roar. "A big sea is beginning to set," some one said; and there was a movement to the windows, where all gathered. Through the sparse cocoanuts they gazed seaward. An orderly succession of huge smooth seas was rolling down upon the coral shore. For some minutes they gazed on the strange sight and talked in low voices, and in those few minutes it was manifest to all that the waves were increasing in size. It was uncanny, this rising sea in a dead calm, and their voices unconsciously sank lower. Old Parlay shocked them with his abrupt cackle. "There is yet time to get away to sea, brave gentlemen. You can tow across the lagoon with your whaleboats." "It's all right, old man," said Darling, the mate of the _Cactus_, a stalwart youngster of twenty-five. "The blow's to the southward and passing on. We'll not get a whiff of it." An air of relief went through the room. Conversations were started, and the voices became louder. Several of the buyers even went back to the table to continue the examination of the pearls. Parlay's shrill cackle rose higher. "That's right," he encouraged. "If the world was coming to an end you'd go on buying." "We'll buy these to-morrow just the same," Isaacs assured him. "Then you'll be doing your buying in hell." The chorus of incredulous laughter incensed the old man. He turned fiercely on Darling. "Since when have children like you come to the knowledge of storms? And who is the man who has plotted the hurricane-courses of the Paumotus? What books will you find it in? I sailed the Paumotus before the oldest of you drew breath. I know. To the eastward the paths of the hurricanes are on so wide a circle they make a straight line. To the westward here they make a sharp curve. Remember your chart. How did it happen the hurricane of '91 swept Auri and Hiolau? The curve, my brave boy, the curve! In an hour, or two or three at most, will come the wind. Listen to that!" A vast rumbling crash shook the coral foundations of the atoll. The house quivered to it. The native servants, with bottles of whiskey and absinthe in their hands, shrank together as if for protection and stared with fear through the windows at the mighty wash of the wave lapping far up the beach to the corner of a copra-shed. Parlay looked at the barometer, giggled, and leered around at his guests. Captain War-field strode across to see. "29:75," he read. "She's gone down five more. By God! the old devil's right. She's a-coming, and it's me, for one, for aboard." "It's growing dark," Isaacs half whispered. "Jove! it's like a stage," Mulhall said to Grief, looking at his watch. "Ten o'clock in the morning, and it's like twilight. Down go the lights for the tragedy. Where's the slow music!" In answer, another rumbling crash shook the atoll and the house. Almost in a panic the company started for the door. In the dim light their sweaty faces appeared ghastly. Isaacs panted asthmatically in the suffocating heat. "What's your haste?" Parlay chuckled and girded at his departing guests. "A last drink, brave gentlemen." No one noticed him. As they took the shell-bordered path to the beach he stuck his head out the door and called, "Don't forget, gentlemen, at ten to-morrow old Parlay sells his pearls." III On the beach a curious scene took place. Whaleboat after whaleboat was being hurriedly manned and shoved off. It had grown still darker. The stagnant calm continued, and the sand shook under their feet with each buffet of the sea on the outer shore. Narii Herring walked leisurely along the sand. He grinned at the very evident haste of the captains and buyers. With him were three of his Kanakas, and also Tai-Hotauri. "Get into the boat and take an oar," Captain Warfield ordered the latter. Tai-Hotauri came over jauntily, while Narii Herring and his three Kanakas paused and looked on from forty feet away. "I work no more for you, skipper," Tai-Hotauri said insolently and loudly. But his face belied his words, for he was guilty of a prodigious wink. "Fire me, skipper," he huskily whispered, with a second significant wink. Captain Warfield took the cue and proceeded to do some acting himself. He raised his fist and his voice. "Get into that boat," he thundered, "or I'll knock seven bells out of you!" The Kanaka drew back truculently, and Grief stepped between to placate his captain. "I go to work on the _Nuhiva_," Tai-Hotauri said, rejoining the other group. "Come back here!" the captain threatened. "He's a free man, skipper," Narii Herring spoke up. "He's sailed with me in the past, and he's sailing again, that's all." "Come on, we must get on board," Grief urged. "Look how dark it's getting." Captain Warfield gave in, but as the boat shoved off he stood up in the sternsheets and shook his fist ashore. "I'll settle with you yet, Narii," he cried. "You're the only skipper in the group that steals other men's sailors," He sat down, and in lowered voice queried: "Now what's Tai-Hotauri up to? He's on to something, but what is it?" IV As the boat came alongside the _Malahini_, Hermann's anxious face greeted them over the rail. "Bottom out fall from barometer," he announced. "She's goin' to blow. I got starboard anchor overhaul." "Overhaul the big one, too," Captain Warfield ordered, taking charge. "And here, some of you, hoist in this boat. Lower her down to the deck and lash her bottom up." Men were busy at work on the decks of all the schooners. There was a great clanking of chains being overhauled, and now one craft, and now another, hove in, veered, and dropped a second anchor. Like the _Malahini_, those that had third anchors were preparing to drop them when the wind showed what quarter it was to blow from. The roar of the big surf continually grew though the lagoon lay in the mirror-like calm. There was no sign of life where Parlay's big house perched on the sand. Boat and copra-sheds and the sheds where the shell was stored were deserted. "For two cents I'd up anchors and get out," Grief said. "I'd do it anyway if it were open sea. But those chains of atolls to the north and east have us pocketed. We've a better chance right here. What do you think, Captain Warfield?" "I agree with you, though a lagoon is no mill-pond for riding it out. I wonder where she's going to start from? Hello! There goes one of Parlay's copra-sheds." They could see the grass-thatched shed lift and collapse, while a froth of foam cleared the crest of the sand and ran down to the lagoon. "Breached across!" Mulhall exclaimed. "That's something for a starter. There she comes again!" The wreck of the shed was now flung up and left on the sand-crest, A third wave buffeted it into fragments which washed down the slope toward the lagoon. "If she blow I would as be cooler yet," Hermann grunted. "No longer can I breathe. It is damn hot. I am dry like a stove." He chopped open a drinking cocoanut with his heavy sheath-knife and drained the contents. The rest of them followed his example, pausing once to watch one of Parlay's shell sheds go down in ruin. The barometer now registered 29:50. "Must be pretty close to the centre of the area of low pressure," Grief remarked cheerfully. "I was never through the eye of a hurricane before. It will be an experience for you, too, Mulhall. From the speed the barometer's dropped, it's going to be a big one." Captain Warfield groaned, and all eyes drew to him. He was looking through the glasses down the length of the lagoon to the southeast. "There she comes," he said quietly. They did not need glasses to see. A flying film, strangely marked, seemed drawing over the surface of the lagoon. Abreast of it, along the atoll, travelling with equal speed, was a stiff bending of the cocoanut palms and a blur of flying leaves. The front of the wind on the water was a solid, sharply defined strip of dark-coloured, wind-vexed water. In advance of this strip, like skirmishers, were flashes of windflaws. Behind this strip, a quarter of a mile in width, was a strip of what seemed glassy calm. Next came another dark strip of wind, and behind that the lagoon was all crisping, boiling whiteness. "What is that calm streak?" Mulhall asked. "Calm," Warfield answered. "But it travels as fast as the wind," was the other's objection. "It has to, or it would be overtaken and it wouldn't be any calm. It's a double-header, I saw a big squall like that off Savaii once. A regular double-header. Smash! it hit us, then it lulled to nothing, and smashed us a second time. Stand by and hold on! Here she is on top of us. Look at the _Roberta!_" The Roberta, lying nearest to the wind at slack chains, was swept off broadside like a straw. Then her chains brought her up, bow on to the wind, with an astonishing jerk. Schooner after schooner, the _Malahini_ with them, was now sweeping away with the first gust and fetching up on taut chains. Mulhall and several of the Kanakas were taken off their feet when the _Malahini_ jerked to her anchors. And then there was no wind. The flying calm streak had reached them. Grief lighted a match, and the unshielded flame burned without flickering in the still air. A very dim twilight prevailed. The cloud-sky, lowering as it had been for hours, seemed now to have descended quite down upon the sea. The Roberta tightened to her chains when the second head of the hurricane hit, as did schooner after schooner in swift succession. The sea, white with fury, boiled in tiny, spitting wavelets. The deck of the _Malahini_ vibrated under the men's feet. The taut-stretched halyards beat a tattoo against the masts, and all the rigging, as if smote by some mighty hand, set up a wild thrumming. It was impossible to face the wind and breathe. Mulhall, crouching with the others behind the shelter of the cabin, discovered this, and his lungs were filled in an instant with so great a volume of driven air which he could not expel that he nearly strangled ere he could turn his head away. "It's incredible," he gasped, but no one heard him. Hermann and several Kanakas were crawling for'ard on hands and knees to let go the third anchor. Grief touched Captain Warfield and pointed to the _Roberta_. She was dragging down upon them. Warfield put his mouth to Grief's ear and shouted: "We're dragging, too!" Grief sprang to the wheel and put it hard over, veering the _Mahhini_ to port. The third anchor took hold, and the _Roberta_ went by, stern-first, a dozen yards away. They waved their hands to Peter Gee and Captain Robinson, who, with a number of sailors, were at work on the bow. "He's knocking out the shackles!" Grief shouted. "Going to chance the passage! Got to! Anchors skating!" "We're holding now!" came the answering shout. "There goes the _Cactus_ down on the _Misi_. That settles them!" The _Misi_ had been holding, but the added windage of the _Cactus_ was too much, and the entangled schooners slid away across the boiling white. Their men could be seen chopping and fighting to get them apart. The _Roberta_, cleared of her anchors, with a patch of tarpaulin set for'ard, was heading for the passage at the northwestern end of the lagoon. They saw her make it and drive out to sea. But the _Misi_ and _Cactus_, unable to get clear of each other, went ashore on the atoll half a mile from the passage. The wind merely increased on itself and continued to increase. To face the full blast of it required all one's strength, and several minutes of crawling on deck against it tired a man to exhaustion. Hermann, with his Kanakas, plodded steadily, lashing and making secure, putting ever more gaskets on the sails. The wind ripped and tore their thin undershirts from their backs. They moved slowly, as if their bodies weighed tons, never releasing a hand-hold until another had been secured. Loose ends of rope stood out stiffly horizontal, and, when a whipping gave, the loose end frazzled and blew away. Mulhall touched one and then another and pointed to the shore. The grass-sheds had disappeared, and Parlay's house rocked drunkenly, Because the wind blew lengthwise along the atoll, the house had been sheltered by the miles of cocoanut trees. But the big seas, breaking across from outside, were undermining it and hammering it to pieces. Already tilted down the slope of sand, its end was imminent. Here and there in the cocoanut trees people had lashed themselves. The trees did not sway or thresh about. Bent over rigidly from the wind, they remained in that position and vibrated monstrously. Underneath, across the sand, surged the white spume of the breakers. A big sea was likewise making down the length of the lagoon. It had plenty of room to kick up in the ten-mile stretch from the windward rim of the atoll, and all the schooners were bucking and plunging into it. The _Malahini_ had begun shoving her bow and fo'c'sle head under the bigger ones, and at times her waist was filled rail-high with water. "Now's the time for your engine!" Grief bellowed; and Captain Warfield, crawling over to where the engineer lay, shouted emphatic commands. Under the engine, going full speed ahead, the _Malahini_ behaved better. While she continued to ship seas over her bow, she was not jerked down so fiercely by her anchors. On the other hand, she was unable to get any slack in the chains. The best her forty horsepower could do was to ease the strain. Still the wind increased. The little _Nuhiva_, lying abreast of the _Malahini_ and closer in to the beach, her engine still unrepaired and her captain ashore, was having a bad time of it. She buried herself so frequently and so deeply that they wondered each time if she could clear herself of the water. At three in the afternoon buried by a second sea before she could free herself of the preceding one, she did not come up. Mulhall looked at Grief. "Burst in her hatches," was the bellowed answer. Captain Warfield pointed to the _Winifred_, a little schooner plunging and burying outside of them, and shouted in Grief's ear. His voice came in patches of dim words, with intervals of silence when whisked away by the roaring wind. "Rotten little tub... Anchors hold... But how she holds together... Old as the ark----" An hour later Hermann pointed to her. Her for'ard bitts, foremast, and most of her bow were gone, having been jerked out of her by her anchors. She swung broadside, rolling in the trough and settling by the head, and in this plight was swept away to leeward. Five vessels now remained, and of them the _Malahini_ was the only one with an engine. Fearing either the _Nuhiva's_ or the _Winifdred's_ fate, two of them followed the _Roberta's_ example, knocking out the chain-shackles and running for the passage. The _Dolly_ was the first, but her tarpaulin was carried away, and she went to destruction on the lee-rim of the atoll near the _Misi_ and the _Cactus_. Undeterred by this, the _Moana_ let go and followed with the same result. "Pretty good engine that, eh?" Captain Warfield yelled to his owner. Grief put out his hand and shook. "She's paying for herself!" he yelled back. "The wind's shifting around to the southward, and we ought to lie easier!" Slowly and steadily, but with ever-increasing velocity, the wind veered around to the south and the southwest, till the three schooners that were left pointed directly in toward the beach. The wreck of Parlay's house was picked up, hurled into the lagoon, and blown out upon them. Passing the _Malahini_, it crashed into the _Papara_, lying a quarter of a mile astern. There was wild work for'ard on her, and in a quarter of an hour the house went clear, but it had taken the _Papara's_ foremast and bowsprit with it. Inshore, on their port bow, lay the _Tahaa_, slim and yacht-like, but excessively oversparred. Her anchors still held, but her captain, finding no abatement in the wind, proceeded to reduce windage by chopping down his masts. "Pretty good engine that," Grief congratulated his skipper, "It will save our sticks for us yet." Captain Warfield shook his head dubiously. The sea on the lagoon went swiftly down with the change of wind, but they were beginning to feel the heave and lift of the outer sea breaking across the atoll. There were not so many trees remaining. Some had been broken short off, others uprooted. One tree they saw snap off halfway up, three persons clinging to it, and whirl away by the wind into the lagoon. Two detached themselves from it and swam to the Tahaa. Not long after, just before darkness, they saw one jump overboard from that schooner's stern and strike out strongly for the Malahini through the white, spitting wavelets. "It's Tai-Hotauri," was Grief's judgment. "Now we'll have the news." The Kanaka caught the bobstay, climbed over the bow, and crawled aft. Time was given him to breathe, and then, behind the part shelter of the cabin, in broken snatches and largely by signs, he told his story. "Narii... damn robber... He want steal... pearls... Kill Parlay... One man kill Parlay... No man know what man... Three Kanakas, Narii, me... Five beans... hat... Narii say one bean black... Nobody know... Kill Parlay... Narii damn liar... All beans black... Five black... Copra-shed dark... Every man get black bean... Big wind come... No chance... Everybody get up tree... No good luck them pearls... I tell you before... No good luck." "Where's Parlay?" Grief shouted. "Up tree... Three of his Kanakas same tree. Narii and one Kanaka'nother tree... My tree blow to hell, then I come on board." "Where's the pearls?" "Up tree along Parlay. Mebbe Narii get them pearl yet." In the ear of one after another Grief passed on Tai-Hotauri's story. Captain Warfield was particularly incensed, and they could see him grinding his teeth. Hermann went below and returned with a riding light, but the moment it was lifted above the level of the cabin wall the wind blew it out. He had better success with the binnacle lamp, which was lighted only after many collective attempts. "A fine night of wind!" Grief yelled in Mulhall's ear. "And blowing harder all the time." "How hard?" "A hundred miles an hour... two hundred... I don't know... Harder than I've ever seen it." The lagoon grew more and more troubled by the sea that swept across the atoll. Hundreds of leagues of ocean was being backed up by the hurricane, which more than overcame the lowering effect of the ebb tide. Immediately the tide began to rise the increase in the size of the seas was noticeable. Moon and wind were heaping the South Pacific on Hikihoho atoll. Captain Warfield returned from one of his periodical trips to the engine

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How many times the word 'int' appears in the text?