AmericaANarrative History
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The leading narrativehistorythat students love to read, now made more relevant and accessible. With more than two million copies sold, America remains the leading narrative history survey text because it’s a book that students enjoy reading. The Tenth Edition is both relevant,offeringincreased attention to thecultureof everyday life, and accessible, featuring a reduced number of chapters and a streamlined narrative throughout. AP® and Advanced Placement Program are registered trademarks of the College Board, which was not involved in the production of, and does not endorse this product.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title. About the Author: David Emory Shi is a professor of history and the president emeritus of Furman University. He is theauthor of several bookson American cultural history, including
the award-winning The Simple Life: Plain Living and High Thinking in American Culture and Facing Facts: Realism in American Thought and Culture, 1850–
1920.George Brown Tindall spent many years on the faculty of the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. He was an award-winning historian of the South with a number of major books to his credit, including The Emergence of the New South.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
“First the infant, mewling and pewking in his nurse’s arms, and for his bottle crying.”
Then the schoolboy, quaffing his ginger-beer, Until “he well nigh bursts.”
“Then the lover, with a woful ballad, Made to his mistress’ eye-brow ’neath the subtle inspiration of the Boy.”
“Then the soldier, slaking his parched throat, Made dry by last night’s mess, with many a brandy and soda.”
“Then the justice, with fair, round belly, With good claret lined.”
“The lean and slippered pantaloon, Who, with his feet in foot-bath, sits and drinks his gruel.”
“Last drink of all, beef-tea.”
I feel quite mixed after the variety.—Yours, P.M.T.
he Sporting Times, May 2, 1885.
Crutch, in cosy box enshrin’d, Showers bouquets on Rosalind; Gallery is not behind In its praise of Rosalind; Common “pro’s” for years may grind, Not so gentle Rosalind.
Beauty and high birth combin’d Must produce a Rosalind!
Where can we an equal find
To our latest Rosalind?
Critics sour and critics kind Battle over Rosalind.
To the charms who can be blind
Of this pretty Rosalind?
Streets with carriages are lined, Audiences for Rosalind, Braving chill September’s wind
For the sake of Rosalind; Rank and fashion, lately dined, Flock to feast on Rosalind.
But I can’t make up my mind, To accept this Rosalind!
udy, October 4, 1882.
“Rosalind M . L .”—P .
Poetry and snow do not blend well. Sleet extinguishes all feu sacré in the bard. Early one morning last week, when a few gentle flakes were falling, I thought of the song of my friend Amiens in “As you Like It,” and laughing at the elements, attempted a rough parody of the first verse. It was as follows:
Blow, blow thou Winter wind; Snow, too, if so inclined: I cannot change your mood.
I’ll order Toddy hot
And drink of it a lot—
The strongest can be brewed.
Heigh ho! Sing heigh ho! Away with melancholy.
To grumble at the weather is nought but folly. Then heigh ho! The holly!
This life is most jolly.
(An interval of six hours is supposed to elapse.)
Freeze! Freeze! The wind does blow!
I’m “Boycotted” by the snow, I search and search in vain
For cab, or bus, or train. Miles off is home—and worse, I’ve no coin in my purse!
In the snow, sing heigh ho! to the green folly Of a fellow feigning to be happy or jolly.
Heigh ho!
’Tis folly, by golly! To hope to be jolly!
ROMEO AND JULIET. :o:
A B .
(After Romeo’s description of an apothecary. Act v. Scene i.)
I do remember an old , And hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted In suit of sables, with care worn brow, Conning his books—and meagre were his looks: Celibacy had worn him to the bone; And in his silent parlour hung a coat, The which the moth had used not less than he. Four chairs, one table, and an old hair trunk, Made up its furniture; and on his shelves
A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug, Two tablets, and a box of old cigars; Remnants of volumes, once in some repute, Were thinly scattered round, to tell the eye Of prying stranger—this man had no wife. His tatter’d elbow gap’d most piteously; And ever as he turned him round, his skin Did through his stockings peep upon the day. Noting his gloom, unto myself I said, “And if a man did covet single life, Reckless of joys that matrimony gives, Here lives a gloomy wretch would show it him In such most dismal colours, that the shrew, Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse, Were each a heaven compared with such a life.”
he Maids, Wives, and Widows Penny Magazine, October 27, 1832.
I do remember a cook’s shop— And here about it stands—him late I noted In tuck’d up sleeves, with night cap o’er his brows, Cutting up joints—pleas’d were his looks, The fatt’ning trade had cover’d well his bones, And in his reeky shop a sirloin hung, A buttock stuff’d; nice tripe, and other strings Of well spic’d sausages—and upon his board A sovereign remedy for empty stomachs, Green peas and ducks, pork, steaks, and mutton chops, Remnant of goose, pigeon-pye and plates of ham, Were amply set out to make up a show, Noting this plenty to myself I said; An’ if a man did need a dinner now, Whose dainty smell is present appetite, Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one. If I may trust the flattering truth of nose, This should be Porridge Island— Being twelve o’th’clock—the knives and forks are laid.
I do remember a young pleader, And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted In coat once black, with overwhelming brow, Pondering o’er cases—sallow were his looks, And midnight thought had worn him to the bone; And in his sombre chambers lay confused, Black dusty papers, “general issues” here, “Demurrers special” there—matter apt to teach That, to our noble law, justice and form Alike are dear—and o’er his shelves A beggarly account of dusty volumes— Wentworth, and Coke, and Saunders—old editions all, With a few numbers of the late reports, Were thinly scattered to make up a show. Noting his little practice, thus I said:
“An’ if a man would patch a rotten case, Give to transaction dark a face of snow, Here lives the lawyer that might draw the pleas, Oh! this same thought doth but forerun my need— I have a cause, and will retain him quickly, As I remember, this should be the chamber; But it not being term the door is closed.” What, ho!
rom The Poetical Note Book and Epigrammatic Museum; by G W , London, 1824.
The following parody was written by Robert Surtees, Esq., M.A. F.S.A., author of a history of the County Palatine of Durham:
I do remember a strange man, a herald— And hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted In parti-colour’d coat like a fool’s jacket, Or morrice-dancer’s dress—musty his looks, Like to a piece of ancient shrivell’d parchment, Or an old pair of leather brogues twice turn’d; And round the dusky room he did inhabit,
Whose wainscot seem’d as old as Noah’s ark, Were divers shapes of ugly, ill-formed monsters, Hung up on scutcheons like an old church aisle— A blue boar rampant, and a griffin gules, A gaping tyger, and a cat-o’-mountain, What nature never form’d, nor madman dream’d, Gorgons and hydras and chimæras dire; And straight before him lay a dusty heap Of ancient legers, books of evidence, Old blazon’d pedigrees and antique rolls, (Which made full oft the son beget the father, And give to maiden ladies fruitful issue.) Torn parish registers, probates, and testaments— From which, with cunning art and sage contrivance, He fairly culled divers pedigrees; And next, by act of transmutation rare, Did change his musty vellum into gold— For straight comes in a gaudy city youth, (Whose father, for oppression and vile cunning, Lies roaring low in Limbo lake the while,) And straight depositeth some forty guineas, And after some few words of mystic import, Of Mowbray, Howard, Vere, Plantagenet, And other necromantic terms of art, Most gravely utter’d by the smoke-dried sage, He takes, in lieu of gold, the vellum roll, With arms emblazon’d and Earl Marshal’s signet, And struts away, a well-born gentleman. Observing this, I to myself did say, “And if a man did need a coat of arms, Here lives a caitiff that would sell him one.”
T S P .
Shakespeare pur et simple will soon be beyond the comprehension of audiences accustomed to burlesque, sensation drama, and the cancan. An
enterprising manager (we believe he thinks of turning Somerset House into a theatre, with hotel accommodation, so that visitors from the country can take a ticket, including entrance, supper, bed, and breakfast) has offered a prize for the best modern version of Shakespeare’s plays. We have been favoured with a perusal of the M.S.S. sent in, and give the following versions of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, without the kind permission of the authors:
ROMEO.
W S T. W. R .
.— !
.— ’ Garden.
Enter .
Rom.—That board says “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” I am a trespasser; but what matters prosecution so that I can stand beneath the window of the girl I love? What is love? Men live for it, die for it, and lose caste for it; but
J appears on balcony, with watering-pot.
Jul.—I have been thinking so much about that young man I met at the ball that I nearly forgot my poor flowers. There’s somebody in the garden. Who can it be?
Rom.—Have you forgotten me so soon, then?
Jul.—I have not forgotten you. But you have done wrong to come here; if my father saw you he would give you in charge.
Rom.—I have been thinking of you for the last two hours.
Jul.—And I have been thinking of you. How strange that we should think of one another!
Rom.—We must be in love.
Jul.—What is love?
Rom.—The very question I asked myself five minutes ago.
Jul.—What a lovely night! And look at the stars! Are they far off?
Rom.—Ah! hundreds and thousands of million miles.
Jul.—They seem about a mile-and-a-half from the earth.
Rom.—But they are not so far from the earth as you are from me.
Jul. (leaning over)—We are nearer now.
Rom. (holding spout of water-pot)—And the waterpot join us. For how long?
Jul.—Until I am tired of holding it, I suppose.
Rom.—Will you be out to-morrow morning?
Jul.—I always go to the village to get an egg for papa’s breakfast.
Rom.—Meet me at the Friar’s.
Jul.—What for?
Rom.—To be married, of course.
Jul.—How nice! And I can take back the egg as if nothing had happened.
Rom.—Then you think more of the egg than you do of me! Good night!
Jul.—Good night! Be careful of the wall. And beware of the dog.
Rom.—After all, what is a wall?
Jul.—And what is a dog?
[J waters flowers. R retreats a few steps and watches her. Curtain falls—should it be raised J has dropped the water-pot, and is lost in reverie; R is halfway over the wall.] :o:
ROMEO AND HIS JULIET.