Intermediate Algebra 12th Edition Lial Solutions Manual

Intermediate Algebra 12th Edition Lial

Solutions Manual
Visit to get the accurate and complete content:

https://testbankfan.com/download/intermediate-algebra-12th-edition-lial-solutions-ma
nual/

Visit TestBankFan.com to get complete for all chapters

Intermediate Algebra 12th Edition Lial Solutions Manual

122 Chapter 2 Linear Equations, Graphs, and Functions

Chapter 2 The completed table follows.

Linear Equations, Graphs, and x y

Functions 0 −3
4 0
2.1 Linear Equations in Two Variables
4
−2
Classroom Examples, Now Try Exercises 3
1. To complete the ordered pairs, substitute the 15
given value of x or y in the equation. −6 −
2
For (0, ____), let x = 0.
3 x − 4 y = 12 N1. To complete the ordered pairs, substitute the
3(0) − 4 y = 12 given value of x or y in the equation.
−4 y = 12 For (0, ____), let x = 0.
y = −3 2x − y = 4
The ordered pair is (0, − 3). 2(0) − y = 4
For (____, 0) let y = 0. −y = 4
3 x − 4 y = 12 y = −4
3x − 4(0) = 12 The ordered pair is (0, − 4).
3x = 12 For (____, 0) let y = 0.
x=4 2x − y = 4
The ordered pair is (4, 0). 2x − 0 = 4
For (____, − 2), let y = −2. 2x = 4
3x − 4 y = 12 x=2
3x − 4(−2) = 12 The ordered pair is (2, 0).
3 x + 8 = 12 For (4, ____), let x = 4.
2x − y = 4
3x = 4
2(4) − y = 4
4
x= 8− y = 4
3
− y = −4
⎛4 ⎞
The ordered pair is ⎜ , − 2 ⎟ . y=4
⎝3 ⎠
For (−6, ____), let x = −6. The ordered pair is (4, 4).
For (____, 2), let y = 2.
3 x − 4 y = 12 2x − y = 4
3(−6) − 4 y = 12 2x − 2 = 4
−18 − 4 y = 12 2x = 6
−4 y = 30 x=3
30 15 The ordered pair is (3, 2).
y=− =− The completed table follows.
4 2
⎛ 15 ⎞ x y
The ordered pair is ⎜ −6, − ⎟ .
⎝ 2⎠ 0 −4
2 0
4 4
3 2

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.

Visit TestBankFan.com to get complete for all chapters

 2.1 Linear Equations in Two Variables 123

2. To find the x-intercept, let y = 0. Find another point. Let x = 1.

2x − y = 4 3(1) − y = 0
2x − 0 = 4 3− y = 0
2x = 4 y=3
x=2 This gives the ordered pair (1, 3). Plot (1, 3)
The x-intercept is (2, 0). and (0, 0) and draw the line through them.
To find the y-intercept, let x = 0.
2x − y = 4
2(0) − y = 4
−y = 4
y = −4
The y-intercept is (0, − 4).
N3. To find the x-intercept, let y = 0.
Plot the intercepts, and draw the line through
them. 2 x + 3(0) = 0
2x = 0
x=0
Since the x-intercept is (0, 0), the y-intercept is
also (0, 0).
Find another point. Let x = 3.
2(3) + 3 y = 0
N2. To find the x-intercept, let y = 0. 6 + 3y = 0
x − 2y = 4 3 y = −6
x − 2(0) = 4 y = −2
x=4 This gives the ordered pair (3, − 2). Plot
The x-intercept is (4, 0). (3, − 2) and (0, 0) and draw the line through
To find the y-intercept, let x = 0. them.
x − 2y = 4
0 − 2y = 4
−2 y = 4
y = −2
The y-intercept is (0, − 2).
Plot the intercepts, and draw the line through
them. 4. (a) In standard form, the equation is
0 x + y = 3. Every value of x leads to y = 3,
so the y-intercept is (0, 3). There is no
x-intercept. The graph is the horizontal line
through (0, 3).

3. To find the x-intercept, let y = 0.

3x − 0 = 0
3x = 0
x=0
Since the x-intercept is (0, 0), the y-intercept is
also (0, 0).

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.

124 Chapter 2 Linear Equations, Graphs, and Functions

(b) In standard form, the equation is 2. For any value of x, the point (x, 0) lies on the
x + 0 y = −2. Every value of y leads to x-axis. For any value of y, the point (0, y) lies
x = −2, so the x-intercept is ( −2, 0). There on the y-axis.
is no y-intercept. The graph is the vertical 3. The x-intercept is the point where a line crosses
line through (−2, 0). the x-axis. To find the x-intercept of a line, we
let y equal 0 and solve for x.
The y-intercept is the point where a line crosses
the y-axis. To find the y-intercept of a line, we
let x equal 0 and solve for y.
4. The equation y = 4 has a horizontal line as its
graph. The equation x = 4 has a vertical line as
its graph.
N4. (a) In standard form, the equation is 5. To graph a straight line, we must find a
0 x + y = −2. Every value of x leads to
minimum of two points. The points ( 3, 2 ) and
y = −2, so the y-intercept is (0, − 2). There
is no x-intercept. The graph is the horizontal ( 6, 4 ) lie on the graph of 2 x − 3 y = 0.
line through (0, − 2). 6. The equation of the x-axis is y = 0.
The equation of the y-axis is x = 0.

7. (a) x represents the year; y represents the

personal spending on medical care in
billions of dollars.
(b) The dot above the year 2012 appears to be
at about 2360, so the spending in 2012 was
(b) In standard form, the equation is about $2360 billion.
x + 0 y = −3. Every value of y leads to
(c) The ordered pair is ( x, y ) = ( 2012, 2360 ) .
x = −3, so the x-intercept is ( −3, 0). There
is no y-intercept. The graph is the vertical (d) In 2008, personal spending on medical care
line through (−3, 0). was about $2000 billion.
8. (a) x represents the year; y represents the
percentage of Americans who moved.
(b) The dot above the year 2013 appears to be
at about 11, so about 11% of Americans
moved in 2013.
(c) The ordered pair is ( x, y ) = ( 2013, 11) .
5. By the midpoint formula, the midpoint of the
segment with endpoints (−5, 8) and (2, 4) is (d) In 1960, the percentage of Americans who
moved was about 20%.
⎛ −5 + 2 8 + 4 ⎞ ⎛ −3 12 ⎞
⎜ , ⎟ = ⎜ , ⎟ = (−1.5, 6). 9. (a) The point (1, 6) is located in quadrant I,
⎝ 2 2 ⎠ ⎝ 2 2⎠
since the x- and y-coordinates are both
N5. By the midpoint formula, the midpoint of the positive.
segment with endpoints (2, −5) and (−4, 7) is
(b) The point (−4, − 2) is located in
⎛ 2 + (−4) −5 + 7 ⎞ ⎛ −2 2⎞
⎜ , ⎟=⎜ , ⎟ = (−1, 1). quadrant III, since the x- and y-coordinates
⎝ 2 2 ⎠ ⎝ 2 2⎠ are both negative.
Exercises (c) The point (−3, 6) is located in quadrant II,
1. The point with coordinates (0, 0) is the origin since the x-coordinate is negative and the
of a rectangular coordinate system. y-coordinate is positive.

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc.

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
gambling house had gone, the revolver as an outside garniture of apparel
had disappeared.
I could write with some facility. In other respects, I was awkward,
unassimilative with the new element about me, and what is called “shy and
retiring” which really implies a kind of vanity demanding that the world
shall come and pet you without your having the courage to boldly face it
and assert your place in it or whatever you may think your place. I was
afraid of being quizzed or made a mark of ridicule by others, and any
pretentious fop could with ease make me take a back seat and make me
keep my mouth shut. One night Mr. Lawrence invited me to call with him
on a noted actress. I refused out of pure dread. Dread of what? Of an
opinion I had previously manufactured in my own mind of what the actress
might think of me; when I should probably have been of about as much
importance to her as a house fly. The consequence which we shy and
retiring people attach to ourselves in our secret mind is ridiculously
appalling.
Mr. Lawrence remained in San Francisco but a few months after my
advent on the Era. While he stayed he did all in his power to give me,
socially and otherwise, a good “send off.” He introduced me to aspiring and
successful people, placed me in good material surroundings and opened for
me the door to a successful element. That was all he could do, and in my
estimation about all one person can do to really advance the fortunes of
another.
But when he left I descended, hired the cheapest lodgings, lived on the
cheese-paring plan, and was thereby brought mainly into contact with that
cheap element in human nature which longs for the best things in the world,
is willing even in some way to beg for them, looks on the prosperous with
envy and aversion and expends most of its force in anxiety or grumbling,
instead of devising ways and means to push forward.
So for the most part I did. I accepted the lowest remuneration for my
services, deeming it the inevitable, went figuratively hat in hand to those
who bought my articles, and brought my mind at last to think they had done
me a great favor on paying me my just dues. I was always expecting
starvation or failure of some sort and for that very reason got a near
approach to it. My cheap lodgings brought me a sneak thief who stole the
first decent suit of clothes I had worn for years in less than forty-eight hours
after I had put them on. My associations brought me people who were
always moaning over their luck, living mentally in the poorhouse, and
therefore we mutually strengthened and supported each other on the road to
what was little better than the poorhouse.
Like them, I never thought of being else than a worker for wages, and
ran away mentally at any idea of taking responsibilities. Like them I
regarded the class who did, as living in a world I never could reach. Like
them I regarded the only sure and safe haven was a “job,” or situation at
steady, regular wages.
So, for years I had indifferent luck, and lived a good deal on the
threadbare side of life. The cause and the fault lay entirely in myself.
Industriously, though unconsciously I sat down on myself, punched myself
into corners; as I in mind accepted the bottom of the heap as the inevitable I
stayed near the bottom.
If I should live that and previous portions of my life over again, I should
probably do the same thing. Because I believe there is a truth in
predestination. In other words, when you are in a certain mental condition
your physical life and fortune will be an exact correspondence or material
reflection of that condition. When you grow out of that condition and get a
different mind your surroundings, fortunes, and associations will be in
accordance with that state of mind. Thank Heaven, we can grow. But the I
that existed twenty-five years ago was predestined to meet the fortunes it
did twenty-five years ago, and those fortunes could only change as the mind
of that “I” changed.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.

EDITING VS. WRITING.

In course of time I came temporarily to the occupancy of an editorial

chair. I became a “We.” Because on becoming an editor you cease to be an
“I,” you are more. You are several persons rolled into one. You are then the
publisher, the proprietor, the paper’s biggest paying advertisers, the political
party you represent, and the rest of your brother editors. Under these
circumstances it is impossible for you to say what “I” think. Because in
some cases you may not know what your own private opinions really are, or
if they should assert themselves strongly you might not want to know them.
You are a “we,” one advantage of which is that as in a sense you have
ceased to exist as a personality. You are no longer personally responsible for
what you say in print. The responsibility of the “we” can be distributed
among so many that it need not stick anywhere and the bigger the paper the
larger the area over which it can be distributed.
I knew there was a difference between “editing” a paper and writing for
one, but how much of a difference I did not realize until my destiny placed
me temporarily in charge of the Sunday supplement of a city daily, which,
in accordance with the regulations, or rather exactions, of modern
journalism, published a Sunday paper, or rather magazine, of sixteen pages.
I had about forty-six columns to “edit.”
To “edit” is not to write. I speak thus plainly for the benefit of the many
young men and maidens who are to swell the ranks of the great army now
industriously engaged in sending contributions to the editor’s waste basket,
and who still imagine that the editor does nothing but write for the paper.
I pause here a moment to ask where, at the present increase of size and
amount of matter published, are our Sunday papers to stop. Already the
contents of some Sunday issues amount to more than that of the average
monthly magazine.
While this competition is going on at such a lively and increasing rate
between newspaper publishers to give the most reading matter for the least
money, I wonder if the idea may not in due course of time strike them that
they may be giving to those who read more than they can really read and
digest.
Our business men to-day do not read one-half the contents of the daily
paper. They have only time to glance at them. They would really be much
better suited could some device of journalism give them their news in
readable print in the compass of a handkerchief, and give them no more.
I entered on my duties in a blissful ignorance of the trials that awaited
me. I did not know how to “put a head” on an article or a selected “reprint.”
I know nothing of the hieroglyphics necessary to let the printer know the
various kinds of typo in which my headings should be set up. I did not
realize that the writer’s manuscript must be, in a sense, ground through the
editor’s mill and go through a certain process before being put in the
printer’s hands. I did know that something was to be done, but the extent of
that something I did not know. Of the signs to be placed on manuscript to
show whether the type used should be “brevier” or “minion” or “agate,” or
those to designate “full-face caps” for my upper headings and “full-face
lower case” for my lower headings, of a “display heading,” of “balancing
the columns,” nor that the headings on a page should not be jammed up
together or too far apart. I was in that condition of ignorance that the
smallest part of a printer was justified in looking down on me with
contempt.

N. B.—In the composing room a printer is a much larger-sized Indian

than a mere writer.

You who read the instructive and entertaining columns of ghastliness,

accident, and crime in your morning paper—you who are unfortunately or
otherwise neither writers nor printers, you think you could easily write one
of those staring sensational headings over the article which tell all about it
before you read it and whet your appetite for reading it. But you might not.
It is not so much the literary ability needed. It is the printer who stands in
the way. It is the printer who must have just so many words for one kind of
“head” and so many for another. You must get your sense, sensation, and
information condensed into say twenty-four or twenty-six words for one
part of the “head” and ten or twelve for another part, and these must neither
run over nor run under these numbers. If they do and the spaces are uneven
that issue of the paper would, in that printer’s estimation, be ruined. If you,
the editor, do not “make up” your pages so that the columns “balance,” the
paper, for him, would be a wreck. The foreman of the composing room
values a newspaper for its typographical appearance. This is right. A paper,
like a house, should look neat. Only the foreman need not forget that there
is something in the articles besides types. The magnate of our composing
room called all written matter “stuff.” “What are you going to do with this
stuff?” he would remark, and he used to put such an inflection of contempt
on that word “stuff” that it would have made any but an old tough writer
sick to hear him. Poems literally perspiring with inspiration, beautiful
descriptive articles reeking with soul and sentiment, lively humor,
manuscript written and re-written so lovingly and carefully—children of
many a brilliant brain—all with him was but “stuff”!
During all the years that I had been writing I had bestowed no attention
on the “making up” of a paper. I had a vague idea that the paper made up
itself. I had passed in my articles, and had seen them in their places a few
hours later, and never dreamt that the placing of these, so that the columns
should end evenly or that the page should not look like a tiresome expanse
of unbroken type, required study, taste, and experience.
I was aroused from this dream when first called on to “make up” my
eight-page supplement. Of course, the foreman expected me to go right on
like an old hand, and lay out in the printed form where the continued story
should be and how many columns it should fill, where the foreign
correspondence and illustrated articles should appear, where the paste pot
and scissored matter, shorter articles, and paragraphs should be, so that the
printer could place his galleys in the form as marked out per schedule.
I was confronted within a single week with all this mass of my own
editorial and typographical ignorance, and even more than can here be told.
It had not before dawned upon me that an editor should be—well, we will
say, the skeleton of a printer. I was not even the ghost of one. I was not
before aware that in the recesses of editorial dens and composing rooms the
printer stood higher than the writer. “Everybody” writes nowadays. But
“everybody” does not set type or “make up” papers.
I saw then what I had done. I saw that I had rashly assumed to govern a
realm of which I was entirely ignorant. I made a full and free confession to
our foreman. I put myself before him as an accomplished ignoramus. He
was a good fellow and helped me through. It was tough work, however, for
several weeks. As Sunday came nearer and nearer, my spasms of dread and
anxiety increased. I was seized in the dead of night with fears lest I had not
sent up sufficient “stuff” to fill my forty-six columns. Then I would be
taken with counter fears lest I had sent up too much, and so run up an
overplus on the week’s composing bill. I worried and fretted so that by
Saturday night I had no clear idea at all or judgment in the matter, and let
things take their own course.
But the hardest task of all was dealing with the mourners—I mean the
manuscript bearers. I found myself suddenly inside of the place, where I
had so often stood outside. I was the man in the editorial chair, the arbiter of
manuscript destiny, the despot who could accept or reject the writer’s
article. But I was very uncomfortable. I hated to reject anybody’s writings, I
felt so keenly for them. I had so many times been there myself. I wished I
could take and pay for everybody’s manuscript. But I could not. The
requirements of the paper stood like a wall ’twixt my duty and my
sympathy. The commands from the management allowed only a certain
amount to be expended weekly for original articles. I felt like a fiend—an
unwilling one—as I said “No” time after time and sent men and women
away with heavy hearts. In cases I tried even to get from the rejected a little
sympathy for myself. I told them how hard it was for me to say “No.” I
tried to convince them that mine was a much harder lot than theirs, and that
mine was by far the greater misery.
And how many times after I had suffered and rejected the MSS. did I try
to answer in a manner satisfactory to them this question: “Did I know of
any newspaper or magazine that would be likely to accept their matter?”
How I tried to say that I did not, in a cheerful, consoling, and encouraging
manner, in a manner which would convey to them and fill them with the
idea that the town was full of places yawning and gaping for their articles,
until they were outside of my office themselves, when I was willing that the
cold unwelcome truth should freeze them.
Then I received letters asking for the return of manuscript. On entering
on my duties I found the shelves piled with them—legacies left me by
various predecessors—whether read, accepted, or rejected, I could not find
out. But there they lay roll on roll—silent, dust covered. It seemed a literary
receiving vault, full of corpses.
 It was a suggestive and solemn spectacle for a young writer to look
upon. Those many pounds of manuscript—articles which might make a
sensation if printed—truths, maybe, which had not yet dawned on the world
—all lying unread, dead, cold and unpublished.
Lone, lorn ladies came to me with the children of their brains. I referred
them at times to the editor of the daily up-stairs. He referred them to me
back again. Sometimes this shuttlecock process was reversed. The daily
editor fired the applicant down at me. I fired him up again. The trouble in
all these cases lay in the inability of these people to recognize a rejection
when it was mildly and sympathetically applied. It was necessary in some
cases for us to fire these people up and down at each other a dozen times
before their weary legs gave them a hint of the true state of the case.
I saw more than once the man who thought to clinch an acceptance of
his matter by giving me a long explanation of his article, and its value to
this or that interest. I had the traveller from distant lands, who wanted to tell
in print over again what he had seen. I received copies of verses,
accompanied by modest notes from the senders that they might find a place
“in some corner” of the paper. I was beset by a delusionist who had a theory
for doing away with death, and who left me, as he said to “prefer death” and
die in my sins, because I told him I had really no desire to obtain
information on the subject.
Then I had the “space grabber” to deal with—the poor fellow who writes
to live at so much per column, who tries to write as many columns as
possible, and half of whose mind while writing is working more to fill up
his columns with words rather than ideas. But our modern system of
elephantine journalism is in a measure responsible for the “space grabbing”
tendency, since our daily and weekly journalistic mammoths and
megatheriums gape ever for more and more matter. There is so much space
which must be filled, and if not filled stuffed. Every demand brings some
sort of supply, and as the paper must be stuffed, the “space grabber” is
developed to stuff it.
I had also to cope and meet with the literary rehasher. The rehasher is
another journalistic brother who writes the same story, experience,
description, etc., over and over again in different ways. He wrote it years
ago. It proved a success. He has been writing it ever since. He serves it up
roast, baked, boiled, broiled, fried, stewed.
 These processes may endure for several years. Then he shoves it on your
table, covered with a thin disguise—a gravy, so to speak—of his more
recent opinion or experience. But it is about the same dish. The older and
more experienced journalistic nose detects it by the same old smell. Finally
it comes up as hash, plain hash, dry hash, wet hash, baked hash, but after all
the same old hash.
Our papers and magazines even to-day abound with the work of the
rehasher. It is just as good for the young readers. Every ten years a
generation comes along for whom the rehash is quite new. They do not
know that it is the same old hash written and read years and years ago by
people dead and gone. The pretentious magazines dish up more or less of
this hash. It is served up in style, garnished with sprigs of fine language and
sentiment and has often a “dressing” of elegant illustrations poured over it.
But it’s the same old hash for all that. If you look over the magazines for a
period say of twenty years, you will find these rehashes—articles
descriptive of Rome, Egypt, London, the Bayeaux tapestry, travels in
countries worn footsore by travellers for generations, the essay on Dante,
Shakespeare, Goethe. As for the frontier romance and “Wild Injun” story,
that has been ground and reground into hash so fine that it has become
“spoon victuals,” and is eaten only by the young and callow of the reading
brood.
A literary colleague, who commands an editorial chair, says that he
allows his rehashers to serve him the same article four times, providing the
garnishing and dressing of the dish show artistic cookery. But he shuts
down after that. This is not only charitable on his part, but possibly a great
benefit to the rehasher, for if he is allowed to go on unchecked, the mental
rehashing process will become automatic, the result of which will be the
unconscious rehashing of the same article through all eternity.
This experience gave me, in certain respects, an entire change of heart. I
will never think hard again of an editor though he does not return my
manuscript even if I send stamps. I will still continue to think kindly of him
though he “declines with thanks.” For I realize now that the “editor” who
would do his duty must have nerves of steel and a heart of stone.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.

OPINIONS JOURNALISTIC.

For five years I wrote for many papers in San Francisco and wrote some
things good, some bad, some indifferent. I attacked and ridiculed the errors
and foibles of others with the miraculous confidence and inferred self-
righteousness of a man who had not as yet begun to realize his own
shortcomings. I assailed abuses and was sometimes disgusted at what then I
deemed the timidity and lack of nerve on the part of newspaper publishers,
when they refused to print my tirades, reproofs, and sarcasms. As a
champion I was very brave to speak on paper in the privacy of my own
room. As a man with no capital at stake, I was very wise in showing others
where to put their money.
I was rated in San Francisco as a “Bohemian” and deserved the name. I
was largely in sympathy with the idea that life being short should be
worked at a rapid pace for all that could be got out of it, and that we the
dwellers on the top floor of intellect were justified in regarding with a
certain scorn the duller and generally wealthier plodders on the lower floors
of business. We were as proud of our comparative poverty and disregard of
money because we held in some way we never could explain that such
poverty argued for us the possession of more brains, though we were very
glad to receive our money from people we deemed ourselves so far above. I
think this is all nonsense.
I think now that the ability to express ideas well on paper is a vastly
over-rated and over-praised talent. A man may write well and not have
sufficient executive ability to build a hen coop or govern one after it is built,
and brains play a very important part in any kind of managerial ability, be
the field large or small.
Bohemianism as it existed thirty years ago is nearly dead. It has been
discovered that late hours, gin, and nocturnal out-pourings of wit, brain, and
brilliancy, do not increase the writer’s originality, or fertility of idea, and
that a great deal of force is wasted at such times which should be turned
into dollars and cents.
 A man or woman to-day who succeeds permanently with the pen will
not only live well-ordered lives, but possess a business ability outside of the
pen, in order to get their ideas before the public. Never before were there so
many writers, and never before so many able writers. The literary
mediocrity of to-day would have made a brilliant reputation sixty years ago.
But of those who are merely writers, even if good writers, three-fourths as
regards compensation are almost on the same relative plane as the type-
writer. The supply is greater than the demand. People must write even if not
paid for the pleasure of seeing their ideas in print, and for this reason to-day
do we find country weeklies furnished regularly free of expense with
interesting correspondence from abroad by the editor’s travelling friends.
As a newspaper man and correspondent, I was not always very particular
in writing about people, and dragging their personality before the public. I
wanted subjects and something or somebody to write about. These were my
capital stock in trade.
I don’t wonder that a certain unpopularity with a class attaches itself to
“newspaper men,” “correspondents” and reporters. The tendency and
temptation is to become social Paul Pry’s, especially when family or
individual secrets will swell a column and bring dollars. Of all this I did my
share, and regard myself now with small favor for so doing.
The freedom of the Press has developed Press freebooters male and
female, and the Press has now all the freedom of the village gossip.
On the other hand a great many people like to see their names in print.
The remark “don’t put my name in the paper” often means “do put my
name in the paper,” with little care as to the accompanying comment.
Many people have a terrible and I think needless fear of what the
newspaper can do and say to make or unmake them, to give a book or a
play a reputation or kill it outright. I notice that a play often becomes very
popular when its first critics condemned it, and the same can be said of
books. Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad, Helper’s
Irrepressible Conflict and Bret Harte’s Heathen Chinee were not advertised
into notice by the Press. Their force made the Press advertise them.
The Press, which so often claims to “mould popular opinion” is in reality
moulded by popular opinion and follows it, while sometimes claiming to
lead it. There is a power which brings men and movements for greater or
lesser periods into public notice, which the Press does not manufacture.
 The Press which claims indirectly to have so much of the public morals
and the public good in its care and keeping—this “lever of civilization”
which will deluge its columns for days and weeks with the preliminaries of
a prize fight or parades for a similar time the details of a scandal, places a
great deal before the eyes of every boy and girl which seems to me neither
civilized nor civilizing.
I object here neither to the prize fight nor its publication. But I can’t
think the man who spreads it all broadcast day after day before the
community as a promoter of the highest refinement or civilization.
The Press of to-day is either ridiculing ideas or ignoring them entirely,
which the Press of a near Future will treat as most important realities, just
as fifty years ago, nine-tenths of the American newspapers treated the
subject of human slavery. Did the Press of America mould public opinion in
this respect or was it the idea that moulded public opinion first and as a
necessary consequence the Press followed. Not that I advocate the idea that
the editor should express himself far in advance of public opinion or rather
of public knowledge. It is a very unwise thing to do. The inevitable result is
the kick instead of the copper. Martyrdom is not the business of a
newspaper. Many a leading editor of to-day deemed conservative and old
fogyish is really more liberal and progressive than those who rail at him.
But he is wiser than they and has learned that ideas which may be accepted
and in full sway a century hence, cannot be argued as if in full fruition to-
day. He may know also how to pave the way for a new idea, and is often
doing it while his readers never realize his intent.
 CHAPTER XXXV.

RECENT ANTIQUITY.

I was soon to leave for the Eastern States. When I realized that I was
going, I found to my surprise that I had made a home in California, that it
was an old home and about it clung all the memories and associations of an
old home.
I wanted to visit the mines and take a farewell look at the camps where I
had lived and worked in a period now fast becoming “old times,” and I
went.
The term antiquity is relative in its character. Twenty years may involve
an antiquity as much as 200 or 2,000. Indeed, as regards sensation and
emotion, the more recent antiquity is the more strongly is it realized and
more keenly felt. Standing to-day on the hillside and looking down on the
site of the camp where you mined twenty-five years ago, and then going
down that hill and treading over that site, now silent and deserted, and you
realize, so to speak, a live antiquity. So far as ancient Greece or Rome are
concerned, their histories would make no different impression on us if dated
600 years ago or 6,000. We are imposed upon by these rows of ciphers.
They convey really no sense of time’s duration. They are but mathematical
sounds. We know only that these nations and these men and women lived,
ate, slept, drank, quarrelled, coveted, loved, hated, and died a long time ere
we were born and that of it all we have but fragments of their history, or
rather fragments of the history of a few prominent individuals.
But when you stand alone at Dry Bar, where you mined when it was a
lively camp in 1857, with its score of muddy sluice streams coursing hither
and thither, its stores, its saloons, its hotel and its express office, and see
now but one rotting pine-log cabin, whose roof has tumbled in and whose
sides have tumbled out; where all about is a silent waste of long-worked-off
banks or bare ledge and piles of boulders in which the herbage has taken
root; where every mark of the former houses and cabins has disappeared,
save a mound here, or a pile of stone indicating a former chimney there,
you have a lively realization of antiquity, though it be a recent one. You
knew the men who lived here; you worked with them; you know the sites of
the houses in which they lived; you have an event and a memory for every
acre of territory hereabout. Down there, where the river narrows between
those two high points of rock, once stood a rickety bridge. It became more
and more shaky and dangerous, until one day Tom Wharton, the Justice of
the Peace, fired by a desire pro bono publico and rather more than his
ordinary quantity of whiskey, cut the bridge away with his axe and it floated
down stream. Over yonder, on that sandy point, was the richest claim on the
bar.
Will you go down to Pot-Hole Bar, two miles below? The trail ran by the
river. But freshet after freshet has rushed over the bank and wiped out the
track made by the footprints of a few years. There is no trace of the trail.
The chaparral has grown over and quite closed it up. Here and there is a
faint trace, and then it brings up short against a young pine or a buckeye,
the growth of the last ten years. Yet in former days this path ranked in your
mind of the importance of a town street. You had no idea how quickly
nature, if left alone, will restore things to what we term “primitive
conditions.” If a great city was deserted in these foothills, within twenty
years’ time the native growths would creep down and in upon it, start
plantations of chaparral in the streets, festoon the houses with vines, while
winged seeds would fill the gutters and cornices with verdure. It is a hard
struggle through the undergrowth to Pot-Hole Bar. No man lives there now.
No man goes there. Even the boulder piles and bare ledges of fifteen years
ago, marking the scarifying work of your race on mother earth’s face, are
now mounds overgrown with weeds. What solitude of ancient ruined cities
equals this? Their former thousands are nothing to you as individuals; but
you knew all the boys at Pot-Hole. It was a favorite after-supper trip from
Dry Bar to Pot-Hole to see how the “boys” were getting on, and vice versa
from Pot-Hole to Dry Bar.
A cotton-tail rabbit sends a flash of white through the bushes. His family
now inhabits Pot-Hole. They came back after all of your troublesome race
had left, and very glad were the “cotton-tails” of the riddance. There is a
broken shovel at your feet and near by in the long grass you see the
fragment of a sluice’s false bottom, bored through with anger holes to catch
the gold and worn quite thin by the attrition of pebble and boulder along its
upper surface. This is about the only vestige of the miner’s former work.
Stop! On the hillside yonder is a mound-like elevation and beyond that a
long green raised line. One marks the reservoir and the other the ditch. It
was the Pot-Hole Company’s reservoir, built after they had concluded to
take water from the ditch and wash off a point of gravel jutting toward the
river. They had washed it all off by 1856, and then the company disbanded
and went their respective ways. Pot-Hole lay very quiet for a couple of
years, but little doing there save rocker washing for grub and whiskey by
four or five men who had concluded that “grub and whiskey” was about all
in life worth living for. A “slouchy” crowd, prone to bits of rope to tie up
their suspenders, unshaven faces, and not a Sunday suit among them.
They pottered about the bar and the bank, working sometimes in concert
and then quarrelling, and every man betaking himself to his private rocker,
pick, and shovel for a few days or weeks and coming together again, as
compelled by necessity. One of them commenced picking into a slim streak
of gravel at the base of the red hard-pan bank left by the pot-holers. It paid
to the pan first two cents and a little farther in three, and a little farther
seven, and then the gold became coarser and heavier and it yielded a bit to
the pan. The blue ledge “pitched in,” the gravel streak grew wider and
richer, the crowd took up the whole face of the bank, 150 feet to the man,
and found they had struck fortunes. And then they worked at short intervals
and “went it” at long ones, and all save four drank themselves to death
within four years.
They have all long since gone. They are scattered for the most part you
know not where. Two are living in San Francisco and are now men of might
and mark. Another you have heard of far away in the Eastern States, living
in a remote village, whose name is never heard of outside the county
bounds. One has been reported to you as “up North somewhere;” another
down in Arizona “somewhere,” and three you can locate in the county. That
is but seven out of the one hundred who once dwelt here and roundabout.
Now that recollection concentrates herself you do call to mind two others—
one died in the county almshouse and another became insane and was sent
to Stockton. That is all. Nine out of the one hundred that once resided at
Dry Bar. It is mournful. The river monotonously drones, gurgles, and
murmurs over the riffle. The sound is the same as in ’58. A bird on the
opposite bank gives forth, at regular intervals, a loud querulous cry. It was a
bird of the same species whose note so wore on the nerves of Mike
McDonald as he lay dying of consumption in a big house which stood
yonder, that, after anathematizing it, he would beseech his watcher to take a
gun and blow the “cussed” thing’s head off. Perhaps it is the same bird. The
afternoon shadows are creeping down the mountain side. The outline of the
hills opposite has not at all changed, and there, down by the bank, is the
enormous fragment of broken rock against which Dick Childs built his
brush shelter for the summer and out of which he was chased by a sudden
fall rise of the river. But it is very lonesome with all these people here so
vivid in memory, yet all gone, and never, never to come back.
You wonder if any of the “old crowd” now living, live over as you do the
past life here; if a single one within the last ten years has ever revisited the
spot; or if any of them have any desire to revisit it. Some of them did so
once. There was Jake Bennett. As late as ’62, Jake, who had removed to the
next county, would come every summer on a pilgrimage to “see the boys,”
and the boys at Dry Bar were even then sadly reduced in number, for the
camp ran down very quickly within the four years dating from ’58. But Jake
was faithful to old memories and associations, and proved it by the ten-
miles’ walk he was obliged to take to reach Dry Bar. Dry Bar was never on
a regular stage route. Jake was an ex-Philadelphian and called rest “west”
and violin “wiolin.” But no one comes here now, at least on any such
errand. It’s a troublesome and rather expensive locality to reach and mere
sentiment does not pay. The nearest resident is a Missouri hog-rancher,
whose house is above on the hill a couple of miles away. He neither knows
nor cares for Dry Bar’s former history. He came here but ten years ago. His
half-wild swine are ambushed about in the shelter of the elder and buckeye
bushes, and frightened at your approach plunge snorting into the deeper
thickets.
Here it is. The remains of your own cabin chimney, a pile of smoke-
blackened stones in the tall grass. Of the cabin every vestige has
disappeared. You built that chimney yourself. It was an awkward affair, but
it served to carry out the smoke, and when finished you surveyed it with
pleasure and some pride, for it was your chimney. Have you ever felt
“snugger” and more cozy and comfortable since than you did on the long,
rainy winter nights, when, the supper finished and the crockery washed, you
and your “pard” sat by the glowing coals and prepared your pipes for the
evening smoke? There were great hopes and some great strikes on Dry Bar
in those days; that was in ’52. Mining was still in the pan, rocker and long
tom era; sluices were just coming in. Hydraulicking 100-foot banks and
washing hills off the face of the earth had not been thought of. The dispute
as to the respective merits of the long vs. the short-handled shovel was still
going on. A gray or red shirt was a badge of honor. The deep river-beds
were held to contain enormous store of golden nuggets. River mining was
in its wing and coffer-dam phase.
Perhaps the world then seemed younger to you than now? Perhaps your
mind then set little store on this picturesque spot, so wrapped were you in
visions of the future? Perhaps then you wrote regularly to that girl in the
States—your first heart’s-trouble—and your anticipation was fixed entirely
on the home to be built up there on the gold you were to dig here? Perhaps
the girl never married you, the home was never built and nothing
approaching the amount of oro expected dug out. You held, then, Dry Bar in
light estimation. It was for you only a temporary stopping place, from
which you wished to get its gold as quickly as you could and get away from
as soon as possible. You never expected Dry Bar, its memories and
associations thus to make for themselves a “local habitation and a name” in
your mind. We live sometimes in homes we do not realize until much of
their material part has passed away. A horned toad scuttles along the dry
grass and inflates himself to terrify you as you approach. Those rat-like
ground squirrels are running from hole to hole, like gossiping neighbors,
and “chipping” shrilly at each other. These are old summer acquaintances at
Dry Bar.
Is it with a feeling of curiosity you take up one of those stones handled
by you thirty-one years ago and wonder how like or unlike you may be to
yourself at that time? Are you the same man? Not the same young man,
certainly. The face is worn; the eyes deeper set; the hair more or less gray
and there are lines and wrinkles where none existed then. But that is only
the outside of your “soul case.” Suppose that you, the John Doe of 1883,
could and should meet the John Doe of 1853? Would you know him?
Would you agree on all points with him? Could you “get” along with him?
Could you “cabin” with him? Could you “summer and winter” with him?
Would the friends of the John Doe of ’53, who piled up that chimney, be the
friends of the present John Doe, who stands regarding its ruins? Are the
beliefs and convictions of that J. Doe those of this J. Doe? Are the jokes
deemed so clever by that J. Doe clever to this J. Doe? Are the men great to
that J. Doe great to the present J. Doe? Does he now see the filmly, frothy
fragments of scores of pricked bubbles sailing away and vanishing in air? If
a man die shall he live again? But how much of a man’s mind may die out
and be supplanted by other ideas ere his body goes back to dust? How much
of this J. Doe belongs to that J. Doe, and how much of the same man is
there standing here?
 CHAPTER XXXVI.

GOING HOME.

After sixteen years of exile in California, I found myself rolling

seaward and homeward through the Golden Gate in the Panama steamer
Sacramento. The parting gun had been fired, the captain, naval cloak, cap,
eye-glass and all, had descended from his perch of command on the paddle-
box, the engine settled steadily to its work, Telegraph Hill, Meigg’s Wharf,
Black Point, Alcatraz, Lime Point, Fort Point, one by one receded and crept
into the depressing gloomy fog, the mantle in which San Francisco loves so
well to wrap herself. The heave of the Pacific began to be plainly felt, and
with it the customary misery.
The first two days out are devoted to sea and homesickness. Everybody
is wretched about something. No sooner is the steamer a mile beyond the
Heads than we, who for years have been awaiting a blessed deliverance
from California, are seized with unutterable longings to return. All at once
we discover how pleasant is the land and its people. We review its
associations, its life, its peculiar excitements, and the warm friendships we
have made there. And now it is all fading in the fog: the Cliff House is
disappearing, it is going, it is gone. Heart and stomach are
contemporaneously wretched: we bury ourselves in our berths; we call upon
the steward and stewardess; we wish ardently that some accident may befall
the ship and oblige her to put back. No! Not more inexorable, certain and
inevitable is the earth in its revolution, the moon in its orbit, or one’s
landlord when the rent is overdue, than is the course of the stately vessel
south. South, day after day, she plunges; the North Star sinks, the sky
becomes fairer, the air milder, the ocean of a softer blue; the sunsets
develop the tints of Fairyland; the sunrise mocks all human ornamentation
in its gorgeousness. Light coats and muslin dresses blossom on the
promenade-deck; the colored waiters develop white linen suits and faultless
neckties. The sea air on the northern edge of the tropic zone is a balm for
every wound, and forces us into content against our perverse wills.
 We had a medley on board. There was a batch of sea-captains going
East, some with wives, some without; one of the maritime madams, they
said, could navigate a vessel as well as her husband; she certainly had a
sailor balance in walking the deck in rough weather. There was a tall
Mephistophelic-looking German youth, who daily took up a position on
deck, fortified by a novel, a cigar, and a field-glass, never spoke a word to
any one, and was reported to be a baron. There were a dogmatic young
Englishman with a heavy burr in his voice, who seemed making a business
of seeing the world; a stocky young fellow, one of Morgan’s men during the
war, and another who had seen his term of service on the Federal side; a
stout lady, dissatisfied with everything, sick of travelling, dragging about
with her a thin-legged husband well stricken in years, who interfered feebly
with her tantrums; and a young man who at the commencement of the trip
started out with amazing celerity and success in making himself popular.
This last was a cheery, chippery young fellow; his stock in trade was small,
but he knew how to display it to the best advantage. It gave out in about ten
days, and everybody voted him a bore. He took seriously to drinking brandy
ere we arrived in New York. And then came the rank and file, without
sufficient individuality as yet developed to be even disagreeable.
But there was one other, a well-to-do Dutchess County farmer, who had
travelled across the continent to see “Californy,” and concluded to take the
steamer on his way home to observe as much as he might of Central
America; a man who had served the Empire State in her legislature; a man
mighty in reading. Such a walking encyclopædia of facts, figures, history,
poetry, metaphysics and philosophy I never met before. He could quote
Seward, Bancroft, Carl Schurz, Clay, and Webster by the hour. His voice
was of the sonorous, nasal order, with a genuine Yankee twang. I tried in
vain to spring on him some subject whereof he should appear ignorant. One
might as well have endeavored to show Noah Webster a new word in the
English language. And all this knowledge during the trip he ground out in
lots to order. It fell from his lips dry and dusty. It lacked soul. It smelt
overmuch of histories, biographies, and political pamphlets. He turned it all
out in that mechanical way, as though it were ground through a coffee-mill.
Even his admiration was dry and lifeless. So was his enthusiasm. He kept
both measured out for occasions. It is a pleasant sail along the Central
American coast, to see the shores lined with forests so green, with palms
and cocoanuts, and in the background dark voltanic cones; and this man, in
a respectable black suit, a standing collar and a beaver hat, would gaze
thereon by the hour and grind out his dusty admiration. Among the steerage
passengers was a bugler who every night gave a free entertainment. He
played with taste and feeling, and when once we had all allowed our souls
to drift away in “The Last Rose of Summer,” the Grinder in the midst of the
beautiful strain brought us plump to earth by turning out the remark that “a
bewgle made abeout as nice music as any instrument goin’, ef it was well
played.” Had he been thrown overboard he would have drifted ashore, and
bored the natives to death with a long and lifeless story of his escape from
drowning.
Dames Rumor and Gossip are at home on the high seas. They commence
operations as soon as their stomachs are on sea-legs. Everybody then
undergoes an inspection from everybody else, and we report to each other.
Mrs. Bluster! Mrs. Bluster’s conduct is perfectly scandalous before we have
been out a week: she nibbling around young men of one-half—ay, one-
fourth—her age! The young miss who came on board in charge of an
elderly couple has seceded from them; promenades the hurricane-deck very
late with a dashing young Californian; but then birds of a feather, male and
female, will flock together. Mr. Bleareye is full of brandy every morning
before ten o’clock; and the “catamaran” with the thin-legged and subjected
husband does nothing but talk of her home in ——. We know the color and
pattern of her carpets, the number of her servants, the quality of her plate,
and yesterday she brought out her jewelry and made thereof a public
exhibition in the saloon. All this is faithfully and promptly borne per rail
over the Isthmus, and goes over to the Atlantic steamer. I am conscientious
in this matter of gossip: I had made resolutions. There was a lady likewise
conscientious on board, and one night upon the quarter-deck, when we had
talked propriety threadbare, when we were both bursting with our fill of
observation, we met each other halfway and confessed that unless we
indulged ourselves also in a little scandal we should die, and then, the
flood-gates being opened, how we riddled them! But there is a difference
between criticism of character and downright scandal, you know; in that
way did we poultice our bruised consciences.
On a voyage everybody has confidences to make, private griefs to
disclose, to everybody else. This is especially the case during the first few
days out. We feel so lone and lorn; we have all undergone the misery of
parting, the breaking of tender ties; we seem a huddle of human units
shaken by chance into the same box, yet scarcely are we therein settled
when we begin putting forth feelers of sympathy and recognition. There
was one young man who seemed to me a master in the art of making
desirable acquaintances for the trip. He entered upon his work ere the
Golden Gate had sunk below the horizon. He had a friendly word for all.
His approach and address were prepossessing. He spoke to me kindly. I was
miserable and flung myself upon him for sympathy. The wretch was merely
testing me as a compagnon de voyage. He found me unsuitable. He flung
me from him with easy but cold politeness, and consorted with an
“educated German gentleman.” I revenged myself by playing the same
tactics on a sea-and love-sick German carriage-maker. “An eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth,” you know.
We touched at Magdalena Bay and Punta Arenas. We expected to stay at
Punta Arenas twelve hours to discharge a quantity of flour. Four times
twelve hours we remained there. Everybody became very tired of Costa
Rica. The Costa Rican is not hurried in his movements. He took his own
time in sending the necessary lighters for that flour. A boat load went off
once in four hours. The Costa Ricans came on board, men and women,
great and small, inspected the Sacramento, enjoyed themselves, went on
shore again, lay down in the shade of their cocoanut palms, smoked their
cigarettes and slept soundly, while the restless, uneasy load of humanity on
the American steamer fretted, fumed, perspired, scolded at Costa Rican
laziness and ridiculed the Costa Rican government, which revolutionizes
once in six months, changes its flag once a year, taxes all improvements,
and acts up to the principle that government was made for the benefit of
those who govern. Many of the passengers went on shore. Some came back
laden with tropical flowers, others full of brandy. The blossoms filled the
vessel the whole night with perfume, while the brandy produced noise and
badly-sung popular melodies.
The Grinder went on shore with the rest. On returning he expressed
disgust at the Costa Ricans. He thought that “nothing could ever be made of
them.” He had no desire that the United States should ever assimilate with
any portion of the Torrid Zone. He predicted that such a fusion would prove
destructive to American energy and intelligence. We had enough southern
territory and torpor already. The man has no appreciation of the indolence
and repose of the tropics. He knows not that the most delicious of
enjoyments is the waking dream under the feathery palm, care and
restlessness flung aside, while the soul through the eye loses itself in the
blue depths above. He would doom us to an eternal rack of civilization and
Progress-work—grind, jerk, hurry, twist and strain, until our nerves, by
exhaustion unstrung and shattered, allow no repose of mind or body; and
even when we die our bones are so infected by restlessness and
goaheaditiveness that they rattle uneasily in our coffins.
Panama sums up thus: An ancient, walled, red-tiled city, full of convents
and churches; the ramparts half ruined; weeds springing atop the steeples
and belfries; a fleet of small boats in front of the city; Progress a little on
one side in the guise of the Isthmus Railroad depot, cars, engines, ferry-
boat, and red, iron lighters; a straggling guard of parti-colored, tawdry and
most slovenly-uniformed soldiers, with French muskets and sabre bayonets,
drawn up at the landing, commanded by an officer smartly dressed in blue,
gold, kepi, brass buttons and stripes, with a villainous squint eye, smoking a
cigar. About the car windows a chattering crowd of blacks, half blacks,
quarter blacks, coffee, molasses, brown, nankeen and straw colored natives,
thrusting skinny arms in at the windows, and at the end of those arms
parrots, large and small, in cages and out, monkeys, shells, oranges,
bananas, carved work, and pearls in various kinds of gold setting; all of
which were sorely tempting to some of the ladies, but ere many bargains
were concluded the train clattered off, and we were crossing the continent.
The Isthmus is a panorama of tropical jungle; it seems an excess, a
dissipation of vegetation. It is a place favorable also for the study of
external black anatomy. The natives kept undressing more and more as we
rolled on. For a mile or two after leaving Panama they did affect the shirt.
Beyond this, that garment seemed to have become unfashionable, and they
stood at their open doors with the same unclothed dignity that characterized
Adam in the Garden of Eden before his matrimonial troubles commenced.
Several young ladies in our care first looked up, then down, then across,
then sideways: then they looked very grave, and finally all looked at each
other and unanimously tittered.
Aspinwall! The cars stop; a black-and-tan battalion charge among us,
offering to carry baggage. They pursue us to the gate of the P. M. S. S.
depot; there they stop; we pass through one more cluster of orange, banana,
and cigar selling women; we push and jam into the depot, show our tickets,
and are on board the Ocean Queen. We are on the Atlantic side! It comes
over us half in awe, half in wonder, that this boat will, if she do not reach
the bottom first, carry us straight to a dock in New York. The anticipation of
years is developing into tangibility.
We cross the Caribbean. It is a stormy sea. Our second day thereon was
one of general nausea and depression. You have perhaps heard the air,
“Sister, what are the wild waves saying?” On that black Friday many of our
passengers seemed to be earnestly saying something over the Ocean
Queen’s side to the “wild, wild waves.” The Grinder went down with the
rest. I gazed triumphantly over his prostrate form laid out at full length on a
cabin settee. Seward, Bancroft, politics, metaphysics, poetry, and
philosophy were hushed at last. Both enthusiasm and patriotism find an
uneasy perch on a nauseated stomach.
But steam has not robbed navigation of all its romance. We find some
poetry in smoke, smoke stacks, pipes, funnels, and paddles, as well as in the
“bellying sails” and the “white-winged messengers of commerce.” I have a
sort of worship for our ponderous walking-beam, which swings its many
tons of iron upon its axis as lightly as a lady’s parasol held ’twixt thumb and
finger. It is an embodiment of strength, grace, and faithfulness. Night and
day, mid rain and sunshine, be the sea smooth or tempestuous, still that
giant arm is at its work, not swerving the fractional part of an inch from its
appointed sphere of revolution. It is no dead metallic thing: it is a
something rejoicing in power and use. It crunches the ocean ’neath its
wheels with that pride and pleasure of power which a strong man feels
when he fights his way through some ignoble crowd. The milder powers of
upper air more feebly impel yon ship; in our hold are the powers of earth,
the gnomes and goblins, the subjects of Pluto and Vulcan, begrimed with
soot and sweat, and the elements for millions and millions of years
imprisoned in the coal are being steadily set free. Every shovelful generates
a monster born of flame. As he flies sighing and groaning through the wide-
mouthed smokestack into the upper air, he gives our hull a parting shove
forward.
A death in the steerage—a passenger taken on board sick at Aspinwall.
All day long an inanimate shape wrapped in the American flag lies near the
gangway. At four P.M. an assemblage from cabin and steerage gather with
uncovered heads. The surgeon reads the service for the dead; a plank is
lifted up; with a last shrill whirl that which was once a man is shot into the
blue waters; in an instant it is out of sight and far behind, and we retire to
our state-rooms, thinking and solemnly wondering about that body sinking,
sinking, sinking in the depths of the Caribbean; of the sea monsters that
curiously approach and examine it; of the gradual decay of the corpse’s
canvas envelope; and far into the night, as the Ocean Queen shoots ahead,
our thoughts wander back in the blackness to the buried yet unburied dead.
The Torrid Zone is no more. This morning a blast from the north sweeps
down upon us. Cold, brassy clouds are in the sky; the ocean’s blue has
turned to a dark, angry brown, flecked with white caps and swept by blasts
fresh from the home of the northern floe and iceberg. The majority of the
passengers gather about the cabin-registers, like the house-flies benumbed
by the first cold snap of autumn in our northern kitchens. Light coats,
pumps and other summer apparel have given way to heavy boots, over-
coats, fur caps and pea-jackets. A home look settles on the faces of the
North Americans. They snuff their native atmosphere: they feel its bracing
influence. But the tawny-skinned Central Americans who have gradually
accumulated on board from the Pacific ports and Aspinwall, settle
inactively into corners or remain ensconced in their berths. The air which
kindles our energies wilts theirs. The hurricane-deck is shorn of its awnings.
Only a few old “shell-back” passengers maintain their place upon it, and yet
five days ago we sat there in midsummer moonlit evenings.
We are now about one hundred miles from Cape Hatteras. Old Mr.
Poddle and his wife are travelling for pleasure. Came to California by rail,
concluded to return by the Isthmus. Ever since we started Cape Hatteras has
loomed up fearfully in their imaginations. Old Mr. Poddle looks knowingly
at passing vessels through his field-glass, but doesn’t know a fore-and-aft
schooner from a man-of-war. Mrs. Poddle once a day inquires if there’s any
danger. Mr. Poddle does not talk so much, but evidently in private meditates
largely on hurricanes, gales, cyclones, sinking and burning vessels. Last
night we came in the neighborhood of the Gulf Stream. There were flashes
of lightning, “mare’s tails” in the sky, a freshening breeze and an increasing
sea. About eleven old Mr. Poddle came on deck. Mrs. Poddle, haunted by
Hatteras, had sent him out to see if “there was any danger;” for it is evident
that Mrs. Poddle is dictatress of the domestic empire. Mr. Poddle ascended
to the hurricane-deck, looked nervously to leeward, and just then an old
passenger salt standing by, who had during the entire passage
comprehended and enjoyed the Poddletonian dreads, remarked, “This is
nothing to what we shall have by morning.” This shot sent Poddle below.
This morning at breakfast the pair looked harassed and fatigued.
 The great question now agitating the mind of this floating community is,
“Shall we reach the New York pier at the foot of Canal street by Saturday
noon?” If we do, there is for us all long life, prosperity and happiness: if we
do not, it is desolation and misery. For Monday is New Year’s Day. On
Sunday we may not be able to leave the city: to be forced to stay in New
York over Sunday is a dreadful thought for solitary contemplation. We
study and turn it over in our minds for hours as we pace the deck. We live
over and over again the land-journey to our hearthstones at Boston,
Syracuse, and Cincinnati. We meet in thought our long-expectant relatives,
so that at last our air-castles become stale and monotonous, and we fear that
the reality may be robbed of half its anticipated pleasure from being so
often lived over in imagination.
Nine o’clock, Friday evening. The excitement increases. Barnegat Light
is in sight. Half the cabin passengers are up all night, indulging in
unprofitable talk and weariness, merely because we are so near home. Four
o’clock, and the faithful engine stops, the cable rattles overboard, and
everything is still. We are at anchor off Staten Island. By the first laggard
streak of winter’s dawn I am on the hurricane-deck. I am curious to see my
native North. It comes by degrees out of the cold blue fog on either side of
the bay. Miles of houses, spotted with patches of bushy-looking woodland
—bushy in appearance to a Californian, whose oaks grow large and widely
apart from each other, as in an English park. There comes a shrieking and
groaning and bellowing of steam-whistles from the monster city nine miles
away. Soon we weigh anchor and move up toward it. Tugs dart fiercely
about, or laboriously puff with heavilyladen vessels in tow. Stately ocean
steamers surge past, outward bound. We become a mere fragment of the
mass of floating life. We near the foot of Canal street. There is a great deal
of shouting and bawling and counter-shouting and counter-bawling, with
expectant faces on the wharf, and recognitions from shore to steamer and
from steamer to shore. The young woman who flirted so ardently with the
young Californian turns out to be married, and that business-looking,
middle-aged man on the pier is her husband. Well, I never! Why, you are
slow, my friend, says inward reflection. You are not versed in the customs
of the East. At last the gangway plank is flung out. We walk on shore. It is
now eighteen years since that little floating world society cemented by a
month’s association scattered forever from each other’s sight at the Canal
street pier.
THE WHITE CROSS LIBRARY
Is a MONTHLY system of publication, showing how results may be
obtained in all business and art, through the force of thought and silent
power of mind.
SUBSCRIPTION RATES: $1.50 PER YEAR; SINGLE COPIES, 15
CENTS.
VOLUME I.
No. 1—You travel when you sleep.
“ 2—Where you travel when you sleep.
“ 3—The process of re-embodiment.
“ 4—Re-embodiment universal in nature.
“ 5—The art of forgetting.
“ 6—How thoughts are born.
“ 7—The law of success.
“ 8—How to keep your strength.
“ 9—Consider the lilies.
“ 10—Art of study.
“ 11—Profit and loss in associates.
“ 12—The slavery of fear.
“ 13—What are spiritual gifts.
VOLUME II.
No. 14—Some laws of health and beauty.
“ 15—Mental intemperance.
“ 16—Law of marriage.
“ 17—The God in yourself.
“ 18—Force, and how to get it.
“ 19—The doctor within.
“ 20—Co-operation of thought.
“ 21—The religion of dress.
 “ 22—The necessity of riches.
“ 23—Use your riches.
“ 24—The healing and renewing force of spring.
“ 25—Positive and negative thought.
VOLUME III.
No. 26.—The practical use of reverie.
“ 27.—Your two memories.
“ 28.—Self teaching; or, the art of learning how to learn.
“ 29.—How to push your business.
“ 30.—The religion of the drama.
“ 31.—The uses of sickness.
“ 32.—Who are our relations?
“ 33.—The use of a room.
“ 34.—Man and wife.
“ 35.—Cure for alcoholic intemperance.
“ 36.—The church of silent demand.
“ 37.—The mystery of sleep, or our double existence.
“Your Forces and How to Use Them,” FIRST, SECOND AND THIRD
VOLUMES.
Each Volume containing one year’s issue of the White Cross Library. Price,
$2.00 each.
THE “SWAMP ANGEL” (by Prentice Mulford,) 1.25.
Prentice Mulford’s Story, (36 Chapters—300 pages,) 1.50.
This list embraces all numbers issued to May, 1889.
Copies of all Numbers issued can be obtained.
Address, F. J. NEEDHAM,
Publisher White Cross Library,
52 WEST 14th STREET, NEW YORK CITY, U. S. A.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

so may ghastly heaps=> so many ghastly heaps {pg 46}
 Is is ornamented=> It is ornamented {pg 117}
Theyr’e no use in bizness=> They’re no use in bizness {pg 151}
envied of many=> envy of many {pg 182}
many another county=> many another counties {pg 188}
as general propector=> as general prospector {pg 200}
succedeed in getting=> succeeded in getting {pg 200}
their first instalment=> their first installment {pg 200}
an aceptance of=> an acceptance of {pg 272}
well have endeavroed=> well have endeavored {pg 289}
came on broad=> came on board {pg 290}
fleecked with white caps=> flecked with white caps {pg 296}
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRENTICE
MULFORD'S STORY: LIFE BY LAND AND SEA ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S.

copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in
these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it
in the United States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of
this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept
and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and
may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the
terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of
the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as
creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research.
Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given
away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with
eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject
to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE