He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs.
The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that<b> died.
Everybody knows that the dice are loaded. Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed. Everybody knows the war is over. Everybody knows the good guys lost. Everybody knows the fight was fixed: the poor stay poor, the rich get rich. That's how it goes. Everybody knows. Everybody knows that the boat is leaking. Everybody knows the captain lied. Everybody got this broken feeling like their father or their dog</p> just died. Everybody talking to their pockets. Everybody wants a box of chocolates and long stem rose. Everybody knows. Everybody knows that you love me, baby. Everybody knows that you really do. Everybody knows that you've been faithful, give or take a night or two. Everybody knows you've been discreet, but there were so many people you just had to meet without your clothes. And everybody knows. And everybody knows it's now or never. Everybody knows that it's me or you. And everybody knows that you live forever when you've done a line or two. Everybody knows the deal is rotten: Old Black Joe's still pickin' cotton for you ribbons and bows. And everybody knows. -- Leonard Cohen, "Everybody Knows"
"'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the bell, and died on her bosom.'
"It must have run away and died somewhere. It must have died after a meal like that," Kolya pronounced pitilessly, though he seemed a little breathless. "But I've got a dog, Perezvon ... A Slavonic name.... I've brought him to show you."
But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished; in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening and thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs<b> died, and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars, and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southwards, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is unfulfilled.
Ulysses, therefore, that he might obtain Those princely gifts, went thither. Him arrived, With right-hand gratulation and with words Of welcome kind, Autolycus received, Nor less his offspring; but the mother most Of his own mother clung around his neck, Amphithea; she with many a fervent kiss His forehead press'd, and his bright-beaming eyes. Then bade Autolycus his noble sons Set forth a banquet. They, at his command, Led in a fatted ox of the fifth year, Which slaying first, they spread him carved abroad, Then scored his flesh, transfixed it with the spits, And roasting all with culinary skill Exact, gave each his portion. Thus they sat Feasting all day, and till the sun declined, But when the sun declined, and darkness fell, Each sought his couch, and took the gift of sleep. Then, soon as day-spring's daughter rosy-palm'd Aurora look'd abroad, forth went the hounds, And, with the hounds Ulysses, and the youths, Sons of Autolycus, to chase the boar. Arrived at the Parnassian mount, they climb'd His bushy sides, and to his airy heights Ere long attain'd. It was the pleasant hour When from the gently-swelling flood profound The sun, emerging, first smote on the fields. The hunters reach'd the valley; foremost ran, Questing, the hounds; behind them, swift, the sons Came of Autolycus, with whom advanced The illustrious Prince Ulysses, pressing close The hounds, and brandishing his massy spear. There, hid in thickest shades, lay an huge boar. That covert neither rough winds blowing moist Could penetrate, nor could the noon-day sun Smite through it, or fast-falling show'rs pervade, So thick it was, and underneath the ground With litter of dry foliage strew'd profuse. Hunters and dogs approaching him, his ear The sound of feet perceived; upridging high His bristly back and glaring fire, he sprang Forth from the shrubs, and in defiance stood Near and right opposite. Ulysses, first, Rush'd on him, elevating his long spear Ardent to wound him; but, preventing quick His foe, the boar gash'd him above the knee. Much flesh, assailing him oblique, he tore With his rude tusk, but to the Hero's bone Pierced not; Ulysses _his_ right shoulder reach'd; And with a deadly thrust impell'd the point Of his bright spear through him and far beyond. Loud yell'd the boar, sank in the dust, and died. Around Ulysses, then, the busy sons Throng'd of Autolycus; expert they braced The wound of the illustrious hunter bold, With incantation staunched the sable blood, And sought in haste their father's house again, Whence, heal'd and gratified with splendid gifts They sent him soon rejoicing to his home, Themselves rejoicing also. Glad their son His parents saw again, and of the scar Enquired, where giv'n, and how? He told them all, How to Parnassus with his friends he went, Sons of Autolycus to hunt, and how A boar had gash'd him with his iv'ry tusk.
"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."
The Pole on the sofa struck him by his dignified demeanor and his Polish accent; and, above all, by his pipe. "Well, what of it? It's a good thing he's smoking a pipe," he reflected. The Pole's puffy, middle-aged face, with its tiny nose and two very thin, pointed, dyed and impudent-looking mustaches, had not so far roused the faintest doubts in Mitya. He was not even particularly struck by the Pole's absurd wig made in Siberia, with love-locks foolishly combed forward over the temples. "I suppose it's all right since he wears a wig," he went on, musing blissfully. The other, younger Pole, who was staring insolently and defiantly at the company and listening to the conversation with silent contempt, still only impressed Mitya by his great height, which was in striking contrast to the Pole on the sofa. "If he stood up he'd be six foot three." The thought flitted through Mitya's mind. It occurred to him, too, that this Pole must be the friend of the other, as it were, a "bodyguard," and no doubt the big Pole was at the disposal of the little Pole with the pipe. But this all seemed to Mitya perfectly right and not to be questioned. In his mood of doglike submissiveness all feeling of rivalry had died away.
"Look, old man, you see, blind of one eye and the left ear is torn, just the marks you described to me. It was by that I found him. I found him directly. He did not belong to any one!" he explained, turning quickly to the captain, to his wife, to Alyosha and then again to Ilusha. "He used to live in the Fedotovs' back-yard. Though he made his home there, they did not feed him. He was a stray dog >that had run away from the village ... I found him.... You see, old man, he couldn't have swallowed what you gave him. If he had, he must have died, he must have! So he must have spat it out, since he is alive. You did not see him do it. But the pin pricked his tongue, that is why he squealed. He ran away squealing and you thought he'd swallowed it. He might well squeal, because the skin of dogs' mouths is so tender ... tenderer than in men, much tenderer!" Kolya cried impetuously, his face glowing and radiant with delight. Ilusha could not speak. White as a sheet, he gazed open-mouthed at Kolya, with his great eyes almost starting out of his head. And if Krassotkin, who had no suspicion of it, had known what a disastrous and fatal effect such a moment might have on the sick child's health, nothing would have induced him to play such a trick on him. But Alyosha was perhaps the only person in the room who realized it. As for the captain he behaved like a small child.
Cosette, on her side, had also, unknown to herself, become another being, poor little thing! She was so little when her mother left her, that she no longer remembered her. Like all children, who resemble young shoots of the vine, which cling to everything, she had tried to love; she had not succeeded. All had repulsed her,--the Thenardiers, their children, other children. She had loved the dog, and he had died, after which nothing and nobody would have anything to do with her. It is a sad thing to say, and we have already intimated it, that, at eight years of age, her heart was cold. It was not her fault; it was not the faculty of loving that she lacked; alas! it was the possibility. Thus, from the very first day, all her sentient and thinking powers loved this kind man. She felt that which she had never felt before--a sensation of expansion.
"And everyone of them shows his rags, his toil-worn hands, and yells in his wrath: 'Here are we, working like cattle all our lives, and always as hungry as dogs, and there are others who do not work, and are fat and rich!' The eternal refrain! And side by side with them trots along some wretched fellow who has known better days, doing light porter's work from morn to night for a living, always blubbering and saying that 'his wife died because he had no money to buy medicine with,' and his children dying of cold and hunger, and his eldest daughter gone to the bad, and so on. Oh! I have no pity and no patience for these fools of people. Why can't they be Rothschilds? Whose fault is it that a man has not got millions of money like Rothschild? If he has life, all this must be in his power! Whose fault is it that he does not know how to live his life?
"And how do _you_ know that he left two million and a half of roubles?" asked Rogojin, disdainfully, and not deigning so much as to look at the other. "However, it's true enough that my father died a month ago, and that here am I returning from Pskoff, a month after, with hardly a boot to my foot. They've treated me like a dog! I've been ill of fever at Pskoff the whole time, and not a line, nor farthing of money, have I received from my mother or my confounded brother!"
"No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester's pride; and that<b> did not scare me, because I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose: it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now--wild and high--but 'with a sullen, moaning sound' far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I went to bed, I could not sleep--a sense of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale still rising, seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my first sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I thought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I strained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and entreat you to stop--but my movements were fettered, and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther every moment."
CORNARO, CATERINA (1454-1510), queen of Cyprus, was the daughter of Marco Cornaro, a Venetian noble, whose brother Andrea was an intimate friend of James de Lusignan, natural son of King John II. of Cyprus. In the king's death in 1458 the succession was disputed, and James, with the help of the sultan of Egypt, seized the island. But several powers were arrayed against him--the duke of Savoy, who claimed the island on the strength of the marriage of his son Louis to Charlotte, the only legitimate daughter of John II.,[1] the Genoese, and the pope. It was important that he should make a marriage such as would secure him powerful support. Andrea Cornaro suggested his niece Caterina, famed for her beauty, as that union would bring him Venetian help. The proposal was agreed to, and approved of by Caterina herself and the senate, and the contract was signed in 1468. But further intrigues caused delay, and it was not until 1471 that James's hesitations were overcome. Caterina was solemnly adopted by the doge as a "daughter of the Republic" and sailed for Cyprus in 1472 with the title of queen of Cyprus, Jerusalem and Armenia. But she only enjoyed one year of happiness, for in 1473 her husband died of fever, leaving his kingdom to his queen and their child as yet unborn. Enemies and rival claimants arose on all sides, for Cyprus was a tempting bait. In August the child James III. was born, but as soon as the Venetian fleet sailed away a plot to depose him in favour of Zarla, James's illegitimate daughter, broke out, and Caterina was kept a prisoner. The Venetians returned, and order was soon restored, but the republic was meditating the seizure of Cyprus, although it had no valid title whatever, and after the death of Caterina's child in 1474 it was Venice which really governed the island. The poor queen was surrounded by intrigues and plots, and although the people of the coast towns loved her, the Cypriot nobles were her bitter enemies and hostile to Venetian influence. In 1488 the republic, fearing that Sultan Bayezid II. intended to attack Cyprus, and having also discovered a plot to marry Caterina to King Alphonso II. of Naples, a proposal to which she seemed not averse, decided to recall the queen to Venice and formally annex the island. Caterina at first refused, for she clung to her royalty, but Venice was a severe parent to its adopted daughter and would not be gainsaid; she was forced to abdicate in favour of the republic, and returned to Venice in 1489. The government conferred on her the castle and town of Asolo for life, and there in the midst of a learned and brilliant little court, of which Cardinal Bembo (q.v.) was a shining light, she spent the rest of her days in idyllic peace. She died in July 1510. Titian's famous portrait of her is in the Uffizi gallery in Florence. Entry: CORNARO
Enrico Dandolo's sons distinguished themselves in the public service, and his grandson Giovanni was doge from 1280 to 1289. The latter's son Andrea commanded the Venetian fleet in the war against Genoa in 1294, and, having been defeated and taken prisoner, he was so overwhelmed with shame that he committed suicide by beating his head against the mast (according to Andrea Navagero). Francesco Dandolo, also known as Dandolo Cane, was doge from 1329 to 1339. During his reign the Venetians went to war with Martino della Scala, lord of Verona, with the result that they occupied Treviso and otherwise extended their possessions on the _terra firma_. Andrea Dandolo (1307/10-1354), the last doge of the family, reigned from 1343 to 1354. He had been the first Venetian noble to take a degree at the university of Padua, where he had also been professor of jurisprudence. The terrible plague of 1348, wars with Genoa, against whom the great naval victory of Lojera was won in 1353, many treaties, and the subjugation of the seventh revolt of Zara, are the chief events of his reign. The poet Petrarch, who was the doge's intimate friend, was sent to Venice on a peace mission by Giovanni Visconti, lord of Milan. "Just, incorruptible, full of zeal and of love for his country, and at the same time learned, of rare eloquence, wise, affable, and humane," is the poet's verdict on Andrea Dandolo (_Varior. epist._ xix.). Dandolo died on the 7th of September 1354. He is chiefly famous as a historian, and his _Annals_ to the year 1280 are one of the chief sources of Venetian history for that period; they have been published by Muratori (_Rer. Ital. Script._ tom. xxi.). He also had a new code of laws compiled (issued in 1346) in addition to the statute of Jacopo Tiepolo. Entry: DANDOLO
At this time there existed a belief, held at a later date by Berzelius, Gmelin and many others, that the formation of organic compounds was conditioned by a so-called _vital force_; and the difficulty of artificially realizing this action explained the supposed impossibility of synthesizing organic compounds. This dogma was shaken by Wöhler's synthesis of urea in 1828. But the belief died hard; the synthesis of urea remained isolated for many years; and many explanations were attempted by the vitalists (as, for instance, that urea was halfway between the inorganic and organic kingdoms, or that the carbon, from which it was obtained, retained the essentials of this hypothetical vital force), but only to succumb at a later date to the indubitable fact that the same laws of chemical combination prevail in both the animate and inanimate kingdoms, and that the artificial or laboratory synthesis of any substance, either inorganic or organic, is but a question of time, once its constitution is determined.[10] Entry: IV
1. A dead body is unclean, and the uncleanness extends to things and persons which touch it. Hence the Jewish law (Num. v. 2) enacted that "whoever is unclean by the dead shall be put outside the camp, that they defile not the camp in the midst whereof the Lord dwells." Such persons were unclean until the even, and might not eat of the holy things unless they bathed their flesh in water. A high priest might on no account "go in to any dead body" (Lev. xxi. 11). Why a corpse is so widely tabooed is not certain; but it is natural to see one reason in the corruption which in warm climates soon sets in. The common experience that where one has died another is likely to do so may also have contributed, though, of course, there was no scientific idea of infection. The old Persian scriptures are full of this taboo. He who has touched a corpse is "powerless in mind, tongue and hand" (_Zend Avesta_ in _Sacred Books of the East_, pt. i. p. 120), and the paralysis is inflicted by the innumerable _drugs_ or evil spirits which invest a corpse. Fire and earth, being alike creations of the good and pure god Ahuramazda, a body must not be burned or buried; and so the ancient Persians and their descendants the Parsees build Dakmas or "towers of silence" on hill-tops far from human habitations. Inside these the corpses are laid on a flagged terrace which drains into a central pit. Twice a year the bones, picked clean by dogs and birds of prey, are collected in the pit, and when it is full another tower is built. In ancient times perhaps the bodies of the magi or priests alone were exposed at such expense; the common folk were covered with wax and laid in the earth, the wax saving the earth from pollution. In Rome and Greece the corpse was buried by night, lest it should pollute the sunlight; and a trough of water was set at the door of the house of death that men might purify themselves when they came out, before mixing in general society. Priests and magistrates in Rome might not meet or look on a corpse, for they were thereby rendered unclean and incapable of fulfilling their official duties without undergoing troublesome rites of purification. At a Roman funeral, when the remains had been laid in the tomb, all present were sprinkled with lustral water from a branch of olive or laurel called _aspergillum_; and when they had gone home they were asperged afresh and stepped over a fire. The house was also swept out with a broom, probably lest the ghost of the dead should be lying about the floor. Many races, to avoid pollution, destroy the house and property of the deceased. Thus the Navahos pull down the hut in which he died, leaving its ruins on the ground; but if it be an expensive hut, a shanty is extemporized alongside, into which the dying man is transferred before death. No one will use the timbers of a hut so ruined. A burial custom of the Solomon Islands, noted by R.H. Codrington (_The Melanesians_, p. 255), may be dictated by the same scruple. There "the mourners having hung up a dead man's arms on his house make great lamentations; all remains afterwards untouched, the house goes to ruin, mantled, as time goes on, with the vines of the growing yams, a picturesque and indeed, perhaps, a touching sight; for these things are not set up that they may in a ghostly manner accompany their former owner." H. Oldenberg (_Religion des Veda_, p. 426) describes how Hindus shave themselves and cut off their nails after a death, at the same time that they wash, renew the hearth fire, and furnish themselves with new vessels. For the hair and nails may harbour pollution, just as the medieval Greeks believed that evil spirits could lurk in a man's beard (Leo Allatius, _De opinionibus quorundam Graecorum_). The dead man's body is shorn and the nails cut for a kindred reason; for it must be purified as much as can be before it is burned as an offering on the pyre and before he enters on a new sphere of existence. Entry: 1