Tag: transcription

…had had her doubts about the quality of the flour because it had something strange about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a bad pudding for the large family. It would have to do. Any chef would have blushed madly at such a dessert.

At last, the dinner was all done; the table was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire lit. The presents found in the corner, perfect apples and oranges, were put upon the table and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. Then, all of the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, patriarch Bob Cratchit called a circle – meaning there would be a treat and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of love: a custard cut without a knife.

They had sweet stuff from the jug, and Bob took it out with a smile while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily he said, “A Merry Christmas to us all my dears. God bless us!” while all the family rejoiced. “God bless us everyone!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all. He sat on his father’s knee with his mother by his side. Bob held his little hand in his own as if he wished to keep a secret from the boy.

“Tell me of Tiny Tim, Spirit,” said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before. “He will live?”

“I see a vacant seat,” replied the Spirit “at a poor chimney corner and a crutch, without an owner, carefully preserved. The child will die.”

“No, no,” said Scrooge. “Oh no dear Spirit! Say he will be spared!”

“None other of my race,” returned the Spirit, “will find him here. What then? If he be likely to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”

Scrooge hung his head as his own words were quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with shame and grief.

“Man!” said the Ghost, “If man you be in heart and not demon for what wicked thoughts you have about what the surplus is and isn’t. It may be what man should live and what man shall die! You are more withered and less fit to live than millions of others. Oh God, to hear the heartless pass judgement on the helpless in the dust!”

Scrooge crumbled before the Spirit’s rebuke, and cast his eyes upon the ground. But, he raised them slightly, on hearing his own name.

“To Scrooge!” said Bob, “I’ll give you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of…”

– Charles Dickens (a very messy draft of a Christmas Carol)

(Places with question marks are words that I could not decipher the hand writing so I just put what I could make out)

I am now apprehensive for his general health – he still lye(?) the Benefit of Exercise(?); Exercise!(?) returns the doctor I never heard that he lyed (?) any; he might for night(?) I know, walk to the Alehouse – but I believe he was always carried home again. It was however unlucky for those who delighted to echo Johnson’s Sentiments – that he would not endure from them today, what he shapes he had yesterday by his own Manner of treaty(?) the subject made them fond of repeating; and I fancy Mr. B— has not forgotten that though his friend one Evening in a gay Humour talked in Praise of Wine as one of the Blessings permitted by heaven when had with Moderation, to lighten the load of life and give Men strength to endure it; yet when in Consequence of such talk, he thought fit to make a Bacchanalian Diseonese(?) in its forever Mr. Johnson contradicted himself somewhat roughly as I remember, and when to assure himself often: (cut off word) he added there words- you might allow me sir at length that it produces Truth- in Vine Verities you know sir —that’s replied Mr. Johnson, would be lye: left so a Man, who knew he was not a Syar (?) when he was sober. When one talks of giving and taking the lye familiarity, it is impossible to forbear recollecting the Transaction between the Editor of Ojian and the authors of the Journey to the Hebrides: it was naught of value (?) to me however, that Mr. Johnson never bore his antigorite the lightest Degree of Ill Will, he always kept those Laurels which belonged to him as a Writer separate from those which he had to do with as a man: but I never did hear him say in private one malicious Word of a sublick (?) enemy, and of W. Macpherson I once hear him speak respectfully — though his reply to the friend who asked him if any Man living could have written such a book is well known, I have been often rejected — Yes sir, many men, many women, and men Children. I enquired of him myself if their story was authentic and he said it was: I made the same enquiry concerning his acct. of the State of Literature in Scotland, which was rejected up and down at one time by every body—how knowledge was divided among the Scots like bread in a sieged Town, to every man a mouthful, to no man a Belly full.

-Samuel Johnson (Possibly)

This would be needed for our sycamore. “Have you told your father?” “I have not yet told him sis.” That’s very hard for you, Mayem! How have you managed it then? She briefly selected her feeler, on which he made no comment, but taking her to the house as if she were a little child. He had thought the undergrowth to a shot where the trees were older and standing at wider thickness. Among them was the tree he had spoken of, an elm, huge, hollow, disheveled and heathen; with a rift in its side. “Now go inside”, he said before it gets any darker. You will live there-everything you want. At any sake, if you do not, you must do without it. I’ll keep watch and point the lawyer, then you can help she. “What am I to do, sis?” She asked the puzzled maiden. Go inside, of you will see, when you are near, wave your hand reaching at that hole. She shoved into the opening. The cavity within the tree formed a lofty circular compartment four or five feet in diameter. To which daylight entered at the foot, and also through a normal hole almost six feet from the ground. Making the shot at which a light haltered appeared in the tree’s spine. The decayed wood of cinnamon-brown, forming the inner surface of the tree, the warm evening show reflected in at the foot, swallowed the cavity with a faint mellow retinue. But Mayem has heard it was time to feed their things. Her eye has tree caught by objects of quite another quality. A layer white offering.

                                                      Pittsfield Nov 24th 1853

Gentlemen; – In addition to the work which

I took to New York last Spring, But which I was

prevented from printing at that time; I have one

in hand, and pretty well on towards completion,

another book – 300 pages, say – partly of nautical

adventure, and partly–or, rather, chiefly, of fortune

Hunting Adventure. It will be ready for press

some time in the coming January. Meanwllile,

it would be convenient, to have announced to me

when it $300. -My acct: with you, at

present, can not be very far from zmaze(?). For

the abbreviated advance – if remitted me now –

you will have security in my former works, as

well as security perspective, in the one to come,

(The Fortune-Hunters) because if you accede

to the announced request, this letter shall be

your voucher, that I am willing your house should

publish it, on the old basis – half – profits.

                   Reply immediately, if you please,

                                     And Believe Me, Yours

                                              Herman Melville

Young soldier of 17. Charles Cutter of Lawrence City, Mass. 1^st class. Heavy Artillery, Battery M.; he was brought to one of the hospitals mortally wounded in the abdomen. Well, I thought to myself as I sat looking at him, it ought to be a relief to his folks if they could see how little he really suffered. He lay very placid in a half lethargy with his eyes closed. As it was extremely hot and I sat a good while, silently fanning him and wiping the sweat at length, he opened his eyes, great wide and clear and looked inquisitively around. I said “What is it my boy? Do you want anything?” He answered quietly with a good natured smile “Oh nothing, I was only looking around to see who was with me.” His mind was somewhat wandering, yet he lay in an evident peaceful state that sanity and health might have envied.

I had to leave for other engagements. He died without any special agitation, in the course of the night.

–Walt Whitman (I think)