During a portion of the first half of the present century, and more particularly during the latter part of it, there flourished and practised in the city of New York a physician who enjoyed perhaps an exceptional share of the consideration which, in the United States, has always been bestowed upon distinguished members of the medical profession. This profession in America has constantly been held in honor, and more successfully than elsewhere has put forward a claim to the epithet of 'liberal.' In a country in which, to play a social part, you must either earn your income or make believe that you earn it, the healing art has appeared in a high degree to combine two recognized sources of credit. It belongs to the realm of the practical, which in the United States is a great recommendation; and it is touched by the light of science - a merit appreciated in a community in which the love of knowledge has not always been accompanied by leisure and opportunity…
Martin Eden by Jack London
Мартин Иден Джека Лондона
|
It
must
not
be
supposed
that
Dr
Hood's
apartments
excluded
luxury,
or
even
poetry.
These
things
were
there,
in
their
place;
but
one
felt
that
they
were
never
allowed
out
of
their
place.
Luxury
was
there:
there
stood
upon
a
special
table
eight
or
ten
boxes
of
the
best
cigars;
but
they
were
built
upon
a
plan
so
that
the
strongest
were
always
nearest
the
wall
and
the
mildest
nearest
the
window.
A
tantalus
containing
three
kinds
of
spirit,
all
of a
liqueur
excellence,
stood
always
on
this
table
of
luxury;
but
the
fanciful
have
asserted
that
the
whisky,
brandy,
and
rum
seemed
always
to
stand
at
the
same
level.
Poetry
was
there:
the
left-hand
corner
of
the
room
was
lined
with
as
complete
a set
of
English
classics
as
the
right
hand
could
show
of
English
and
foreign
physiologists…
Dr
Hood
treated
his
private
book-shelf
as if
it
were
a
public
library.
And
if
this
strict
scientific
intangibility
steeped
even
the
shelves
laden
with
lyrics
and
ballads
and
the
tables
laden
with
drink
and
tobacco,
it
goes
without
saying
that
yet
more
of
such
heathen
holiness
protected
the
other
shelves
that
held
the
specialist's
library,
and
the
other
tables
that
sustained
the
frail
and
even
fairylike
instruments
of
chemistry
or
mechanics…
|
«The last archer smiled scornfully and made ready. He drew his bow with ease and grace and, without seeming to study the course, released the winged arrow. Forward it leaped toward the target, and all eyes followed its flight. A loud uproar broke forth when it alighted, just without the center and grazing the shaft sent by Rob. The stranger made a gesture of surprise when his own eyes announced the result to him, but saw his error. He had not allowed for the fickle gust of wind which seized the arrow and carried it to one side. But for all that he was the first to congratulate the victor.
The Old Time Journalist will tell you that the best reporter is the one who works his way up. He holds that the only way to start is as a printer’s devil or as an office boy, to learn in time to set type, to graduate from a compositor into a stenographer, and as a stenographer take down speeches at public meetings, and so finally grow into a real reporter, with a fire badge on your left suspender, and a speaking acquaintance with all the greatest men in the city, not even excepting Police Captains.
Amory Blaine inherited from his mother every trait, except the stray inexpressible few, that made him worth while. His father, an ineffectual, inarticulate man with a taste for Byron and a habit of drowsing over the Encyclopedia Britannica, grew wealthy at thirty through the death of two elder brothers, successful Chicago brokers, and in the first flush of feeling that the world was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice O'Hara. In consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down to posterity his height of just under, six feet and his tendency to waver at crucial moments, these two abstractions appearing in his son Amory. For many years he hovered in the background of his family's life, an unassertive figure with a face half-obliterated by lifeless, silky hair, continually occupied in "taking care" of his wife, continually harassed by the idea that he didn't and couldn't understand her.
A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over: Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!
About this time I met with an odd volume of the Spectator. It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent, and wished, if possible, to imitate it.
«Dull in Reno? Why no; how can one be bored in this delightful “big little city,” when here you will find a concentration of all the most picturesque phases of life—a conglomeration of gaiety and tragedy, humor and drama, frivolity and learning! What a fertile field for the psychologist and sociologist.
I take no shame in the pride with which I write of my grandfather, albeit he took the part of his Majesty and Parliament against the Colonies. He was no palavering turncoat, like my Uncle Grafton, to cry “God save the King!” again when an English fleet sailed up the bay. Mr. Carvel’s hand was large and his heart was large, and he was respected and even loved by the patriots as a man above paltry subterfuge.
Miss Polly Harrington entered her kitchen a little hurriedly this June morning. Miss Polly did not usually make hurried movements; she specially prided herself on her repose of manner. But today she was hurrying—actually hurrying.Nancy, washing dishes at the sink, looked up in surprise. Nancy had been working in Miss Polly’s kitchen only two months, but already she knew that her mistress did not usually hurry.“Nancy!”
