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ContentKing

contentking

One of the exciting things about the Internet is that anyone with a PC and a modem can publish whatever content they can create. In a sense, the Internet is the multimedia equivalent of the photocopier. It allows material to be duplicated at low cost, no matter the size of the audience. Those are some of the words Bill Gates wrote in his essay “ .” Ever since that has become a prophecy among content producers. Among the community where this discussion is most felt is the SEO community. That comprises a community of experts that try to rank content on the web via the main commercial search engines. Content is King Every here and there in the SEO community a discussion goes on about whether Content is still King or that got replaced by something else. There is no doubt that content matters. However, content depends upon context, users’ intents and the authoritativeness of its author. Those factors are even more evident now after a tornado swept away the traffic from many web properties. Content without context and intent is like a Pizza without sauce On the first week of August 2018, a tornado that the SEO community called “Medic Update” hit badly many sites. That was an update of the core of Google’s algorithm which shifted millions if not billions of visits from some sites to others. As specified by Google: This week we released a broad core algorithm update, as we do several times per year. Our guidance about such updates remains the same as in March, as we covered here: https://t.co/uPlEdSLHoX — Google SearchLiaison (@searchliaison) August 1, 2018 The search liaison of Google, which deals with communication with the outside world (especially SEO practitioners) gave some more details on the algorithm change by specifying: Each day, Google usually releases one or more changes designed to improve our results. Some are focused around specific improvements. Some are broad changes. Last week, we released a broad core algorithm update. We do these routinely several times per year…. — Google SearchLiaison (@searchliaison) March 12, 2018 Some of the biggest losers of this update seem to be the YMYL (your money or your life kind of website). In short, a site offering you guidance that can affect your life (be it physical or financial) has been transformed from this algorithm change. As reported by Search Engine Land, a list of the site in a week lost anywhere between %30–50 traffic. : Source searchengineland.com As pointed out: Bill Slawski Content is not king on the Web; meeting a searcher’s intent is. When someone searches for pizza at lunchtime, they likely aren’t looking for a history of Pizza, but rather a slice or two. #SEO #Intent #Context — Bill Slawski ⚓ (@bill_slawski) August 9, 2018 What might seem trivial is not. In fact, in the SEO community often discussions that revolve around the length of the perfect piece of content are going on at all time. However, content is not the point. Google is a tool to find answers to questions that might be philosophical or very practical. Thus when I’m searching “pizza” based on the time of the day, I might be looking for something to eat. Alternatively, if I’m just curious, I might be looking for the history of Pizza. Those cases show two completely different intents. One is extremely practical (I need to eat right now!). The other is informational (I want to know the historical context of Pizza). If you were to listen to the usual saying of “content is king” you’d probably waste your time putting together a two thousand word piece that covers the history of Pizza together with all the other different questions a user might have. However, that same user might only be looking for specific information that might as well be answered with a 300 words recipe that describes how to make a Pizza. In this scenario, thinking in terms “content is king” will probably kill your business. Google is becoming the Semantic Web For many years the speculation about when Google would become semantic has going on. In short, for those who don’t know how Google worked and how it works now. In the past, Google relied primarily on two aspects for search: backlinks and keywords. So that each time a user would insert that keyword in the search box, a result would be given by matching that keyword with a web page. As simple as that. Although the mechanism might sound simple, it is true that Google managed for years to index and crawled billions of pages in a snap of fingers. Also, Google’s first algorithm, PageRank, represented an incredible innovation in the commercial space. When Google was launched, the search industry was a plethora of engines that more than serving relevant results would serve spammy content, plenty of banners. Google change that. However, as Google started to grow at fast speed, none would have imagined (not even Larry Page). The most significant issue for years was to manage that hypergrowth by avoiding the company would implode. Google was able to survive its hypergrowth and become the top search engine in the world. It finally controlled the web. However, the birth of the SEO industry also represented a challenge for Google, which had to come up with a way to overcome the “manipulation” of its algorithm. While, in general, SEO practitioners operated according to Google’s guidelines (so-called White Hat SEO) many others operated to game the system (so-called Black Hat SEO). Thus, Google came up with several updates to its algorithms, like Panda or Penguin, to wipe out those who were trying to game the system. Another direction Google is moving toward is about integrating its semantic engine, built on top of its core algorithm as the main propeller for search. Back in 2013 and 2015 Google has updated its core algorithm with Hummingbird and then with a component of it, called RankBrain. To put it shortly, those changes were mainly intended at allowing Google to read the information on the web by looking at a massive knowledge graph it had created. This is a semantic technology that allows search engines to store billions of simple logic phrases (like “I am Gennaro” and “Gennaro knows John”) which connected via logic relationships will enable this graph to grow exponentially. Today Google’s knowledge graph powers up a good chunk of Google’s queries. Thus, Google is finally able to provide answers to its users based on direct questions. The war toward voice search is still to be fought As of now, Google is also able to offer several perspectives on a single question. For instance, if you ask on Google US “who’s Gennaro Cuofano” you might see this: Google uses two different features (featured snippet and knowledge panel) to answer the same question from two different perspectives. However, there is one interesting point to notice. The knowledge panel is by far the most stable feature on Google’s search results. While featured snippets might come and go, knowledge panels usually stick. That’s because the knowledge panel information is coming from Google’s proprietary knowledge graph. While the featured snippet information is coming from a web page. Thus, if another web page will come with a better way to answer that question (and a better SEO strategy) you might lose the snippet. That is also why knowledge panels might prevail within the Google’s assistant compared to the featured snippet. Thus, the knowledge panel is and will be a critical space on the white page of Google. That space is already worth billions. Where before the information from the knowledge panel was coming from an Amazon page I had created in the past. As you notice from the picture, that same information is coming from a page of Google books, which I did not create. This is a way for Google to get control back on its search results. That is also the avenue that goes directly in voice search. Knowledge panels are often featured as answers within Google digital assistants. However, publishers also fear that those same features intended at giving direct answers to users might even kill their business. Where are we going next? In the article I hypothesized about four business models that might be feasible going toward voice search. At this stage, though one thing becomes clear; a nice, in-depth piece of content out of context or not able to capture the intent of the user might be worth nothing. In an era where multiple devices will be able to catch our attention by tapping into our intents with more and more accuracy, we’ll need to rethink the way we deliver content. “ Ok Google, Are You In Search Of A Business Model For Voice? ” For instance, while an essay might always be the best writing format to meet users intents on a philosophical matter. Think of someone searching for “the meaning of life” (apparently more than 200k searches per month happen on Google for that). In other cases, where the intent has a very practical and transactional intent (I just typed “Pizza” in the search box around dinner time, and all I get is restaurants) understanding the context is crucial! Summary and conclusions Back in 1996, Bill Gates wrote the famous essay that said: “Content is King.” Ever since discussions have been going on about whether this is true or not (you’ll probably find articles entitled “Content is King in 1997?” going forward). While content remains critical, it is also important to remember that the majority of the web traffic today goes through Google (the most popular site according to ). Alexa Yet people searching through Google might have philosophical questions. But in most cases, those are practical ones. In fact, , and while you can still sell something to someone looking for its life’s meaning. It’s way easier to sell something to someone that doesn't even bother asking. as of 2017, 86% of Google revenues still come from advertising Based on that, at commercial level content producers that can capture the context of a query and understand the intents (deep concerns that get them to act or trans-act) will win! Planning for the tasks available to a searcher on a site, and making those available to that visitor is anticipating the intents behind a visit (How to, Buy, Book, Watch, etc. ) — Bill Slawski ⚓ (@bill_slawski) September 20, 2018 Originally published at fourweekmba.com on September 20, 2018.

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Christian Science by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER XV here CHAPTER XV We may take that up now.
It is not a single if, but a several-jointed one; not an oyster, but a vertebrate. Did Mrs. Eddy borrow from Quimby the Great Idea, or only the little one, the old-timer, the ordinary mental-healing-healing by “mortal” mind? If she borrowed the Great Idea, did she carry it away in her head, or in manuscript? Did she hit upon the Great Idea herself? By the Great Idea I mean, of course, the conviction that the Force involved was still existent, and could be applied now just as it was applied by Christ's Disciples and their converts, and as successfully. Did she philosophize it, systematize it, and write it down in a book? Was it she, and not another, that built a new Religion upon the book and organized it? I think No. 5 can be answered with a Yes, and dismissed from the controversy. And I think that the Great Idea, great as it was, would have enjoyed but a brief activity, and would then have gone to sleep again for some more centuries, but for the perpetuating impulse it got from that organized and tremendous force. As for Nos. 1, 2, and 4, the hostiles contend that Mrs. Eddy got the Great Idea from Quimby and carried it off in manuscript. But their testimony, while of consequence, lacks the most important detail; so far as my information goes, the Quimby manuscript has not been produced. I think we cannot discuss No. 1 and No. 2 profitably. Let them go. For me, No. 3 has a mild interest, and No. 4 a violent one. As regards No. 3, Mrs. Eddy was brought up, from the cradle, an old-time, boiler-iron, Westminster-Catechism Christian, and knew her Bible as well as Captain Kydd knew his, “when he sailed, when he sailed,” and perhaps as sympathetically. The Great Idea had struck a million Bible-readers before her as being possible of resurrection and application—it must have struck as many as that, and been cogitated, indolently, doubtingly, then dropped and forgotten—and it could have struck her, in due course. But how it could interest her, how it could appeal to her—with her make this a thing that is difficult to understand. For the thing back of it is wholly gracious and beautiful: the power, through loving mercifulness and compassion, to heal fleshly ills and pains and grief—all—with a word, with a touch of the hand! This power was given by the Saviour to the Disciples, and to all the converted. All—every one. It was exercised for generations afterwards. Any Christian who was in earnest and not a make-believe, not a policy—Christian, not a Christian for revenue only, had that healing power, and could cure with it any disease or any hurt or damage possible to human flesh and bone. These things are true, or they are not. If they were true seventeen and eighteen and nineteen centuries ago it would be difficult to satisfactorily explain why or how or by what argument that power should be nonexistent in Christians now. To wish to exercise it could occur to Mrs. Eddy—but would it? Grasping, sordid, penurious, famishing for everything she sees—money, power, glory—vain, untruthful, jealous, despotic, arrogant, insolent, pitiless where thinkers and hypnotists are concerned, illiterate, shallow, incapable of reasoning outside of commercial lines, immeasurably selfish— Of course the Great Idea could strike her, we have to grant that, but why it should interest her is a question which can easily overstrain the imagination and bring on nervous prostration, or something like that, and is better left alone by the judicious, it seems to me— Unless we call to our help the alleged other side of Mrs. Eddy's make and character the side which her multitude of followers see, and sincerely believe in. Fairness requires that their view be stated here. It is the opposite of the one which I have drawn from Mrs. Eddy's history and from her By-laws. To her followers she is this: Patient, gentle, loving, compassionate, noble hearted, unselfish, sinless, widely cultured, splendidly equipped mentally, a profound thinker, an able writer, a divine personage, an inspired messenger whose acts are dictated from the Throne, and whose every utterance is the Voice of God. She has delivered to them a religion which has revolutionized their lives, banished the glooms that shadowed them, and filled them and flooded them with sunshine and gladness and peace; a religion which has no hell; a religion whose heaven is not put off to another time, with a break and a gulf between, but begins here and now, and melts into eternity as fancies of the waking day melt into the dreams of sleep. They believe it is a Christianity that is in the New Testament; that it has always been there, that in the drift of ages it was lost through disuse and neglect, and that this benefactor has found it and given it back to men, turning the night of life into day, its terrors into myths, its lamentations into songs of emancipation and rejoicing. There we have Mrs. Eddy as her followers see her. She has lifted them out of grief and care and doubt and fear, and made their lives beautiful; she found them wandering forlorn in a wintry wilderness, and has led them to a tropic paradise like that of which the poet sings: “O, islands there are on the face of the deep
 Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep.” To ask them to examine with a microscope the character of such a benefactor; to ask them to examine it at all; to ask them to look at a blemish which another person believes he has found in it—well, in their place could you do it? Would you do it? Wouldn't you be ashamed to do it? If a tramp had rescued your child from fire and death, and saved its mother's heart from breaking, could you see his rags? Could you smell his breath? Mrs. Eddy has done more than that for these people. They are prejudiced witnesses. To the credit of human nature it is not possible that they should be otherwise. They sincerely believe that Mrs. Eddy's character is pure and perfect and beautiful, and her history without stain or blot or blemish. But that does not settle it. They sincerely believe she did not borrow the Great Idea from Quimby, but hit upon it herself. It may be so, and it could be so. Let it go—there is no way to settle it. They believe she carried away no Quimby manuscripts. Let that go, too—there is no way to settle it. They believe that she, and not another, built the Religion upon the book, and organized it. I believe it, too. Finally, they believe that she philosophized Christian Science, explained it, systematized it, and wrote it all out with her own hand in the book Science and Health. I am not able to believe that. Let us draw the line there. The known and undisputed products of her pen are a formidable witness against her. They do seem to me to prove, quite clearly and conclusively, that writing, upon even simple subjects, is a difficult labor for her: that she has never been able to write anything above third-rate English; that she is weak in the matter of grammar; that she has but a rude and dull sense of the values of words; that she so lacks in the matter of literary precision that she can seldom put a thought into words that express it lucidly to the reader and leave no doubts in his mind as to whether he has rightly understood or not; that she cannot even draught a Preface that a person can fully comprehend, nor one which can by any art be translated into a fully understandable form; that she can seldom inject into a Preface even single sentences whose meaning is uncompromisingly clear—yet Prefaces are her specialty, if she has one. Mrs. Eddy's known and undisputed writings are very limited in bulk; they exhibit no depth, no analytical quality, no thought above school composition size, and but juvenile ability in handling thoughts of even that modest magnitude. She has a fine commercial ability, and could govern a vast railway system in great style; she could draught a set of rules that Satan himself would say could not be improved on—for devilish effectiveness—by his staff; but we know, by our excursions among the Mother-Church's By-laws, that their English would discredit the deputy baggage-smasher. I am quite sure that Mrs. Eddy cannot write well upon any subject, even a commercial one. In the very first revision of Science and Health (1883), Mrs. Eddy wrote a Preface which is an unimpeachable witness that the rest of the book was written by somebody else. I have put it in the Appendix along with a page or two taken from the body of the book, and will ask the reader to compare the labored and lumbering and confused gropings of this Preface with the easy and flowing and direct English of the other exhibit, and see if he can believe that the one hand and brain produced both. And let him take the Preface apart, sentence by sentence, and searchingly examine each sentence word by word, and see if he can find half a dozen sentences whose meanings he is so sure of that he can rephrase them—in words of his own—and reproduce what he takes to be those meanings. Money can be lost on this game. I know, for I am the one that lost it. Now let the reader turn to the excerpt which I have made from the chapter on “Prayer” (last year's edition of Science and Health), and compare that wise and sane and elevated and lucid and compact piece of work with the aforesaid Preface, and with Mrs. Eddy's poetry concerning the gymnastic trees, and Minerva's not yet effete sandals, and the wreaths imported from Erudition's bower for the decoration of Plymouth Rock, and the Plague-spot and Bacilli, and my other exhibits (turn back to my Chapters I. and II.) from the Autobiography, and finally with the late Communication concerning me, and see if he thinks anybody's affirmation, or anybody's sworn testimony, or any other testimony of any imaginable kind would ever be likely to convince him that Mrs. Eddy wrote that chapter on Prayer. I do not wish to impose my opinion on any one who will not permit it, but such as it is I offer it here for what it is worth. I cannot believe, and I do not believe, that Mrs. Eddy originated any of the thoughts and reasonings out of which the book Science and Health is constructed; and I cannot believe, and do not believe that she ever wrote any part of that book. I think that if anything in the world stands proven, and well and solidly proven, by unimpeachable testimony—the treacherous testimony of her own pen in her known and undisputed literary productions—it is that Mrs. Eddy is not capable of thinking upon high planes, nor of reasoning clearly nor writing intelligently upon low ones. Inasmuch as—in my belief—the very first editions of the book Science and Health were far above the reach of Mrs. Eddy's mental and literary abilities, I think she has from the very beginning been claiming as her own another person's book, and wearing as her own property laurels rightfully belonging to that person—the real author of Science and Health. And I think the reason—and the only reason—that he has not protested is because his work was not exposed to print until after he was safely dead. That with an eye to business, and by grace of her business talent, she has restored to the world neglected and abandoned features of the Christian religion which her thousands of followers find gracious and blessed and contenting, I recognize and confess; but I am convinced that every single detail of the work except just that one—the delivery of the Product to the world—was conceived and performed by another. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). Christian Science. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3187/pg3187-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

IT IS NOT A SINGLE IF, BUT A SEVERAL-JOINTED ONE

On War by Carl Von Clausewitz, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Strong Positions and Entrenched Camps Book VI: Chapter XIII. Strong Positions and Entrenched Camps We have said in the preceding chapter that a position so strong through nature, assisted by art, that it is unassailable, does not come under the meaning of an advantageous field of battle, but belongs to a peculiar class of things. We shall in this chapter take a review of what constitutes the nature of this peculiarity, and on account of the analogy between such positions and fortresses, call them strong positions. Merely by entrenchments alone they can hardly be formed, except as entrenched camps resting on fortresses; but still less are they to be found ready formed entirely by natural obstacles. Art usually lends a hand to assist nature, and therefore they are frequently designated as entrenched camps or positions. At the same time, that term may really be applied to any position strengthened more or less by field works, which need have nothing in common with the nature of the position we are now considering. The object of a strong position is to make the force there stationed in point of fact unattackable, and by that means, either really to cover a certain space directly, or only the troops which occupy that space in order then, through them, in another way to effect the covering of the country indirectly. The first was the signification of the lines of former times, for instance, those on the French frontier; the latter, is that of entrenched camps laid out near fortresses, and showing a front in every direction. If, for instance, the front of a position is so strong by works and hindrances to approach that an attack is impossible, then the enemy is compelled to turn it, to make his attack on a side of it or in rear. Now to prevent this being easily done, points d’appui were sought for these lines, which should give them a certain degree of support on the side, such as the Rhine and the Vosges give the lines in Alsace. The longer the front of such a line the more easily it can be protected from being turned, because every movement to turn it is attended with danger to the side attempting the movement, the danger increasing in proportion as the required movement causes a greater deviation from the normal direction of the attacking force. Therefore, a considerable length of front, which can be made unassailable, and good flank-supports, ensure the possibility of protecting a large space of territory directly from hostile invasion: at least, that was the view in which works of this class originated; that was the object of the lines in Alsace, with their right flank on the Rhine and the left on the Vosges; and the lines in Flanders, fifteen miles long, resting their right on the Scheldt and the fortress of Tournay, their left on the sea. But when we have not the advantages of such a long well-defended front, and good flank-supports, if the country is to be held generally by a force well entrenched, then that force (and its position) must be protected against being turned by such an arrangement that it can show a front in every direction. But then the idea of a thoroughly covered tract of country vanishes, for such a position is only strategically a point which covers the force occupying it, and thus secures to that force the power of keeping the field, that is to say, maintaining itself in the country. Such a camp cannot be turned, that is, cannot be attacked in flank or rear by reason of those parts being weaker than its front, for it can show front in all directions, and is equally strong everywhere. But such a camp can be passed by, and that much easier than a fortified line, because its extent amounts to nothing. Entrenched camps connected with fortresses are in reality of this second kind, for the object of them is to protect the troops assembled in them; but their further strategic meaning, that is, the application of this protected force, is somewhat different from that of other fortified camps. Having given this explanation of the origin of these three different defensive means, we shall now proceed to consider the value of each of them separately, under the heads of strong lines, strong positions, and entrenched camps resting on fortresses. 1. Lines.—They are the worst kind of cordon war: the obstacle which they present to the aggressor is of no value at all unless they are defended by a powerful fire; in themselves they are simply worthless. But now the extent to which an army can furnish an effective fire is generally very small in proportion to the extent of country to be defended; the lines can, therefore, only be short, and consequently cover only a small extent of country, or the army will not be able really to defend the lines at all points. In consequence of this, the idea was started of not occupying all points in the line, but only watching them, and defending them by means of strong reserves, in the same way as a small river may be defended; but this procedure is in opposition to the nature of the means. If the natural obstacles of the ground are so great that such a method of defence could be applied, then the entrenchments were needless, and entail danger, for that method of defence is not local, and entrenchments are only suited to a strictly local defence; but if the entrenchments themselves are to be considered the chief impediments to approach, then we may easily conceive that an undefended line will not have much to say as an obstacle to approach. What is a twelve or fifteen feet ditch, and a rampart ten or twelve feet high, against the united efforts of many thousands, if these efforts are not hindered by the fire of an enemy? The consequence, therefore, is, that if such lines are short and tolerably well defended by troops, they can be turned; but if they are extensive, and not sufficiently occupied, they can be attacked in front, and taken without much difficulty. Now as lines of this description tie the troops down to a local defence, and take away from them all mobility, they are a bad and senseless means to use against an enterprising enemy. If we find them long retained in modern wars in spite of these objections, the cause lies entirely in the low degree of energy impressed on the conduct of war, one consequence of which was, that seeming difficulties often effected quite as much as real ones. Besides, in most campaigns these lines were used merely for a secondary defence against irregular incursions; if they have been found not wholly inefficacious for that purpose, we must only keep in view, at the same time, how much more usefully the troops required for their defence might have been employed at other points. In the latest wars such lines have been out of the question, neither do we find any trace of them; and it is doubtful if they will ever re-appear. 2. Positions.—The defence of a tract of country continues (as we shall show more plainly in the 27th chapter) as long as the force designated for it maintains itself there, and only ceases if that force removes and abandons it. If a force is to maintain itself in any district of country which is attacked by very superior forces, the means of protecting this force against the power of the sword by a position which is unassailable is a first consideration. Now such a position, as before said, must be able to show a front in all directions; and in conformity with the usual extent of tactical positions, if the force is not very large (and a large force would be contrary to the nature of the supposed case) it would take up a very small space, which, in the course of the combat, would be exposed to so many disadvantages that, even if strengthened in every possible way by entrenchments, we could hardly expect to make a successful defence. Such a camp, showing front in every direction, must therefore necessarily have an extent of sides proportionably great; but these sides must likewise be as good as unassailable; to give this requisite strength, notwithstanding the required extension, is not within the compass of the art of field fortification; it is therefore a fundamental condition that such a camp must derive part of its strength from natural impediments of ground which render many places impassable and others difficult to pass. In order, therefore, to be able to apply this defensive means, it is necessary to find such a spot, and when that is wanting, the object cannot be attained merely by field works. These considerations relate more immediately to tactical results in order that we may first establish the existence of this strategic means; we mention as examples for illustration, Pirna, Bunzelwitz, Colberg, Torres Vedras, and Drissa. Now, as respects the strategic properties and effects. The first condition is naturally that the force which occupies this camp shall have its subsistence secured for some time, that is, for as long as we think the camp will be required, and this is only possible when the position has behind it a port, like Colberg and Torres Vedras, or stands in connection with a fortress like Bunzelwitz and Pirna, or has large depôts within itself or in the immediate vicinity, like Drissa. It is only in the first case that the provisioning can be ensured for any time we please; in the second and third cases, it can only be so for a more or less limited time, so that in this point there is always danger. From this appears how the difficulty of subsistence debars the use of many strong points which otherwise would be suitable for entrenched positions, and, therefore, makes those that are eligible scarce. In order to ascertain the eligibility of a position of this description, its advantages and defects, we must ask ourselves what the aggressor can do against it. a. The assailant can pass by this strong position, pursue his enterprise, and watch the position with a greater or less force. We must here make a distinction between the cases of a position which is occupied by the main body, and one only occupied by an inferior force. In the first case the passing by the position can only benefit the assailant, if, besides the principal force of the defendant, there is also some other attainable and decisive object of attack, as, for instance, the capture of a fortress or a capital city, etc. But even if there is such an object, he can only follow it if the strength of his base and the direction of his lines of communication are such that he has no cause to fear operations against his strategic flanks. The conclusions to be drawn from this with respect to the admissibility and eligibility of a strong position for the main body of the defender’s army are, that it is only an advisable position when either the possibility of operating against the strategic flank of the aggressor is so decisive that we may be sure beforehand of being able in that way to keep him at a point where his army can effect nothing, or in a case where there is no object attainable by the aggressor for which the defence need be uneasy. If there is such an object, and the strategic flank of the assailant cannot be seriously menaced, then such position should not be taken up, or if it is it should only be as a feint to see whether the assailant can be imposed upon respecting its value; this is always attended with the danger, in case of failure, of being too late to reach the point which is threatened. If the strong position is only held by an inferior force, then the aggressor can never be at a loss for a further object of attack, because he has it in the main body itself of the enemy’s army; in this case, therefore, the value of the position is entirely limited to the means which it affords of operating against the enemy’s strategic flank, and depends upon that condition. b. If the assailant does not venture to pass by a position, he can invest it and reduce it by famine. But this supposes two conditions beforehand: first, that the position is not open in rear, and secondly, that the assailant is sufficiently strong to be able to make such an investment. If these two conditions are united then the assailant’s army certainly would be neutralised for a time by this strong position, but at the same time, the defensive pays the price of this advantage by a loss of his defensive force. From this, therefore, we deduce that the occupation of such a strong position with the main body is a measure only to be taken,— aa. When the rear is perfectly safe (Torres Vedras). bb. When we foresee that the enemy’s force is not strong enough formally to invest us in our camp. Should the enemy attempt the investment with insufficient means, then we should be able to sally out of the camp and beat him in detail. cc. When we can count upon relief like the Saxons at Pirna, 1756, and as took place in the main at Prague, because Prague could only be regarded as an entrenched camp in which Prince Charles would not have allowed himself to be shut up if he had not known that the Moravian army could liberate him. One of these three conditions is therefore absolutely necessary to justify the choice of a strong position for the main body of an army; at the same time we must add that the two last are bordering on a great danger for the defensive. But if it is a question of exposing an inferior corps to the risk of being sacrificed for the benefit of the whole, then these conditions disappear, and the only point to decide is whether by such a sacrifice a greater evil may be avoided. This will seldom happen; at the same time it is certainly not inconceivable. The entrenched camp at Pirna prevented Frederick the Great from attacking Bohemia, as he would have done, in the year 1756. The Austrians were at that time so little prepared, that the loss of that kingdom appears beyond doubt; and perhaps, a greater loss of men would have been connected with it than the 17,000 allied troops who capitulated in the Pirna camp. c. If none of those possibilities specified under a and b are in favour of the aggressor; if, therefore, the conditions which we have there laid down for the defensive are fulfilled, then there remains certainly nothing to be done by the assailant but to fix himself before the position, like a setter before a covey of birds, to spread himself, perhaps, as much as possible by detachments over the country, and contenting himself with these small and indecisive advantages to leave the real decision as to the possession of territory to the future. In this case the position has fulfilled its object. 3. Entrenched camps near fortresses.—They belong, as already said, to the class of entrenched positions generally, in so far, as they have for their object to cover not a tract of territory, but an armed force against a hostile attack, and only differ in reality from the other in this, that with the fortress they make up an inseparable whole, by which they naturally acquire much greater strength. But there follows further from the above the undermentioned special points. a. That they may also have the particular object of rendering the siege of the fortress either impossible or extremely difficult. This object may be worth a great sacrifice of troops if the place is a port which cannot be blockaded, but in any other case we have to take care lest the place is one which may be reduced by hunger so soon that the sacrifice of any considerable number of troops is not justifiable. b. Entrenched camps can be formed near fortresses for smaller bodies of troops than those in the open field. Four or five thousand men may be invincible under the walls of a fortress, when, on the contrary, in the strongest camp in the world, formed in the open field, they would be lost. c. They may be used for the assembly and organisation of forces which have still too little solidity to be trusted in contact with the enemy, without the support afforded by the works of the place, as for example, recruits, militia, national levies, etc. They might, therefore, be recommended as a very useful measure, in many ways, if they had not the immense disadvantage of injuring the fortress, more or less, when they cannot be occupied; and to provide the fortress always with a garrison, in some measure sufficient to occupy the camp also, would be much too onerous a condition. We are, therefore, very much inclined to consider them only advisable for places on a sea coast, and as more injurious than useful in all other cases. If, in conclusion, we should summarise our opinion in a general view, then strong and entrenched positions are— 1. The more requisite the smaller the country, the less the space afforded for a retreat. 2. The less dangerous the more surely we can reckon on succouring or relieving them by other forces, or by the inclemency of season, or by a rising of the nation, or by want, &c. 3. The more efficacious, the weaker the elementary force of the enemy’s attack. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Carl von Clausewitz (2006). On War. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1946/pg1946-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

Strong Positions and Entrenched Camps

A Floating City and The Blockade Runners by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Sullivan Island channel here SULLIVAN ISLAND CHANNEL. Two days after the meeting with the “Iroquois,” the “Dolphin” found herself abreast of the Bermudas, where she was assailed by a violent squall. These isles are frequently visited by hurricanes, and are celebrated for shipwrecks. It is here that Shakspeare has placed the exciting scene of his drama, “The Tempest,” in which Ariel and Caliban dispute for the empire of the floods. The squall was frightful; James Playfair thought once of running for one of the Bermudas, where the English had a military post: it would have been a sad waste of time, and therefore especially to be regretted; happily the “Dolphin” behaved herself wonderfully well in the storm, and after flying a whole day before the tempest, she was able to resume her course towards the American coast. But if James Playfair had been pleased with his ship, he had not been less delighted with the young girl’s bravery; Miss Halliburtt had passed the worst hours of the storm at his side, and James knew that a profound, imperious, irresistible love had taken possession of his whole being. “Yes,” said he, “this brave girl is mistress on board; she turns me like the sea a ship in distress—I feel that I am foundering! What will Uncle Vincent say? Ah! poor nature, I am sure that if Jenny asked me to throw all this cursed cargo into the sea, I should do it without hesitating, for love of her.” Happily for the firm of Playfair and Co., Miss Halliburtt did not demand this sacrifice; nevertheless, the poor Captain had been taken captive, and Crockston, who read his heart like an open book, rubbed his hands gleefully. “We will hold him fast!” he muttered to himself, “and before a week has passed my master will be quietly installed in one of the best cabins of the ‘Dolphin.’” As for Miss Jenny, did she perceive the feelings which she inspired? did she allow herself to share them? No one could say, and James Playfair least of all; the young girl kept a perfect reserve, and her secret remained deeply buried in her heart. But whilst love was making such progress in the heart of the young Captain, the “Dolphin” sped with no less rapidity towards Charleston. On the 13th of January, the watch signalled land ten miles to the west. It was a low-lying coast, and almost blended with the line of the sea in the distance. Crockston was examining the horizon attentively, and about nine o’clock in the morning he cried,— “Charleston lighthouse!” Now that the bearings of the “Dolphin” were set, James Playfair had but one thing to do, to decide by which channel he would run into Charleston Bay. “If we meet with no obstacles,” said he, “before three o’clock we shall be in safety in the docks of the port.” The town of Charleston is situated on the banks of an estuary seven miles long and two broad, called Charleston Harbour, the entrance to which is rather difficult. It is enclosed between Morris Island on the south, and Sullivan Island on the north. At the time when the “Dolphin” attempted to force the blockade Morris Island already belonged to the Federal troops, and General Gillmore had caused batteries to be erected overlooking the harbour. Sullivan Island, on the contrary, was in the hands of the Confederates, who were also in possession of Moultrie Fort, situated at the extremity of the island; therefore it would be advantageous to the “Dolphin” to go as close as possible to the northern shores to avoid the firing from the forts on Morris Island. Five channels led into the estuary, Sullivan Island Channel, the Northern Channel, the Overall Channel, the Principal Channel, and lastly, the Lawford Channel; but it was useless for strangers, unless they had skilful pilots on board, or ships drawing less than seven feet of water to attempt this last; as for Northern and Overall Channels, they were in range of the Federalist batteries, so that it was no good thinking of them. If James Playfair could have had his choice, he would have taken his steamer through the Principal Channel, which was the best, and the bearings of which were easy to follow; but it was necessary to yield to circumstances, and to decide according to the event. Besides, the Captain of the “Dolphin” knew perfectly all the secrets of this bay, its dangers, the depths of its water at low tide, and its currents, so that he was able to steer his ship with the greatest safety as soon as he entered one of these narrow straits. The great question was to get there. Now this work demanded an experienced seaman, and one who knew exactly the qualities of the “Dolphin.” In fact two Federal frigates were now cruising in the Charleston waters. Mr. Mathew soon drew James Playfair’s attention to them. “They are preparing to ask us what we want on these shores,” said he. “Ah, well! we won’t answer them,” replied the Captain, “and they will not get their curiosity satisfied.” In the meanwhile the cruisers were coming on full steam towards the “Dolphin,” who continued her course, taking care to keep out of range of their guns. But in order to gain time James Playfair made for the south-west, wishing to put the enemies’ ships off their guard; the latter must have thought that the “Dolphin” intended to make for Morris Island Channel. Now there they had batteries and guns, a single shot from which would have been enough to sink the English ship; so the Federals allowed the “Dolphin” to run towards the south-west, contenting themselves by observing her without following closely. Thus for an hour the respective situations of the ships did not change, for James Playfair, wishing to deceive the cruisers as to the course of the “Dolphin,” had caused the fires to be moderated, so that the speed was decreased. However, from the thick volumes of smoke which escaped from the chimneys, it might have been thought that he was trying to get his maximum pressure, and, consequently, his maximum of rapidity. “They will be slightly astonished presently,” said James Playfair, “when they see us slip through their fingers!” In fact, when the Captain saw that he was near enough to Morris Island, and before a line of guns, the range of which he did not know, he turned his rudder quickly, and the ship resumed her northerly course, leaving the cruisers two miles to windward of her; the latter seeing this manœuvre understood the steamer’s object, and began to pursue her in earnest, but it was too late. The “Dolphin” doubled her speed under the action of the screws, and distanced them rapidly. Going nearer to the coast, a few shell were sent after her as an acquittal of conscience, but the Federals were outdone, for their projectiles did not reach half way. At eleven o’clock in the morning, the steamer ranging near Sullivan Island, thanks to her small draft, entered the narrow strait full steam; there she was in safety, for no Federalist cruiser dared follow her in this channel, the depth of which, on an average, was only eleven feet at low tide. “How?” cried Crockston, “and is that the only difficulty?” “Oh! oh! Master Crockston,” said James Playfair, “the difficulty is not in entering, but in getting out again.” “Nonsense!” replied the American, “that does not make me at all uneasy; with a boat like the ‘Dolphin’ and a Captain like Mr. James Playfair, one can go where one likes, and come out in the same manner.” Nevertheless, James Playfair, with telescope in his hand, was attentively examining the route to be followed. He had before him excellent coasting guides, with which he could go ahead without any difficulty or hesitation. Once his ship was safely in the narrow channel which runs the length of Sullivan Island, James steered bearing towards the middle of Fort Moultrie as far as the Pinckney Castle, situated on the isolated island of Shute’s Folly; on the other side rose Fort Johnson, a little way to the north of Fort Sumter. At this moment the steamer was saluted by some shot which did not reach her, from the batteries on Morris Island. She continued her course without any deviation, passed before Moultrieville, situated at the extremity of Sullivan Island, and entered the bay. Soon Fort Sumter on the left protected her from the batteries of the Federalists. This fort, so celebrated in the civil war, is situated three miles and a half from Charleston, and about a mile from each side of the bay: it is nearly pentagonal in form, built on an artificial island of Massachusetts granite, it took ten years to construct and cost more than 900,000 dollars. It was from this fort, on the 13th of April, 1861, that Anderson and the Federal troops were driven, and it was against it that the first shot of the Confederates was fired. It is impossible to estimate the quantity of iron and lead which the Federals showered down upon it. However, it resisted for almost three years, but a few months after the passage of the “Dolphin,” it fell beneath General Gillmore’s three hundred-pounders on Morris Island. But at this time it was in all its strength, and the Confederate flag floated proudly above it. Once past the fort the town of Charleston appeared lying between Ashley and Cooper rivers. James Playfair threaded his way through the buoys which mark the entrance of the channel, leaving behind the Charleston lighthouse visible above Morris Island. He had hoisted the English flag, and made his way with wonderful rapidity through the narrow channels. When he had passed the Quarantine buoy, he advanced freely into the centre of the bay. Miss Halliburtt was standing on the poop, looking at the town where her father was kept prisoner, and her eyes filled with tears. At last the steamer’s speed was moderated by the Captain’s orders; the “Dolphin” ranged along the end of the south and east batteries, and was soon moored at the quay of the North Commercial Wharf. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (2022). A Floating City and The Blockade Runners. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/67829/67829-h/67829-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Sullivan Island channel.

Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollope is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Which Shall It Be? here Which Shall It Be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead. "He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow. "So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife." "I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful." "Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,—in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,—"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;—that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings." "I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain. "I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do." "It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow." "That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield." "There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears." "Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;—time alone." "But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?" "By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?" "And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. "How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time. "The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it—" "If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong." "Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?" "Yes; often;—in various scenes of life; on the field of battle—" "I did not know that you had seen active service." "What!—not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;—never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!" "Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow. "No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!" "I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow. "Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind." "So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her. "But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in." "I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?" "Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way." "But I want you to become my wife,—and then—" "Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,—unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then." There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long. "He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs. "You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow. "And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome." "I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves." "As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her." On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow—on particular business. "That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow. "No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me." "I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know." "Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than—" "Than he is of me, you were going to say." "No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all." "Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse." "But if I don't want to do at all?" "Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think." At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone. "Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept." "As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down. He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove—somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,—as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. "How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation. "Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day." "I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings." "In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast." "I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters." "And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese." "I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre." "Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing." "But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre." "He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes." "But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance—" "He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead." "A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it." "That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. "I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said. "Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended." "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere." "No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really—" "Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?" "What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,—just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!" "Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months." "But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?" "I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence." "No, no, no. What's the use of it,—breaking your heart for nothing,—and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. "It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre." "Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. "Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow. "D–––– Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Anthony Trollope (2006). Can You Forgive Her?. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/19500/pg19500-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Which Shall It Be?

What Is Man? and Other Essays by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS here WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Is it true that the sun of a man’s mentality touches noon at forty and then begins to wane toward setting? Doctor Osler is charged with saying so. Maybe he said it, maybe he didn’t; I don’t know which it is. But if he said it, I can point him to a case which proves his rule. Proves it by being an exception to it. To this place I nominate Mr. Howells. I read his about forty years ago. I compare it with his paper on Machiavelli in a late number of , and I cannot find that his English has suffered any impairment. For forty years his English has been to me a continual delight and astonishment. In the sustained exhibition of certain great qualities—clearness, compression, verbal exactness, and unforced and seemingly unconscious felicity of phrasing—he is, in my belief, without his peer in the English-writing world. . I entrench myself behind that protecting word. There are others who exhibit those great qualities as greatly as he does, but only by intervaled distributions of rich moonlight, with stretches of veiled and dimmer landscape between; whereas Howells’s moon sails cloudless skies all night and all the nights. Venetian Days Harper sustained In the matter of verbal exactness Mr. Howells has no superior, I suppose. He seems to be almost always able to find that elusive and shifty grain of gold, the Others have to put up with approximations, more or less frequently; he has better luck. To me, the others are miners working with the gold-pan—of necessity some of the gold washes over and escapes; whereas, in my fancy, he is quicksilver raiding down a riffle—no grain of the metal stands much chance of eluding him. A powerful agent is the right word: it lights the reader’s way and makes it plain; a close approximation to it will answer, and much traveling is done in a well-enough fashion by its help, but we do not welcome it and applaud it and rejoice in it as we do when right one blazes out on us. Whenever we come upon one of those intensely right words in a book or a newspaper the resulting effect is physical as well as spiritual, and electrically prompt: it tingles exquisitely around through the walls of the mouth and tastes as tart and crisp and good as the autumn-butter that creams the sumac-berry. One has no time to examine the word and vote upon its rank and standing, the automatic recognition of its supremacy is so immediate. There is a plenty of acceptable literature which deals largely in approximations, but it may be likened to a fine landscape seen through the rain; the right word would dismiss the rain, then you would see it better. It doesn’t rain when Howells is at work. right word. the And where does he get the easy and effortless flow of his speech? and its cadenced and undulating rhythm? and its architectural felicities of construction, its graces of expression, its pemmican quality of compression, and all that? Born to him, no doubt. All in shining good order in the beginning, all extraordinary; and all just as shining, just as extraordinary today, after forty years of diligent wear and tear and use. He passed his fortieth year long and long ago; but I think his English of today—his perfect English, I wish to say—can throw down the glove before his English of that antique time and not be afraid. I will go back to the paper on Machiavelli now, and ask the reader to examine this passage from it which I append. I do not mean examine it in a bird’s-eye way; I mean search it, study it. And, of course, read it aloud. I may be wrong, still it is my conviction that one cannot get out of finely wrought literature all that is in it by reading it mutely: Mr. Dyer is rather of the opinion, first luminously suggested by Macaulay, that Machiavelli was in earnest, but must not be judged as a political moralist of our time and race would be judged. He thinks that Machiavelli was in earnest, as none but an idealist can be, and he is the first to imagine him an idealist immersed in realities, who involuntarily transmutes the events under his eye into something like the visionary issues of reverie. The Machiavelli whom he depicts does not cease to be politically a republican and socially a just man because he holds up an atrocious despot like Caesar Borgia as a mirror for rulers. What Machiavelli beheld round him in Italy was a civic disorder in which there was oppression without statecraft, and revolt without patriotism. When a miscreant like Borgia appeared upon the scene and reduced both tyrants and rebels to an apparent quiescence, he might very well seem to such a dreamer the savior of society whom a certain sort of dreamers are always looking for. Machiavelli was no less honest when he honored the diabolical force of Caesar Borgia than Carlyle was when at different times he extolled the strong man who destroys liberty in creating order. But Carlyle has only just ceased to be mistaken for a reformer, while it is still Machiavelli’s hard fate to be so trammeled in his material that his name stands for whatever is most malevolent and perfidious in human nature. You see how easy and flowing it is; how unvexed by ruggednesses, clumsinesses, broken meters; how simple and—so far as you or I can make out—unstudied; how clear, how limpid, how understandable, how unconfused by cross-currents, eddies, undertows; how seemingly unadorned, yet is all adornment, like the lily-of-the-valley; and how compressed, how compact, without a complacency-signal hung out anywhere to call attention to it. There are twenty-three lines in the quoted passage. After reading it several times aloud, one perceives that a good deal of matter is crowded into that small space. I think it is a model of compactness. When I take its materials apart and work them over and put them together in my way, I find I cannot crowd the result back into the same hole, there not being room enough. I find it a case of a woman packing a man’s trunk: he can get the things out, but he can’t ever get them back again. The proffered paragraph is a just and fair sample; the rest of the article is as compact as it is; there are no waste words. The sample is just in other ways: limpid, fluent, graceful, and rhythmical as it is, it holds no superiority in these respects over the rest of the essay. Also, the choice phrasing noticeable in the sample is not lonely; there is a plenty of its kin distributed through the other paragraphs. This is claiming much when that kin must face the challenge of a phrase like the one in the middle sentence: “an idealist immersed in realities who involuntarily transmutes the events under his eye into something like the visionary issues of reverie.” With a hundred words to do it with, the literary artisan could catch that airy thought and tie it down and reduce it to a concrete condition, visible, substantial, understandable and all right, like a cabbage; but the artist does it with twenty, and the result is a flower. The quoted phrase, like a thousand others that have come from the same source, has the quality of certain scraps of verse which take hold of us and stay in our memories, we do not understand why, at first: all the words being the right words, none of them is conspicuous, and so they all seem inconspicuous, therefore we wonder what it is about them that makes their message take hold. The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. It is like a dreamy strain of moving music, with no sharp notes in it. The words are all “right” words, and all the same size. We do not notice it at first. We get the effect, it goes straight home to us, but we do not know why. It is when the right words are conspicuous that they thunder: The glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome! When I go back from Howells old to Howells young I find him arranging and clustering English words well, but not any better than now. He is not more felicitous in concreting abstractions now than he was in translating, then, the visions of the eyes of flesh into words that reproduced their forms and colors: In Venetian streets they give the fallen snow no rest. It is at once shoveled into the canals by hundreds of half-naked FACCHINI; and now in St. Mark’s Place the music of innumerable shovels smote upon my ear; and I saw the shivering legion of poverty as it engaged the elements in a struggle for the possession of the Piazza. But the snow continued to fall, and through the twilight of the descending flakes all this toil and encounter looked like that weary kind of effort in dreams, when the most determined industry seems only to renew the task. The lofty crest of the bell-tower was hidden in the folds of falling snow, and I could no longer see the golden angel upon its summit. But looked at across the Piazza, the beautiful outline of St. Mark’s Church was perfectly penciled in the air, and the shifting threads of the snowfall were woven into a spell of novel enchantment around the structure that always seemed to me too exquisite in its fantastic loveliness to be anything but the creation of magic. The tender snow had compassionated the beautiful edifice for all the wrongs of time, and so hid the stains and ugliness of decay that it looked as if just from the hand of the builder—or, better said, just from the brain of the architect. There was marvelous freshness in the colors of the mosaics in the great arches of the facade, and all that gracious harmony into which the temple rises, of marble scrolls and leafy exuberance airily supporting the statues of the saints, was a hundred times etherealized by the purity and whiteness of the drifting flakes. The snow lay lightly on the golden globes that tremble like peacocks-crests above the vast domes, and plumed them with softest white; it robed the saints in ermine; and it danced over all its works, as if exulting in its beauty—beauty which filled me with subtle, selfish yearning to keep such evanescent loveliness for the little-while-longer of my whole life, and with despair to think that even the poor lifeless shadow of it could never be fairly reflected in picture or poem. Through the wavering snowfall, the Saint Theodore upon one of the granite pillars of the Piazzetta did not show so grim as his wont is, and the winged lion on the other might have been a winged lamb, so gentle and mild he looked by the tender light of the storm. The towers of the island churches loomed faint and far away in the dimness; the sailors in the rigging of the ships that lay in the Basin wrought like phantoms among the shrouds; the gondolas stole in and out of the opaque distance more noiselessly and dreamily than ever; and a silence, almost palpable, lay upon the mutest city in the world. The spirit of Venice is there: of a city where Age and Decay, fagged with distributing damage and repulsiveness among the other cities of the planet in accordance with the policy and business of their profession, come for rest and play between seasons, and treat themselves to the luxury and relaxation of sinking the shop and inventing and squandering charms all about, instead of abolishing such as they find, as is their habit when not on vacation. In the working season they do business in Boston sometimes, and a character in takes accurate note of pathetic effects wrought by them upon the aspects of a street of once dignified and elegant homes whose occupants have moved away and left them a prey to neglect and gradual ruin and progressive degradation; a descent which reaches bottom at last, when the street becomes a roost for humble professionals of the faith-cure and fortune-telling sort. the undiscovered country What a queer, melancholy house, what a queer, melancholy street! I don’t think I was ever in a street before where quite so many professional ladies, with English surnames, preferred Madam to Mrs. on their door-plates. And the poor old place has such a desperately conscious air of going to the deuce. Every house seems to wince as you go by, and button itself up to the chin for fear you should find out it had no shirt on—so to speak. I don’t know what’s the reason, but these material tokens of a social decay afflict me terribly; a tipsy woman isn’t dreadfuler than a haggard old house, that’s once been a home, in a street like this. Mr. Howells’s pictures are not mere stiff, hard, accurate photographs; they are photographs with feeling in them, and sentiment, photographs taken in a dream, one might say. As concerns his humor, I will not try to say anything, yet I would try, if I had the words that might approximately reach up to its high place. I do not think any one else can play with humorous fancies so gracefully and delicately and deliciously as he does, nor has so many to play with, nor can come so near making them look as if they were doing the playing themselves and he was not aware that they were at it. For they are unobtrusive, and quiet in their ways, and well conducted. His is a humor which flows softly all around about and over and through the mesh of the page, pervasive, refreshing, health-giving, and makes no more show and no more noise than does the circulation of the blood. There is another thing which is contentingly noticeable in Mr. Howells’s books. That is his “stage directions”—those artifices which authors employ to throw a kind of human naturalness around a scene and a conversation, and help the reader to see the one and get at meanings in the other which might not be perceived if entrusted unexplained to the bare words of the talk. Some authors overdo the stage directions, they elaborate them quite beyond necessity; they spend so much time and take up so much room in telling us how a person said a thing and how he looked and acted when he said it that we get tired and vexed and wish he hadn’t said it at all. Other authors’ directions are brief enough, but it is seldom that the brevity contains either wit or information. Writers of this school go in rags, in the matter of stage directions; the majority of them having nothing in stock but a cigar, a laugh, a blush, and a bursting into tears. In their poverty they work these sorry things to the bone. They say: “... replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar.” (This explains nothing; it only wastes space.) “... responded Richard, with a laugh.” (There was nothing to laugh about; there never is. The writer puts it in from habit—automatically; he is paying no attention to his work; or he would see that there is nothing to laugh at; often, when a remark is unusually and poignantly flat and silly, he tries to deceive the reader by enlarging the stage direction and making Richard break into “frenzies of uncontrollable laughter.” This makes the reader sad.) “... murmured Gladys, blushing.” (This poor old shop-worn blush is a tiresome thing. We get so we would rather Gladys would fall out of the book and break her neck than do it again. She is always doing it, and usually irrelevantly. Whenever it is her turn to murmur she hangs out her blush; it is the only thing she’s got. In a little while we hate her, just as we do Richard.) “... repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears.” (This kind keep a book damp all the time. They can’t say a thing without crying. They cry so much about nothing that by and by when they have something to cry ABOUT they have gone dry; they sob, and fetch nothing; we are not moved. We are only glad.) They gravel me, these stale and overworked stage directions, these carbon films that got burnt out long ago and cannot now carry any faintest thread of light. It would be well if they could be relieved from duty and flung out in the literary back yard to rot and disappear along with the discarded and forgotten “steeds” and “halidomes” and similar stage-properties once so dear to our grandfathers. But I am friendly to Mr. Howells’s stage directions; more friendly to them than to any one else’s, I think. They are done with a competent and discriminating art, and are faithful to the requirements of a stage direction’s proper and lawful office, which is to inform. Sometimes they convey a scene and its conditions so well that I believe I could see the scene and get the spirit and meaning of the accompanying dialogue if some one would read merely the stage directions to me and leave out the talk. For instance, a scene like this, from : The Undiscovered Country “... and she laid her arms with a beseeching gesture on her father’s shoulder.” “... she answered, following his gesture with a glance.” “... she said, laughing nervously.” “... she asked, turning swiftly upon him that strange, searching glance.” “... she answered, vaguely.” “... she reluctantly admitted.” “... but her voice died wearily away, and she stood looking into his face with puzzled entreaty.” Mr. Howells does not repeat his forms, and does not need to; he can invent fresh ones without limit. It is mainly the repetition over and over again, by the third-rates, of worn and commonplace and juiceless forms that makes their novels such a weariness and vexation to us, I think. We do not mind one or two deliveries of their wares, but as we turn the pages over and keep on meeting them we presently get tired of them and wish they would do other things for a change. “... replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar.” “... responded Richard, with a laugh.” “... murmured Gladys, blushing.” “... repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears.” “... replied the Earl, flipping the ash from his cigar.” “... responded the undertaker, with a laugh.” “... murmured the chambermaid, blushing.” “... repeated the burglar, bursting into tears.” “... replied the conductor, flipping the ash from his cigar.” “... responded Arkwright, with a laugh.” “... murmured the chief of police, blushing.” “... repeated the house-cat, bursting into tears.” And so on and so on; till at last it ceases to excite. I always notice stage directions, because they fret me and keep me trying to get out of their way, just as the automobiles do. At first; then by and by they become monotonous and I get run over. Mr. Howells has done much work, and the spirit of it is as beautiful as the make of it. I have held him in admiration and affection so many years that I know by the number of those years that he is old now; but his heart isn’t, nor his pen; and years do not count. Let him have plenty of them; there is profit in them for us. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). What Is Man? and Other Essays. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/70/pg70-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter II here Chapter II There was no longer any doubt as to the pirates’ intentions. They had dropped anchor at a short distance from the island, and it was evident that the next day by means of their boats they purposed to land on the beach! Cyrus Harding and his companions were ready to act, but, determined though they were, they must not forget to be prudent. Perhaps their presence might still be concealed in the event of the pirates contenting themselves with landing on the shore without examining the interior of the island. It might be, indeed, that their only intention was to obtain fresh water from the Mercy, and it was not impossible that the bridge, thrown across a mile and a half from the mouth, and the manufactory at the Chimneys might escape their notice. But why was that flag hoisted at the brig’s peak? What was that shot fired for? Pure bravado doubtless, unless it was a sign of the act of taking possession. Harding knew now that the vessel was well armed. And what had the colonists of Lincoln Island to reply to the pirates’ guns? A few muskets only. “However,” observed Cyrus Harding, “here we are in an impregnable position. The enemy cannot discover the mouth of the outlet, now that it is hidden under reeds and grass, and consequently it would be impossible for them to penetrate into Granite House.” “But our plantations, our poultry-yard, our corral, all, everything!” exclaimed Pencroft, stamping his foot. “They may spoil everything, destroy everything in a few hours!” “Everything, Pencroft,” answered Harding, “and we have no means of preventing them.” “Are they numerous? that is the question,” said the reporter. “If they are not more than a dozen, we shall be able to stop them, but forty, fifty, more perhaps!” “Captain Harding,” then said Ayrton, advancing towards the engineer, “will you give me leave?” “For what, my friend?” “To go to that vessel to find out the strength of her crew.” “But Ayrton—” answered the engineer, hesitating, “you will risk your life—” “Why not, sir?” “That is more than your duty.” “I have more than my duty to do,” replied Ayrton. “Will you go to the ship in the boat?” asked Gideon Spilett. “No, sir, but I will swim. A boat would be seen where a man may glide between wind and water.” “Do you know that the brig is a mile and a quarter from the shore?” said Herbert. “I am a good swimmer, Mr. Herbert.” “I tell you it is risking your life,” said the engineer. “That is no matter,” answered Ayrton. “Captain Harding, I ask this as a favor. Perhaps it will be a means of raising me in my own eyes!” “Go, Ayrton,” replied the engineer, who felt sure that a refusal would have deeply wounded the former convict, now become an honest man. “I will accompany you,” said Pencroft. “You mistrust me!” said Ayrton quickly. Then more humbly,— “Alas!” “No! no!” exclaimed Harding with animation, “no, Ayrton, Pencroft does not mistrust you. You interpret his words wrongly.” “Indeed,” returned the sailor, “I only propose to accompany Ayrton as far as the islet. It may be, although it is scarcely possible, that one of these villains has landed, and in that case two men will not be too many to hinder him from giving the alarm. I will wait for Ayrton on the islet, and he shall go alone to the vessel, since he has proposed to do so.” These things agreed to, Ayrton made preparations for his departure. His plan was bold, but it might succeed, thanks to the darkness of the night. Once arrived at the vessel’s side, Ayrton, holding on to the main chains, might reconnoiter the number and perhaps overhear the intentions of the pirates. Ayrton and Pencroft, followed by their companions, descended to the beach. Ayrton undressed and rubbed himself with grease, so as to suffer less from the temperature of the water, which was still cold. He might, indeed, be obliged to remain in it for several hours. Pencroft and Neb, during this time, had gone to fetch the boat, moored a few hundred feet higher up, on the bank of the Mercy, and by the time they returned, Ayrton was ready to start. A coat was thrown over his shoulders, and the settlers all came round him to press his hand. Ayrton then shoved off with Pencroft in the boat. It was half-past ten in the evening when the two adventurers disappeared in the darkness. Their companions returned to wait at the Chimneys. The channel was easily traversed, and the boat touched the opposite shore of the islet. This was not done without precaution, for fear lest the pirates might be roaming about there. But after a careful survey, it was evident that the islet was deserted. Ayrton then, followed by Pencroft, crossed it with a rapid step, scaring the birds nestled in the holes of the rocks; then, without hesitating, he plunged into the sea, and swam noiselessly in the direction of the ship, in which a few lights had recently appeared, showing her exact situation. As to Pencroft, he crouched down in a cleft of the rock, and awaited the return of his companion. In the meanwhile, Ayrton, swimming with a vigorous stroke, glided through the sheet of water without producing the slightest ripple. His head just emerged above it and his eyes were fixed on the dark hull of the brig, from which the lights were reflected in the water. He thought only of the duty which he had promised to accomplish, and nothing of the danger which he ran, not only on board the ship, but in the sea, often frequented by sharks. The current bore him along and he rapidly receded from the shore. Half an hour afterwards, Ayrton, without having been either seen or heard, arrived at the ship and caught hold of the main-chains. He took breath, then, hoisting himself up, he managed to reach the extremity of the cutwater. There were drying several pairs of sailors’ trousers. He put on a pair. Then settling himself firmly, he listened. They were not sleeping on board the brig. On the contrary, they were talking, singing, laughing. And these were the sentences, accompanied with oaths, which principally struck Ayrton:— “Our brig is a famous acquisition.” “She sails well, and merits her name of the ‘Speedy.’” “She would show all the navy of Norfolk a clean pair of heels.” “Hurrah for her captain!” “Hurrah for Bob Harvey!” What Ayrton felt when he overheard this fragment of conversation may be understood when it is known that in this Bob Harvey he recognized one of his old Australian companions, a daring sailor, who had continued his criminal career. Bob Harvey had seized, on the shores of Norfolk Island this brig, which was loaded with arms, ammunition, utensils, and tools of all sorts, destined for one of the Sandwich Islands. All his gang had gone on board, and pirates after having been convicts, these wretches, more ferocious than the Malays themselves, scoured the Pacific, destroying vessels, and massacring their crews. The convicts spoke loudly, they recounted their deeds, drinking deeply at the same time, and this is what Ayrton gathered. The actual crew of the “Speedy” was composed solely of English prisoners, escaped from Norfolk Island. Here it may be well to explain what this island was. In 29deg 2’ south latitude, and 165deg 42’ east longitude, to the east of Australia, is found a little island, six miles in circumference, overlooked by Mount Pitt, which rises to a height of 1,100 feet above the level of the sea. This is Norfolk Island, once the seat of an establishment in which were lodged the most intractable convicts from the English penitentiaries. They numbered 500, under an iron discipline, threatened with terrible punishments, and were guarded by 150 soldiers, and 150 employed under the orders of the governor. It would be difficult to imagine a collection of greater ruffians. Sometimes,—although very rarely,—notwithstanding the extreme surveillance of which they were the object, many managed to escape, and seizing vessels which they surprised, they infested the Polynesian Archipelagoes. Thus had Bob Harvey and his companions done. Thus had Ayrton formerly wished to do. Bob Harvey had seized the brig “Speedy,” anchored in sight of Norfolk Island; the crew had been massacred; and for a year this ship had scoured the Pacific, under the command of Harvey, now a pirate, and well known to Ayrton! The convicts were, for the most part, assembled under the poop; but a few, stretched on the deck, were talking loudly. The conversation still continued amid shouts and libations. Ayrton learned that chance alone had brought the “Speedy” in sight of Lincoln Island; Bob Harvey had never yet set foot on it; but, as Cyrus Harding had conjectured, finding this unknown land in his course, its position being marked on no chart, he had formed the project of visiting it, and, if he found it suitable, of making it the brig’s headquarters. As to the black flag hoisted at the “Speedy’s” peak, and the gun which had been fired, in imitation of men-of-war when they lower their colors, it was pure piratical bravado. It was in no way a signal, and no communication yet existed between the convicts and Lincoln Island. The settlers’ domain was now menaced with terrible danger. Evidently the island, with its water, its harbor, its resources of all kinds so increased in value by the colonists, and the concealment afforded by Granite House, could not but be convenient for the convicts; in their hands it would become an excellent place of refuge, and, being unknown, it would assure them, for a long time perhaps, impunity and security. Evidently, also, the lives of the settlers would not be respected, and Bob Harvey and his accomplices’ first care would be to massacre them without mercy. Harding and his companions had, therefore, not even the choice of flying and hiding themselves in the island, since the convicts intended to reside there, and since, in the event of the “Speedy” departing on an expedition, it was probable that some of the crew would remain on shore, so as to settle themselves there. Therefore, it would be necessary to fight, to destroy every one of these scoundrels, unworthy of pity, and against whom any means would be right. So thought Ayrton, and he well knew that Cyrus Harding would be of his way of thinking. But was resistance and, in the last place, victory possible? That would depend on the equipment of the brig, and the number of men which she carried. This Ayrton resolved to learn at any cost, and as an hour after his arrival the vociferations had begun to die away, and as a large number of the convicts were already buried in a drunken sleep, Ayrton did not hesitate to venture onto the “Speedy’s” deck, which the extinguished lanterns now left in total darkness. He hoisted himself onto the cutwater, and by the bowsprit arrived at the forecastle. Then, gliding among the convicts stretched here and there, he made the round of the ship, and found that the “Speedy” carried four guns, which would throw shot of from eight to ten pounds in weight. He found also, on touching them that these guns were breech-loaders. They were therefore, of modern make, easily used, and of terrible effect. As to the men lying on the deck, they were about ten in number, but it was to be supposed that more were sleeping down below. Besides, by listening to them, Ayrton had understood that there were fifty on board. That was a large number for the six settlers of Lincoln Island to contend with! But now, thanks to Ayrton’s devotion, Cyrus Harding would not be surprised, he would know the strength of his adversaries, and would make his arrangements accordingly. There was nothing more for Ayrton to do but to return, and render to his companions an account of the mission with which he had charged himself, and he prepared to regain the bows of the brig, so that he might let himself down into the water. But to this man, whose wish was, as he had said, to do more than his duty, there came an heroic thought. This was to sacrifice his own life, but save the island and the colonists. Cyrus Harding evidently could not resist fifty ruffians, all well armed, who, either by penetrating by main force into Granite House, or by starving out the besieged, could obtain from them what they wanted. And then he thought of his preservers—those who had made him again a man, and an honest mm, those to whom he owed all—murdered without pity, their works destroyed, their island turned into a pirates’ den! He said to himself that he, Ayrton, was the principal cause of so many disasters, since his old companion, Bob Harvey, had but realized his own plans, and a feeling of horror took possession of him. Then he was seized with an irresistible desire to blow up the brig and with her, all whom she had on board. He would perish in the explosion, but he would have done his duty. Ayrton did not hesitate. To reach the powder-room, which is always situated in the after-part of a vessel, was easy. There would be no want of powder in a vessel which followed such a trade, and a spark would be enough to destroy it in an instant. Ayrton stole carefully along the between-decks, strewn with numerous sleepers, overcome more by drunkenness than sleep. A lantern was lighted at the foot of the mainmast, round which was hung a gun-rack, furnished with weapons of all sorts. Ayrton took a revolver from the rack, and assured himself that it was loaded and primed. Nothing more was needed to accomplish the work of destruction. He then glided towards the stern, so as to arrive under the brig’s poop at the powder-magazine. It was difficult to proceed along the dimly lighted deck without stumbling over some half-sleeping convict, who retorted by oaths and kicks. Ayrton was, therefore, more than once obliged to halt. But at last he arrived at the partition dividing the aftercabin, and found the door opening into the magazine itself. Ayrton, compelled to force it open, set to work. It was a difficult operation to perform without noise, for he had to break a padlock. But under his vigorous hand, the padlock broke, and the door was open. At that moment a hand was laid on Ayrton’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?” asked a tall man, in a harsh voice, who, standing in the shadow, quickly threw the light of a lantern in Ayrton’s face. Ayrton drew back. In the rapid flash of the lantern, he had recognized his former accomplice, Bob Harvey, who could not have known him, as he must have thought Ayrton long since dead. “What are you doing here?” again said Bob Harvey, seizing Ayrton by the waistband. But Ayrton, without replying, wrenched himself from his grasp and attempted to rush into the magazine. A shot fired into the midst of the powder-casks, and all would be over! “Help, lads!” shouted Bob Harvey. At his shout two or three pirates awoke, jumped up, and, rushing on Ayrton, endeavored to throw him down. He soon extricated himself from their grasp. He fired his revolver, and two of the convicts fell, but a blow from a knife which he could not ward off made a gash in his shoulder. Ayrton perceived that he could no longer hope to carry out his project. Bob Harvey had reclosed the door of the powder-magazine, and a movement on the deck indicated a general awakening of the pirates. Ayrton must reserve himself to fight at the side of Cyrus Harding. There was nothing for him but flight! But was flight still possible? It was doubtful, yet Ayrton resolved to dare everything in order to rejoin his companions. Four barrels of the revolver were still undischarged. Two were fired—one, aimed at Bob Harvey, did not wound him, or at any rate only slightly, and Ayrton, profiting by the momentary retreat of his adversaries, rushed towards the companion-ladder to gain the deck. Passing before the lantern, he smashed it with a blow from the butt of his revolver. A profound darkness ensued, which favored his flight. Two or three pirates, awakened by the noise, were descending the ladder at the same moment. A fifth shot from Ayrton laid one low, and the others drew back, not understanding what was going on. Ayrton was on deck in two bounds, and three seconds later, having discharged his last barrel in the face of a pirate who was about to seize him by the throat, he leaped over the bulwarks into the sea. Ayrton had not made six strokes before shots were splashing around him like hail. What were Pencroft’s feelings, sheltered under a rock on the islet! What were those of Harding, the reporter, Herbert, and Neb, crouched in the Chimneys, when they heard the reports on board the brig! They rushed out on to the beach, and, their guns shouldered, they stood ready to repel any attack. They had no doubt about it themselves! Ayrton, surprised by the pirates, had been murdered, and, perhaps, the wretches would profit by the night to make a descent on the island! Half an hour was passed in terrible anxiety. The firing had ceased, and yet neither Ayrton nor Pencroft had reappeared. Was the islet invaded? Ought they not to fly to the help of Ayrton and Pencroft? But how? The tide being high at that time, rendered the channel impassable. The boat was not there! We may imagine the horrible anxiety which took possession of Harding and his companions! At last, towards half-past twelve, a boat, carrying two men, touched the beach. It was Ayrton, slightly wounded in the shoulder, and Pencroft, safe and sound, whom their friends received with open arms. All immediately took refuge in the Chimneys. There Ayrton recounted all that had passed, even to his plan for blowing up the brig, which he had attempted to put into execution. All hands were extended to Ayrton, who did not conceal from them that their situation was serious. The pirates had been alarmed. They knew that Lincoln Island was inhabited. They would land upon it in numbers and well armed. They would respect nothing. Should the settlers fall into their hands, they must expect no mercy! “Well, we shall know how to die!” said the reporter. “Let us go in and watch,” answered the engineer. “Have we any chance of escape, captain?” asked the sailor. “Yes, Pencroft.” “Hum! six against fifty!” “Yes! six! without counting—” “Who?” asked Pencroft. Cyrus did not reply, but pointed upwards. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (1998). The Mysterious Island. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1268/1268-h/1268-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

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