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log and flat stone they came to. The moment it was lifted, they all rushed under it, like a lot of little pigs, to pick up the ants and grubs there hidden. It never occurred to them that mammy's strength might fail some time and let the great rock drop just as they went under it; nor would any one have thought so that might have chanced to see that huge arm and that huge shoulder sliding about under the great yellow robe she wore. No, no, that arm could never fail. The little ones were quite right. So they imustled and tumbled over one another at each fresh log in their haste to be first, and squealed little squeals and growled little growls, as if each were a pig, a pup, and a kitten, all rolled into one. They were well acquainted with the common brown ants that harbor under logs in the uplands, but now they came for the first time on one of the ant hills of the great, fat, luscious wood ant, and they all crowded around to lick up those that ran out. But they soon found that they were licking up more cactus prickles and sand than ants till their mother said in Grizzly, “Let me show you how.” She knocked off the top of the hill, and then laid her great paw flat on it for a few moments; and, as the angry ants swarmed to it, she licked them up with one lick and got a rich mouthful to crunch without a grain of sand or cactus stinger in it. The cubs soon learned. Each put his little brown paws, so that there was a ring of paws all around the ant hill; and there they sat, like children playing “hands,” and each licked the right and then the left paw, or one cuffed his brother's ear for licking a paw that was not his own, till the ant hill was cleared out and they were ready for a change.—Ernest Seton-Thompson,
Our opponents have charged us with being the promoters of a dangerous excitement. They have the effron– tery to say that I am the friend of public disorder, I am one of the people. Surely, if there he one thing in a free country more clear than another, it is that any one of the people may speak openly to the people. If I speak to the people of their rights, and indicate to thern the way to secure them,--if I sneak of their danger to the monopolists of power.-am I not a wise counselor, both to the people and to their rulers?
Suppose I stood at the foot of Vesuvius, or AEtna, and seeing a hamlet or a homestead planted on its slope, I said to the dwellers in that hamlet, or in that home, “You see that Vanor which ascends from the Summit of the mountain: that van or may he come a dense, black Smoke, that will obscure the sky. You see the trickling of lava from the crevices in the side of the mountain: that trickling of lava may become a river of fire. You hear that mutfering in the bowels of the mountain: that muttering may become a hellowing thunder, the voice of a violent con–
vulsion, that may shake half a continent. .You know that at your feet is the grave of great cities, for which there is no resurrection, as histories tell us that dynasties and aristocracies have passed away, and their names have been known no more forever.” If I say this to the dwellers upon the slope of the mountain, and if there comes, hereafter a catastrophe, which makes the world to shudder, am I responsible for that catastrophe 2 I did not build the mountain, or fill it with explosive materials. I merely warned the men, that were in danger. So, now, it is not I who am stimulating men to |. violent pursuit of their acknowledged constitutional rights. The class which has hitherto ruled in this country has failed miserably. It revels in power and wealth, whilst at its feet, a terrible peril for its future, lies the multitude No. it has neglected. If a class has failed, let us try the in a U1 On. That, is our faith, that is our purpose, that is our cry. I.et us try the nation. This it is which has called together these countless numbers of the people to demand a change; and from these gatherings, sublime in their vastness and their resolution, I think I see, as it were, above the hilltops of time, the glimmerings of the dawn of a better and a nobler day for the country and for the people that I love So well. |-John Bright.
REVIEW QUESTIONS 1. Should a Speaker ever show any emotion he does not
feel? 2. If Hearers see no reason for your emotion will they
respond? 3. Is the expression of emotion ever a Speaker's primary
motive? 4. What caution is necessary in Paraphrasing Emotion? 5. Is Genial feeling a mild or a strong emotion?
Note how much genial feeling there is in this narrative, and read it with bouyant pleasure.
JEAN WALJEAN AND THE BISHOP
This evening the Bishop had remained in his bedroom until a late hour. At eight o'clock Madame Magloire came in as usual to fetch the silver from the wall-cupboard, and the Bishop feeling that Supper was ready, and that his sister might be waiting, closed his book, rose from the table and walked into the dining-room. There was a loud rap at the front door. “Come in,” said the Bishop. A man entered and stopped; the firelight fell on him; he was hideous. “My name is Jean Valjean. I am a galley-slave, and have spent nineteen years in the prison. I was liberated four days ago, I have been walking for days, and today I have marched thirty-six miles. On coming into the town I went to the inn, but was sent away in consequence of my yellow passport. I went to another inn, and the landlord said to me, “Be off!” I went to the prison but the jailer would not take me in. I was lying down in the Square when a good woman pointed to your house and Said, “GO and knock there... I have money, which I, earned by my nineteen years' toil. I am very tired and frightfully hungry; will you let me stay?” “Madame Magloire, you will lay another plate, knife and fork.” The man advanced, “Wait a minute; that will not do. Did you not hear me say that I was a galley-slave, a convict, and had just come from the prison. Here is my passport, yellow, you see, which turns me out wherever I go: ‘Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, has remained nineteen years at the galleys, five years for robbing with housebreaking, fourteen years for trying to escape four times. The man is very dangerous.” All the world has turned me out; and are you willing to receive me? Will you give me some food and a bed? Have you a stable?” “Madame Magloire, you will put Clean Sheets On the bed in the alcove. Sit down and warm yourself, sir. We shall sup directly, and your bed will be got ready while we are Supping.” “Is it true? What? You will let me stay; you will not turn me out? You call me, 'Sir's I shall have supper; a bed with mattresses and sheets like anybody else! For nineteen years I have not slept in a bed. I will pay handsomely. What is your name, Mr. Landlord?”
“I am a priest living in this house.” “A priest! Oh, what a worthy priest! Then you do not want me to pay?” “No, keep your money. How long did you take earning these hundred francs?” “Nineteen years!” The Bishop gave a deep sigh. Madame Magloire came in bringing a silver spoon and fork, which she placed on the table. “Madame Magloire, lay them as near as you can to the fire. The night breeze is sharp on the Alps, and you must be cold, Sir.” Each time he said “sir” in his gentle, grave voice the man's face was illumined. “Sir” to a convict is the glass of water to the shipwrecked sailor. Ignominy thirsts for respect. “This lamp gives a very bad light.” Madame Magloire understood and fetched from the chimney of Monseigneur's bedroom two silver candlesticks, which she placed on the table ready lighted. “Monsieur le Cure, you are good, you receive me as a friend and light your wax candles for me, and yet I have Ilot hidden from you whence I come.” The Bishop gently touched his hand. “You need not have told me who you are; this is not my house but the house of Christ. This door does not ask a man whether he has a name, but if he has sorrow. You are suffering, you are hungering and thirsting, and so be welcome. And do not thank me nor Say that I am receiving you in my house, for no one is at home here excepting the man who is in need of an asylum. I tell you who are a passer-by, that you are more at home than I myself, for all there is here is yours. Why do I want to know your mame? Besides, before you told it to me, you had one which I knew.” “You know my name?” “Yes, you are my brother.” “I was very hungry when I came in, but you are so kind that—it has passed.” “You have suffered greatly.” “Oh, the red jacket, the cannon ball on your foot, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, the blows, the double chain for nothing, a dungeon for a word, even when you are ill in bed, and the chain-gang! The very dogs are happier. Nineteen years! And now I am forty-six—and the yellow passport!” “Yes, you have come from a place of sorrow. If you leave that mournful place with thoughts of hatred and anger against your fellow man, you are worthy of pity; if you leave it with thoughts of kindliness, gentleness and peace, you are worth more than any of us.” Meanwhile Madame Magloire had served the supper. The Bishop during the whole evening did not utter a word which could remind this man of what he was. The rooms were so arranged that in order to reach the Oratory where the alcove was it was necessary to pass through the Bishop's bedroom. At the moment he went through this room Madame Magloire was putting away the plate in the cupboard over the bed head. “I trust you will pass a good night,” said the Bishop. “Thank you, Monsieur l’Abbe.” He suddenly turned, “What! you really lodge me so close to you as that? Who tells you that I have not committed a murder?” “That is God's concern.” The Bishop stretched out two fingers of his right hand, and blessed the man, who did not bow his head, and returned to his bedroom.
As two o'clock peeled from the cathedral bell Jean Valjean awoke. He could not go to sleep again, his thoughts were confused, but one kept coming back,--the six silver forks and spoons and the great ladle which alone was worth two hundred francs, or double what he had earned in nineteen years, it was there, a few yards from him. His mind struggled for a good hour.
When three o'clock struck he suddenly opened his knapsack, took a bar in his right hand, walked toward the door of the adjoining room and pushed it lightly. He waited, then pushed more boldly. A badly-oiled hinge suddenly uttered a hoarse prolonged cry in the darkness. Jean Valjean stopped, shuddering and dismayed. A few minutes passed; nothing had stirred. He had heard from the end of the room the calm and regular breathing of the sleeping Bishop. He advanced cautiously. At this moment a cloud was rent asunder and a moonbeam suddenly illumined the Bishop's pale face. The sleeper seemed to be surrounded by a glory. There was almost a divinity in this unconsciously august man. Jean Valjean was standing in the shadow with the crowbar in his hand, motionless and terrified. He had never seen anything like this before, and such confidence norrified him. It seemed as though he was hesitating between two abysses —the one that saves and the one that destroys; he was ready to dash out the Bishop's brains, or kiss his hand. All at once Jean Valjean went straight to the cupboard, seized the plate basket, hurried across the room, opened the window, put the silver in his pocket, threw away the basket, leaped into the garden, bounded over the wall like a tiger, and fled.
The next morning at sunrise Monseigneur was walking outside when Madame Magloire came running toward him in a State Of great, alarm. . “Monseigneur, the man is gone—the plate is stolen.” “Was that plate ours?” Madame Magloire was Speechless. “Madame Magloire, I had wrongfully held back this