Between recorded history on the one hand and stories of fiction on the other stands the book Chronicles of a Kentucky Settlement, 1897, by William Courtney Watts. It is a historical romance based solely on local tradition. Although this work is somewhat faulty in its general construction, and may be, at times, somewhat crude in its literary style, it is, nevertheless, one of the most faithful historical sketches of early Kentucky.
MARCHING TO BULL RUN.
Democratic Federation—the crude Marxite teaching. It still awaits permeation by true Socialist conceptions. It is a version of life adapted essentially to the imagination of the working wage earner, and limited by his limitations. It is the vision of poor souls perennially reminded each Monday morning of the shadow and irksomeness of life, perpetually recalled each Saturday pay time to a watery gleam of all that life might be. One of the numberless relationships of life, the relationship of capital or the employer to the employed, is made to overshadow all other relations. Get that put right, “expropriate the idle rich,” transfer all capital to the State, make the State the humane, amenable, universal employer—that, to innumerable, Socialist working men, is the horizon. The rest he sees in the forms of the life to which he is accustomed. A little home, a trifle larger and brighter than his present one, a more abounding table, a cheerful missus released from factory work and unhealthy competition with men, a bright and healthy
"Yes," said Mrs. Van Tromp, thinking her new acquaintance's remark included herself, Mrs. Van Tromp, among the gentry anyhow. "Of course we are very new, and society, outside of a small set in New York and a few families at Newport, is crude. Fortunately, here we have an old Knickerbocker circle—"
dence caused a relapse alarming even to himself. He saw that his powers of resistance were gone, and, tremulously tender over his own plight, he relapsed into a plaintive burden. But he was never a passive one. Some part or other he had to play, usually to somebody’s detriment.
They sat there for a long time, now and then exchanging a few sentences or going about to make sure there was no danger of the hatch being pried up, thus allowing the prisoners of the hold to escape and make trouble.
Count Loris, with a cool smile, unbuckled his sword and handed it to him. "I am now, and always, the faithful subject of the emperor's most sacred Majesty," said he.
That street, he said--the one to the left--would take them into another main road and thence out of the city just as quickly as if they waited for the camel folk to pass.
"Piacentelli is busy at something," Hartford said, as much to reassure himself as Pia's wife. "I think I'll go out and have a look." He spoke to Bond: "Get out of the jeep, but stay close to it. Report any haps immediately. Watch for lights, listen for small-arms fire."
She responded generously. "I know you didn't
“I demand pardon,” said Poirot humbly. “But, if my memory is not at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart failure—altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!”
"I regret his death more deeply than I can tell you," Hartford said. "Renkei and Pia my friend are both dead now. This is what Renkei told me: aru-majiki koto, a thing that ought not to be."
Copyright © 2020