Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him

Leicester Ford Paul

Description

Publishers initially showed little interest in Paul Leicester Ford's first novel, The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him, but after it finally came to print, the book became an immediate bestseller. It chronicles the life and rise to power of Peter Stirling, a rare breed of politician who eschews the trappings of success and works tirelessly for the good of the people. Some readers believed the novel was a fictionalized version of the life of then-President Grover Cleveland, though both the author and the politician repudiated this theory.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776670635
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE HONORABLE PETER STIRLING AND WHAT PEOPLE THOUGHT OF HIM
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PAUL LEICESTER FORD
 
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The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him First published in 1894 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-063-5 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-064-2 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Romance and Reality Chapter II - Appearances Chapter III - A Crab Chapter Chapter IV - Beginnings Chapter V - Mines and Counter-Mines Chapter VI - A Monologue and a Dialogue Chapter VII - Facing the World Chapter VIII - Settling Chapter IX - Happiness by Proxy Chapter X - Waiting Chapter XI - New Friends Chapter XII - His First Client Chapter XIII - The Case Chapter XIV - New York Justice Chapter XV - The Fight Chapter XVI - The Consequences Chapter XVII - A New Friend Chapter XVIII - Another Client Chapter XIX - The Primary Chapter XX - A Political Debut Chapter XXI - A Political Dinner Chapter XXII - Politics Chapter XXIII - The Convention Chapter XXIV - Misunderstandings and Understandings Chapter XXV - Various Kinds of Society Chapter XXVI - An Evening Call Chapter XXVII - A Dinner Chapter XXVIII - Commissions Chapter XXIX - In the Meantime Chapter XXX - A "Comedy" Chapter XXXI - Conflicts Chapter XXXII - The End of the Conflict Chapter XXXIII - A Renewal Chapter XXXIV - Help Chapter XXXV - Running Away Chapter XXXVI - A Dream Chapter XXXVII - "Friends" Chapter XXXVIII - The Hermitage Chapter XXXIX - The Dude Chapter XL - Opinions Chapter XLI - Calls Chapter XLII - Down-Town New York Chapter XLIII - A Birthday Evening Chapter XLIV - A Good Day Chapter XLV - The Boss Chapter XLVI - The Better Element Chapter XLVII - The Blue-Peter Chapter XLVIII - A Mutineer Chapter XLIX - Clouds Chapter L - Sunshine Chapter LI - The Course of True Love Chapter LII - A Guardian Angel Chapter LIII - Interference Chapter LIV - Obstinacy Chapter LV - Oaths Chapter LVI - Cui Bono? Chapter LVII - Happiness Chapter LVIII - Gifts Chapter LIX - "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May" Chapter LX - A Conundrum Chapter LXI - Leonore's Theory
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To
THOSE DEAR TO ME AT STONEY WOLDE, TURNERS, NEW YORK; PINEHURST; NORWICH, CONNECTICUT; BROOK FARM, PROCTORSVILLE, VERMONT; AND DUNESIDE, EASTHAMPTON, NEW YORK,
THIS BOOK, WRITTEN WHILE AMONG THEM, IS DEDICATED.
Chapter I - Romance and Reality
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Mr. Pierce was talking. Mr. Pierce was generally talking. From the daythat his proud mamma had given him a sweetmeat for a very inarticulate"goo" which she translated into "papa," Mr. Pierce had found speechprofitable. He had been able to talk his nurse into granting him everyindulgence. He had talked his way through school and college. He hadtalked his wife into marrying him. He had talked himself to the head ofa large financial institution. He had talked his admission into society.Conversationally, Mr. Pierce was a success. He could discussSchopenhauer or cotillion favors; St. Paul, the apostle, or St. Paul,the railroad. He had cultivated the art as painstakingly as aprofessional musician. He had countless anecdotes, which he introducedto his auditors by a "that reminds me of." He had endless quotations,with the quotation marks omitted. Finally he had an idea on everysubject, and generally a theory as well. Carlyle speaks somewhere of an"inarticulate genius." He was not alluding to Mr. Pierce.
Like most good talkers, Mr. Pierce was a tongue despot. Conversationmust take his course, or he would none of it. Generally he controlled.If an upstart endeavored to turn the subject, Mr. Pierce waited till theintruder had done speaking, and then quietly, but firmly would remark:"Relative to the subject we were discussing a moment ago—" If any oneventured to speak, even sotto voce , before Mr. Pierce had finished allhe had to say, he would at once cease his monologue, wait till theinterloper had finished, and then resume his lecture just where he hadbeen interrupted. Only once had Mr. Pierce found this method to fail inquelling even the sturdiest of rivals. The recollection of that day isstill a mortification to him. It had happened on the deck of an oceansteamer. For thirty minutes he had fought his antagonist bravely. Then,humbled and vanquished, he had sought the smoking-room, to moisten hisparched throat, and solace his wounded spirit, with a star cocktail. Hehad at last met his superior. He yielded the deck to the fog-horn.
At the present moment Mr. Pierce was having things very much his ownway. Seated in the standing-room of a small yacht, were some eightpeople. With a leaden sky overhead, and a leaden sea about it, the boatgently rose and fell with the ground swell. Three miles away could beseen the flash-light marking the entrance to the harbor. But thoughslowly gathering clouds told that wind was coming, the yacht now laybecalmed, drifting with the ebb tide. The pleasure-seekers had beentogether all day, and were decidedly talked out. For the last hour theyhad been singing songs—always omitting Mr. Pierce, who never so trifledwith his vocal organs. During this time he had been restless. At onepoint he had attempted to deliver his opinion on the relation of verseto music, but an unfeeling member of the party had struck up "JohnBrown's Body," and his lecture had ended, in the usual serial style, atthe most interesting point, without even the promise of a "continuationin our next." Finally, however, the singers had sung themselves hoarsein the damp night air, the last "Spanish Cavalier" had been safelyrestored to his inevitable true-love, and the sound of voices and banjofloated away over the water. Mr. Pierce's moment had come.
Some one, and it is unnecessary to mention the sex, had given a sigh,and regretted that nineteenth century life was so prosaic andunromantic. Clearing his throat, quite as much to pre-empt the pause asto articulate the better, Mr. Pierce spoke:
"That modern times are less romantic and interesting than bygonecenturies is a fallacy. From time immemorial, love and the battlebetween evil and good are the two things which have given the worldromance and interest. Every story, whether we find it in the myths ofthe East, the folklore of Europe, the poems of the Troubadours, or inour newspaper of this morning, is based on one or the other of thesefactors, or on both combined. Now it is a truism that love never playedso important a part as now in shaping the destinies of men and women,for this is the only century in which it has obtained even a partialdivorce from worldly and parental influences. Moreover the great battleof society, to crush wrong and elevate right, was never before sobravely fought, on so many fields, by so many people as to-day. Butbecause our lovers and heroes no longer brag to the world of theirdoings; no longer stand in the moonlight, and sing of their 'deringdoes,' the world assumes that the days of tourneys and guitars were theonly days of true love and noble deeds. Even our professed writers ofromance join in the cry. 'Draw life as it is,' they say. 'We findnothing in it but mediocrity, selfishness, and money-loving.' By allmeans let us have truth in our novels, but there is truth and truth.Most of New York's firemen presumably sat down at noon to-day to adinner of corned-beef and cabbage. But perhaps one of them at the samemoment was fighting his way through smoke and flame, to save life at therisk of his own. Boiled dinner and burned firemen are equally true. Arethey equally worthy of description? What would the age of chivalry be,if the chronicles had recorded only the brutality, filthiness andcoarseness of their contemporaries? The wearing of underclothingunwashed till it fell to pieces; the utter lack of soap; the eating withfingers; the drunkenness and foul-mouthedness that drove women from thetable at a certain point, and so inaugurated the custom, now continuedmerely as an excuse for a cigar? Some one said once that a man finds ina great city just the qualities he takes to it. That's true of romanceas well. Modern novelists don't find beauty and nobility in life,because they don't look for them. They predicate from their inner soulsthat the world is 'cheap and nasty' and that is what they find it to be.There is more true romance in a New York tenement than there ever was ina baron's tower—braver battles, truer love, nobler sacrifices. Romanceis all about us, but we must have eyes for it. You are young people,with your lives before you. Let me give you a little advice. As you gothrough life look for the fine things—not for the despicable. It won'tmake you any richer. It won't make you famous. It won't better you in aworldly way. But it will make your lives happier, for by the time youare my age, you'll love humanity, and look upon the world and call itgood. And you will have found romance enough to satisfy all longings formediæval times."
"But, dear, one cannot imagine some people ever finding anythingromantic in life," said a voice, which, had it been translated intowords would have said, "I know you are right, of course, and you willconvince me at once, but in my present state of unenlightenment it seemsto me that—" the voice, already low, became lower. "Now"—a moment'shesitation—"there is—Peter Stirling."
"Exactly," said Mr. Pierce. "That is a very case in point, and provesjust what I've been saying. Peter is like the novelists of whom I'vebeen talking. I don't suppose we ought to blame him for it. What can youexpect of a son of a mill-fore